Aught, no. 5 (2001)
S C H - M U T Z - a buzz preceding thoughts and excitement - the background signal. In logical desemination reconstructing the very idea: on the left. After all, exposing the name, setting up the name as a pinnacle of the triangle (in an anonymous background), I don't quit my own anonymously, I strip the name and the person behind... Truly claim philosophers that name contains a lot, or even everything (I omit inverted double commas to avoid congestion and self-combustion. The name is multilation and multiplication. The philosopher I quoted at the beginning (consequently, I omit his name) says: writing, dotting the paper, I write with dirt, against dirt, on and about dirt, it's my topic, my material, there is no escape from it - it's on and under the screen. Title(?) abbreviation - The name - The Title in and in front of the name... Only the name raise no doubts. Would it be a piece of writing without a title, deprived (partly) of its proper name? No! It is the title that is titled like that. Like it or not. I gives the title my own name. Restored and revitalized. In shape and sound. But even shapes and sound will prove pointless, unless they are filled with whirling, reverberating contents. The title which sounds like a name. The name which sounds like a title. On the one side: a subtitle - a substitute - a surrogate. On the other: subtitle (akin to the name). Title of titles: a common denominator: schmutztitle - smuts - cyber or three-dimensional - Here comes the presage: half-title protecting the author and their legacy, their copy rights Comes as a neutral remote background (and vanishes in it). Here comes the book which refuses to be one, to comply with its distinctive traits. A front page meant to be a pattern. Empty boxes in which one can place a signature or bar code, or a personal dedication... If books are good, they are worth much more than their authors they are the essence of the latter. The reader tends to water down the essence since the author introduces himself on the title-page. A name is the promptest robes you put on my "self" - a guest on the earth (gladly comes to your assistance). The book is a grave (a gravestone) of the name. And that of itself...
To be translated and hastily assumed feel free to ask questions 'cause they are the essence of existence: what is it that isn't it and isn't anything else? what shape does it take? and where does it rest its head when the wind blows them off? what is it being beyond itself? Unvoiced word soundless letters ascribed to an inert avid figure: multiple windows walls of windows unprotected body who falls down out of the penthouse - between a stimulus and reaction inertia of matter obscure sound of ramified multidimensional drop which falls and hits and destroy each encountered particle there still exists the final pause to spell: name surname accidental date. Arrested for a while getting back to the end while putting down a signature like a head ben
Arrested for a while getting back to the end while putting down a signature like a head bending over a book a waist high I feel like coming off: "Would you mind..." necessity to use a verified structure the necessity you accept in spite of conspicuous consternation "Would you mind telling me the number of my section?" Never let her take you up nor any vein or artery of yours - a watchful eye of magnum ready to split your head. Looking up I fix my eyes on the black ta
Looking up I fix my eye on the black taffeta mole exposing along with the gums two lovely dimples. I am trying to master my face and mind - two bubbling blisters repeat that supercilious smile that languishing glance. "You know", I said, "I am a cross between Walt Disney and Rudolf Valentino." Repeat wherever you land - in Brussels or brothels of the Riviera or the South-West - the Salt Lake City: "I don't exist." Stopped here accidentally The doors of perception must be cleansed between twenty and twenty-two I am writing my first American version in numbers first American version under your skin before being open between twentieth and twenty-second parallel in sixty-sixth rue Theodore Riviere or Volmerswertherstr. in Rimini or on the Riviera in Ostend or Tubing - wherever madness drives you up repeat: "I don't exist." It's music to my ears Your carefully trained smile is thousands of miles away - on the desert in the bush burning but not consumed the little black stinkstarts to spread seizing her gums face and all the rest. Glassy eyes with moving passages numbers of floors and rooms your mouth
Glassy eyes with moving passages numbers of floors and rooms your mouth in which my blood-supplied wire is being chopped now I am ready to start from scratch to preface the book to read it out like a meter: s-mut-s - it's a stem, or I'd better say - a theme, this theme inserted in the center of the field is an axis of symmetry: the border consisting of s-shaped ornaments - signs of mut-ability and mut-ilation - is still mute standing still, then I have to resort to the origin to restore the origin of this stem: It takes its name from: moot - mott - mud we are made of -
It takes its name from: moot - mott - mud we are made of - mutt - I mean a squab, a tailless mongrel - next, taking 's' it turns into a spot of dirt or soot - a smut - German 'schmutz' - 'mist' on the left... To prevent cybersmuts from proliferating I'll restrict myself to a brief account of what I said - not done! - but getting back to the preface: is it a name of the bird created to mute on this sheet of paper which makes me run amuck? As I said before, I don't want to make any muck. I am not a man with a muckrake, either. I don't want to be muck-a-muck. I don't need any blurb. I don't even need a name. Ich bin Schmutz. My name is Smuts. But I have nothing to do with the founder and prime minister of the Union of South Africa. Ich bin Schmutz. Let me say it again. Ich bin schmooze. (if you are a Jew, you know what I mean.) I am shmoo (if you know Al Capp's comic strip...) I am turning into each and every thing you want me to. I don't need to be myself. Ich bin Schmutz. This book is not a book - libel, slander, defamation (in the ordinary sense of the word) - a gab of spit. This book consisting moot questions consists no answer. This book - without place, year, or name - sine loco, anno, vel nomine (s.l.a.n.) is still a book. A book is a book - after all, looks like a book. Whereas a name, my name, is a bundle of letters: S M U T S The title sounds like a name. The name sound like a title. He is a writer; and so he does not run away from dirt, he writes with it, against it, on it, about it, it is his matter... However, I am anxious to put you right: you will not deal with any kind of smuts (schmutzroman). This is a book - a grave of the name and its own, too. A gravestone making a name for itself. I don't need any name. Here I go again. I wish I'd left a fly leaf, instead of a title page, a blank colophon meant for a signature, personal inscription or a bar code. You need a light-pen to decipher the lines and what falls between. Getting back to the square 0-2-3 being thirty-three - I wish I was sixty-four now - I must say it again, rephrase each and every word - be concise like a dictionary. It is to inform you about a table of contents which stands for a book. I wonder how to get off here. To carry it over - beyond words. I am hunted by the thou1-0-0
Want more, please write enclosing an s.a.e., and we will send you a free copy of the booklet as well as the three missing frames - 1-0-1 - 1-0-2 - 1-0-3 of the poem. With linguaphone, this language is easy as any other language. You can also get my photo - me and my guinea pig sprawling on the sofa, as well as a sample of my famous large sprawling handwriting abandon hype all ye who enter here reads the notice people need dirt and they deserve it: "at least he's not kinky. He's too fat to be kinky. Don't go home with your hard-on; it will only drive you insane" I'm not sad. It's only seasonal affective disorder - a brief passage to cover - I am making
Each of the five-hundred ramified floors pentagonal squares fills the outline of an eye of the fictitious red rag that slips away each square is an extra power source keeping the line started for a moment the alarmingly productive profile costs much and involves more and more clearly the risk of elimination ahead of time. Nevertheless, my corpse is extremely resistant to persuasion he inanely shows his gums sillier by two octaves than a tenor he conducts two parallel lines. Putting aside his copy-book dead sure that when he awakes he will find the solution a point of intersection. If both engines moved at the same speed he might sleep in peace. But besides it all there is still an intensive germ of reduction relative balance of traced from the seized with the ramified predacious substances regenerating on that side of the phrase chaotic symmetry. I must stop for a moment put aside the keyboard find more legroom between seats my fingers start to flicker on the screen. That's the way a bore of arteries widens
© 2001, by the author. All rights reserved.
Return to Aught, no. 5, contents