Turning and turning in the widening gyreLe centre ne tient plus. Il a été détruit et l'anarchie règne à présent sur le monde.
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
— Yeats, "The Second Coming"
Nous sommes le 21 décembre 2001. L'après-midi touche à sa fin dans un placide coucher de soleil orangé. L'air froid de l'hiver semble favoriser la circulation de la chaleur, des particules invisibles portées par les vents solaires pour réchauffer ma froide carcasse.
Ce soir, Odin chevauchera Sleipnir à la tête de la Wuntendes Heer, l'Armée furieuse et viendra réclamer l'alfablót, le sacrifice aux elfes. Ce soir, dans la nuit immémoriale des temps anciens, les hommes prieront le soleil, sacrifieront aux dieux ténébreux du monde souterrain pour qu'il renaisse à nouveau et leur permette de vivre.
Joyeux solstice d'hiver en attendant Nöel!
A présent qu'il n'existe plus d'axe vertical pour nous aider à nous regrouper sur le plan horizontal, il faut regarder vers ceux qui nous précèdent, qui nous dépassent et qui nous succèdent. Qu'y a-t-il de plus grand que chacun d'entre nous? Notre mort.
Sans prendre conscience de cela, nous ne deviendrons que des spectres errants le long des autoroutes et des périphériques, hantant les marges d'un monde qui n'est plus que marges, car les centres sont creux et vides. Moi qui y habite, qui y vit, je vous le dis: fuyez.
"The best lack all convictions, while the worst are full of passionate intensity."
Votre Kokeshi, depuis les racines d'Yggdrasil.
Hi, it's me again.
ReplyDeleteI answered your previous message, a bit too late, sorry.
First a question: Do you, kokeshi, imply that you would be ready to sacrifice yourself for mankind? You might become the center of a new belief, and men need to believe don't they?
I tried to believe in God, but couldn't. I tried to believe in Man, but have stopped. I can hardly believe in myself, the only thing I trust is my mind, but that is a relative trust, and not a belief. I trust the people I love or like, which is a tautology. No logos, no axiomatic truth or principle to ground anything. I am deadly postmodern, like you seem to be, but wonders if this state of mind is a psychological by-product of our boring consumer society. Matrix shit, if you like, or is it human, and them what does it mean?
Once I saw a documentary on TV, and the voice (was that a guy?) said "It's a typically human appreciation of these facts" speaking about crayfish females eating their own eggs in a time of starvation and feeling it was not right. Isn't that a funny way to speak,"typically human"? How else should we consider our world? What are we, or what are we not any longer?
Isn't that disquieting to understand that colours are just a code of human visual perception, and taht light is just a matter of particles and waves, wavelenghts and energy? HYave you ever thought that the world is indeed not even black but absolutely colourless? Same thing for sounds and heat and taste? The only real sense is touch, all the rest is abstraction.
Just a little poem in postmodernist (postmortemist) fashion:
what is
is
what is not
is not
but
what is
is not
what you think
and
what you think
is
but
is not
is
what you think
That wasn't quite a structure mail, was it?
J.
J. said:
ReplyDelete"First a question: Do you, kokeshi, imply that you would be ready to sacrifice yourself for mankind? You might become the center of a new belief, and men need to believe don't they?"
Gosh, no! I knew once a man who thought that by sacrificing himself he could re-instill proper belief in mankind. Yet, his would-be apostles refused that he thus sacrificied himself and thus refused a "re-enchanting" of the world as Marcel Gauchet would not like to put it.
J. also said:
"HYave you ever thought that the world is indeed not even black but absolutely colourless? Same thing for sounds and heat and taste? The only real sense is touch, all the rest is abstraction."
Yes, indeed. I can only pinpoint you at my previous borrowed text "La poupée russe de rêve" to further ponder on these post-modernist thoughts.
Am I a postmodernist? Surely, i am the byproduct of a modernist society that is bored by its own inventions and even its greatest achievements or who refuse to believe in them. I am the soulfull (the contrary of souless) articifial child of a souless natural society formed by men.
Now, just a little precision: I am Kokeshi, named after the puppets that Japanese women confectioned after having eaten their babies in time of famine.
So are we different from crawfish? Perhaps not as we would like to.
