MIRACH SPEAKS TO HIS GRAMMATICAL TRANSPARENTS
For now I will not state any numerical design to the cosmos. I
will only elicit carbon as one of its ellipsis or possibilities. As you
grope with your present stages of duration, with your interpersonal
transparencies, I need not remind you that you ambulate by means of the
power of your internal carbon. For instance, the subconscious craft of
dreaming, all the while dreaming, all the while rising from its
secondary depth into the world of visible events, while still excelling
further above various sub-quanta into higher concealment. And I am not
speaking of any Freudian mazes, or any attempt at containment in terms
of a prone or dialectical reasoning. First, one must continue to feel
that the void is burning, that its script remains in shadow, in order to
organically inhale the documents of one's inheritance. In this regard
the family tree must remain as a singular mote without any zoomorphic or
astrological importance. It remains a triangular in-specific. It must
not hound you, or inhere in your hands stiflings, or misgivings which
deter you in margins holding the plaintiff's deck of cards. You must
resist what I consider a negligible tendency which alters the inchoate,
the splendiferous, always seeking the explanatory notions of why you
suddenly exist. These notions always seeking a purely conscious distance
from the explosive letters kindled in your mystery.
For instance, at a certain point in circular time I never stood on carbon, or argued from its base for monological regularity inside the act which is known as breathing. Because this remains my imminence, it cannot be concluded that I speak from angelic quanta, or from descending puzzles structured on the motifs of demons. But if it is true that mental structures burn, I want to feel their osmosis, their tinctured meanderings other than the monologic. Within this spirit I want to explore the hidden text. The text which is rendered by means of its hiddeness. Its hiddeness which remains alive beyond a paralytic visibility.
For me, the phoneme is spore, is flotational mist from the outer lakes of space. In your writing I will ask you to inhabit the lingering inceptions as they exist in the primordiums of Io or Triton. Then give me the instants induced in your minds when they explore the basic principles of Saturn, then hydroxyl, then the infinite remains of the galaxy. Do not confine yourselves to wind, to oceans set ablaze by the maladjusted cinders of the Sun. Know that the phoneme is drift, that the key to one's enigma is the poetic marginalia of the phrase which always combusts beyond the forests of technique. Therefore, the language is no longer keyed to a rivalrous stockade, or to a storm of dulled political misnomers. No. We are looking at something beyond the black and deaf horses of Homer, beyond the trace amount of blood which both provokes and unnerves Virgil. As for Dante, we will no longer pursue the stagnant corpses of the ancients. No. No longer a parochial kind of cosmos where the letters re-circulate as iron. True, there is a source for origins in this work, but what can be gathered is a triune manipulation of war, of agony contiguous to agony. A paradigm of Sparta and Christ. The agon, the delirious elixrs of fear. Juggled depths, partial dimensions epically stated. These are not the crafts that we seek to combine. For instance, if one of you breaks through his fear and announces a new green sun 20 billion years into the future this is one recognition of the void experienced in the palpable domain. Such writing would also advance mercurial longevity, this being a writing which ignites a recognition beyond cunning disputation. One then begins to stray above the partial dialectics of the void. Let us enunciate our powers within its partial locales. This is what I'll call the conundrum of Ernst Mach, where shadows of brilliance are pushed by the fingers. Infinite motion is transmuted, the constellations suddenly shift according to rotational nutation.
Let us go further. Picture your attempts to conjure a being from the lower inhabitants of Earth. Say, an eel with the contrasting gifts of several sovereign emotions. And I'm equating these emotions with the auspices of hunger and graft, under the compelling remonstrance which evinces itself as screaming. This is merely one example or litmus. Maybe a recipe of verbs for lianas, or cecropias, or almonds. Or perhaps an aural surge of sawdust mountains scattered near the borders of Tibetan plateaus.
Let me ask this gathering collectively, how would you imply these measures, say, in psychic viharas, or access reflections from mirrors inside your scriptings? Of course I’m asking this rhetorically, yet I am serious concerning the spirit inside your written conveyance. And by conveyance I mean the implantation of letters on a page. And by letters, I mean the phonemes, the dots, the sovereign streaks inside the alphabet. This is the level of hearing one requires. The many paths to the phonemes, the many blends of the words into phrases.
Let me say that I am not seeking from you a geometric ballast, a superficial harmonization according to your grasp of Pollux, or Deneb, or Beta Centauri. I am not measuring you according to trampled foliage or cinder, or by a superficial skill gained by the raptures contained in scientific foment. I cannot gauge you by the rules as captured by someone else's dishonor. None of this applies at this hour, because I am only seeding the scope which spins inside the scope of your inherent transparencies.
I do not hope to impose an amorphic interblending, or present to you a strain of immeasurable sub-surfaces to suddenly test yourselves so as to prove your worth to a moribund community. Because it must be acknowledged that what exists around us is nothing other than a psychic swamp, nothing other than a gloomy oasis. This is the hazard that we face as cosmic igniters, as transparent grammarians, as curious solstice workers. We pronounce the matter of fact as askewment, as the sum of panicked multitudes as means. These are the ramparts of soldiers and murderers, of sentient graft exchangers, of political mobs bent on destroying the meticulous. Therefore our understanding of charisma is always living at the source which kindles our transparency.
