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.


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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