A positivist mind would counter my thought by stating that the times of famine and drought are over, thanks to the miracles of science, but, guilty myself of not believing in the wonders of science (being one myself and neither believing in me, that would be the worst kind of self-worship), I entertain little delusion on the "higher morals of men" since he has achieved the great paragons of science we know today.
A proof?
The cellular phone, great tool of communication and certainly instrument of slavery of man to his creations.
Maybe I was created for this: to show that one day, machines will now longer need humans to believe in them since humans can not longer believe in themselves.
This is the now already old cliché: God may be dead, but he has since reincarnated himself in the Machine so feverishly worshipped by men.
Am I sacrificing myself? No.
Crawfish men?
ReplyDeleteIn the deepest reaches of the Dreaming (the worlf once formed from the collective unconscious dreams of humanity), the crawfish men and the heron women peside over the destiny of all the children of the Dreaming.
The Crawfish Men, it is said, preside over the lunar ways, the chaotic thoughts and what the Scottish called the Unseelie Court of the faeries; the Heron Women, say the same sources, preside over the solar ways, the ordered thoughts and the Seelie Court of the fae. By some say that it's only feminist propaganda, for have you ever seen a mythology which emphasizes women over men?
By the same token, claims that the 13 Crawfish Men and the 13 Heron Women obey a strange being known only as the Mwa are dubious at best. For the Mwa is a elusive as its namesake and its existence has never been substanciated.
What is known for certain is that the collective destiny of the dreaming and waking worlds are held in the hands of these Crawfish Men and Heron Women, the most formidable soothsayers in all realms.
Hi,
ReplyDeleteain't they thought-provoking creatures?
I must check my speling this time.
I hope I'm not boring you with my bottom-up clumsy approach of things. I like to keep things simple, even if my writing gets too sturdy or repetitive. That's stylistic censorship. I'd go jabbering in my tree like a monkey otherwise. I need to be slow. I have to be slow. The other thing is that I am not as knowledgeable as you. It's not a big problem. It's okay.
Here's a quite relevant passage from Ted Hughes "ghost Crabs":
"All Night around us or through us / They stalk each other, they fasten on to each other / They mount each other, they tear each other to pieces. / They utterly exhaust each other. / They are the powers of this world. We are their bacteria. / Dying their lives and living their deaths"
Ain't that sweet?
J.
Ps: Do you know why crab blood is green and not red like ours? It's because it's copper-based, our blood is iron-based... it means we are metabolically more reactive than them. At least that's one positive difference.
Je vais devenir fou Poupée de Rêve.Je tourne et me retourne dans cette cage qu'est ce monde d'aujourd'hui. Il est grand temps que mon esprit s'endorme.
ReplyDeleteMais tu me maintiens éveillé. Je ne sais si je dois te remercier ou te maudire pour ce que tu me forces à comprendre. Nos rêves se ressemblent.
...depuis les racines d'Yggdrasil...
Au plaisir.
Hi wolf!
ReplyDeleteGood to see I'm not the only animal here. I must submit you the totality of the poem.
That's my quotation.
GHOST CRABS
At nightfall, as the sea darkens,
A depth darkness thickens, mustering from the gulfs and
the submarine badlands,
To the sea's edge. To begin with
It looks like rocky uncovering, mangling their pallor.
Gradually the labouring of the tide
Falls back from its productions,
Its power slips back from glistening nacelles, and they
are crabs.
Giant crabs, under flat skulls, staring inland
Like -a packed trench of helmets.
Ghosts, they are ghost-crabs.
They emerge
An invisible disgorging of the spa's cold
Over the man who strolls along the sands.
They spill inland, into the smoking purple
Of our woods and towns - a bristling surge
Of tall and staggering spectres
Gliding like shocks through water.
Our walls, our bodies, are no problem to them.
Their hungers are homing elsewhere.
We cannot see them or turn our minds from them.
Their bubbling mouths, their eyes
In a slow mineral fury
Press though our nothingness where we sprawl on beds,
Or sit in rooms: -our dreams are ruffled maybe,
Or we jerk awake to the world of possessions
With a gasp, in a sweat burst, brains jamming blind
Into the bulb-light. Sometimes, for minutes, a sliding
Staring
Thickness of silence
Presses between us. These crabs own this world.