In closing, let me speak of the elevated tree, the scope which includes as phantasmic lunation certain splinterings which are called Aldebaran, Altair, Antares. I call these the stars of blue soil. Then let me speak of Procyon as nimbus, as cataract which shifts in the storm of new thoughts, to see results in a purposeful chromium. As I once again enrapture the hail inside your nothingness, let me once again give you an ark of blue suns burning in the core of the depths, seeking out the strategies weaving themselves inside the riddles of dangerous waters.
For instance, at a certain point in circular time I never stood on carbon, or argued from its base for monological regularity inside the act which is known as breathing. Because this remains my imminence, it cannot be concluded that I speak from angelic quanta, or from descending puzzles structured on the motifs of demons. But if it is true that mental structures burn, I want to feel their osmosis, their tinctured meanderings other than the monologic. Within this spirit I want to explore the hidden text. The text which is rendered by means of its hiddeness. Its hiddeness which remains alive beyond a paralytic visibility.
For me, the phoneme is spore, is flotational mist from the outer lakes of space. In your writing I will ask you to inhabit the lingering inceptions as they exist in the primordiums of Io or Triton. Then give me the instants induced in your minds when they explore the basic principles of Saturn, then hydroxyl, then the infinite remains of the galaxy. Do not confine yourselves to wind, to oceans set ablaze by the maladjusted cinders of the Sun. Know that the phoneme is drift, that the key to one's enigma is the poetic marginalia of the phrase which always combusts beyond the forests of technique. Therefore, the language is no longer keyed to a rivalrous stockade, or to a storm of dulled political misnomers. No. We are looking at something beyond the black and deaf horses of Homer, beyond the trace amount of blood which both provokes and unnerves Virgil. As for Dante, we will no longer pursue the stagnant corpses of the ancients. No. No longer a parochial kind of cosmos where the letters re-circulate as iron. True, there is a source for origins in this work, but what can be gathered is a triune manipulation of war, of agony contiguous to agony. A paradigm of Sparta and Christ. The agon, the delirious elixrs of fear. Juggled depths, partial dimensions epically stated. These are not the crafts that we seek to combine. For instance, if one of you breaks through his fear and announces a new green sun 20 billion years into the future this is one recognition of the void experienced in the palpable domain. Such writing would also advance mercurial longevity, this being a writing which ignites a recognition beyond cunning disputation. One then begins to stray above the partial dialectics of the void. Let us enunciate our powers within its partial locales. This is what I'll call the conundrum of Ernst Mach, where shadows of brilliance are pushed by the fingers. Infinite motion is transmuted, the constellations suddenly shift according to rotational nutation.
Let us go further. Picture your attempts to conjure a being from the lower inhabitants of Earth. Say, an eel with the contrasting gifts of several sovereign emotions. And I'm equating these emotions with the auspices of hunger and graft, under the compelling remonstrance which evinces itself as screaming. This is merely one example or litmus. Maybe a recipe of verbs for lianas, or cecropias, or almonds. Or perhaps an aural surge of sawdust mountains scattered near the borders of Tibetan plateaus.
Let me ask this gathering collectively, how would you imply these measures, say, in psychic viharas, or access reflections from mirrors inside your scriptings? Of course I’m asking this rhetorically, yet I am serious concerning the spirit inside your written conveyance. And by conveyance I mean the implantation of letters on a page. And by letters, I mean the phonemes, the dots, the sovereign streaks inside the alphabet. This is the level of hearing one requires. The many paths to the phonemes, the many blends of the words into phrases.
Let me say that I am not seeking from you a geometric ballast, a superficial harmonization according to your grasp of Pollux, or Deneb, or Beta Centauri. I am not measuring you according to trampled foliage or cinder, or by a superficial skill gained by the raptures contained in scientific foment. I cannot gauge you by the rules as captured by someone else's dishonor. None of this applies at this hour, because I am only seeding the scope which spins inside the scope of your inherent transparencies.
I do not hope to impose an amorphic interblending, or present to you a strain of immeasurable sub-surfaces to suddenly test yourselves so as to prove your worth to a moribund community. Because it must be acknowledged that what exists around us is nothing other than a psychic swamp, nothing other than a gloomy oasis. This is the hazard that we face as cosmic igniters, as transparent grammarians, as curious solstice workers. We pronounce the matter of fact as askewment, as the sum of panicked multitudes as means. These are the ramparts of soldiers and murderers, of sentient graft exchangers, of political mobs bent on destroying the meticulous. Therefore our understanding of charisma is always living at the source which kindles our transparency.
In closing, let me speak of the elevated tree, the scope which includes as phantasmic lunation certain splinterings which are called Aldebaran, Altair, Antares. I call these the stars of blue soil. Then let me speak of Procyon as nimbus, as cataract which shifts in the storm of new thoughts, to see results in a purposeful chromium. As I once again enrapture the hail inside your nothingness, let me once again give you an ark of blue suns burning in the core of the depths, seeking out the strategies weaving themselves inside the riddles of dangerous waters.
Will Alexander
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