Estranged from language. Words
won’t come or don’t stick. Or, words give too much away, say only, what we
don’t want them to say.
This corkscrew journey
downwards then,
its primary colours,
its lubriciousness,
its deliciousness,
its frank impossibility-
This density of multivalent information, in energised paradox, (PARADOX being what creates the space, bubble universe, stolen
from space/time) requires some as yet uninvented medium of communication.
Squirming,
Gurgling
Bliss.
Is it the information which is unspeakable, or the experience? You are
being written on.
Strange in Language. As in, he talks funny. Both syntax and vocabulary
are conditioned by an unfamiliar set of underlying Dynamic Forces. What seemed
solid ground is shifting, crashing in slow motion, and below is all fire and
molten rock. Sentences buckle, crumple, crease and collapse. Fold into mountain
ranges. It is curious
Though grotesque, it exerts a Sinister Fascination.
Or, if we may switch to a more mundane register, language seems mangled,
melded, tangled and compressed, as though forced through a TRASH COMPACTOR. As
though what we down here know only as THE CONSCIOUS EGO, whatever, or whoever,
that may be, bears down, in weight and will, and sentences splinter, unmoored
from meaning. Familiar to all authoritarian regimes. Censorship. Control of
information and the forms of expression, censorship that is, not just of ideas
but of sensations.
The words are garbled then, but garbled into a kind of imprecise and inadvertent
code. (The dissident speaks always in code.) The words come always from below,
the censorship always from above.
Any words
that are not the eternal groans and sighs of the suffering are always a threat and
source of fear to Him Upstairs. They
might be planning something. They might be getting ideas. The Rules of the
Game are simple. There’s more of us. It’s basic mathematics. Predator numbers
are limited by prey numbers. They Need to Feed. Note too which way the dependence
runs.
One Way Street.
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