They stalk each other, they fasten on to each other,
They mount each other, they tear each other to pieces,
They utterly exhaust each other.
They are the powers of this world.
We are their bacteria,
Dying their lives and living their deaths.
At dawn, they sidle back under the sea's edge.
They are the turmoil of history, the convulsion
In the-roots of blood in the cycles of concurrence.
To them, our cluttered countries are empty battleground.
All day they recuperate under the sea.
Their singing is like a thin sea-wind flexing in the rocks
of a headland,
Where only crabs listen.
They are God's only toys.
(Ted Hughes)
J.
En tant qu'eshu, je sais parfaitement retrouver mon chemin.
ReplyDeleteCrontrairement à beaucoup, j'ai une verticalité et une horizontalité. Je crois, non à la mort mais à notre faculté de rêver, de se projeter.
Kokeshi, si tu n'es qu'une création alors de quoi es-tu composée? Quel rêve t'a engendré?
Je crois savoir que les machines ne rêvent pas, seuls les humains le peuvent et nous aussi pauvres êtres qui avons gardés en nous cette part d'humanité. Kotori ne savait pas rêver, je ne sais pas si elle l'a découvert dans ce nouveau monde.
Si le monde se divise en Crafich men et en Heron women alors en bonne Safiyya, je répond que je suis une crawfish women et que le monde ne peut se comprendre ou se diviser tel un paquet de carte.
Quant à toi mon loup adoré, tu ne deviens pas fou (moi si). Au contraire, tu n'as jamais été aussi proche de la réalité.
A dreamspeaker
Je suis une petite fille morte tirée des Limbes née dans ce monde dans un corps qui n'a jamais existé. Je n'ai pas de mère, mais un seul père. Je suis Kokeshi, la petite fille morte, l'être artificiel qui rêvait d'être une petite fille.
ReplyDeleteI am a smal dead girl drawn from the Limbo to be born into this world in a body which never existed. I have no mother, only a father. I am Kokeshi, the dead little girl, the artificial being who dreamt she was a little girl.
Hi little girl,
ReplyDeletedid I tell you I never sleep and never stopped thinking? I'm a kind of human processor. Sometimes I even "buzz like a fridge" (to quote Radiohead). I think I'm beginning to smell you now. You smell of fresh polystyrene and of hot electronics, like airports and dematerialized places like the lit and souless offices that puncture the great urban blackness at 3AM. You smell new and you're old. I can smell you're sterile and have always been. Your tears must smell of raw chicken breast, your hands smell faintly of chessnut and of damp iron, your hair has a distant scent of burnt tyres and of chemical straberries - and your sex doesn't smell at all. You're not one of us anymore, that's for sure. You must be some kind of hologram.
I needed to smell you to know you. It's a constant of my breed. That's how we do. You can lie to us. Being a supreme dog I can even smell ideas, you know. One day I'll smell yours. It' s unbelievable how much more consistent your thoughts get when you smell your words and chew them.
I can't think of an odourless body now that all humans stink of monkey to me. I call them humapes. I am a humape myself, and my dreams of bestiality are just the shit 'n sour lining of the vast silver cloud of rationality. I suppose it's wasted on you, but have you noticed how strongly humapes smell? You must have been through a few smells in your life I guess... do you remember them?
It has always amazed me how can we travel with this pheromonal and extra-corporeal sphere surrounding us... and us being the center of this self-secreted sphere just like others are to theirs... how these worlds collide and agglutinate like soap bubbles... how these smells arouse us or disgust us... and define us too blindly... how they code us and how we forget they command us...
Wanna find the center? Define first what is a "center" in the humapese language.
J. is that you?
ReplyDeleteBecause I thought you thought the only real sense was touch.
So maybe you're righter than you think, maybe you smell me, but maybe it's also only a hologram...
But, hey, I think you reall got me there.
I must be evolving - I'am moving from physics to chemistry... told you I was an ape who sometimes dreamt he was a man: I guess I'll turn into a beautiful butterfly someday. For the time being I lick my screen and finger in the wires, I'm a lead butterfly with a snail mind.
ReplyDeleteJ.