eschatonIIsequence section IIIa for exclusive preview

eschatonIIsequence iiia

I could explain my book rather easily. It is a suicide note written in collaboration with the absent reader from an already dead author. The book was a Schrodinger’s box, conscious reflection was the cat. With a little blood, ink, emotion, and ritual; with reference to music and sex and individuation and dance; it was clear to me the book in its hyper-text appearance was a timeless representation of the knowing subject as understood by Schopenhauer. I descended like God and became the son in my book and allowed it to die on a cross of rejection, strife and pure indifference. I now believe in the knowing subject in perhaps an even more fundamental fashion.

That explains the birth, life and death of the eschaton sequence. I would not consider this a second coming. I do not have the will, intellect or ambition to try and blow up the world with an AiIDS-like virus that turned the text of computers my document touched to be disconnected, freed from the hub, and put mercifully to sleep.

Only the information in the mind of interpreters would be left.

And to ensure the uncertainty of that interpretation I included a code so unfathomably random – so random the author himself doesn’t know whether by the process of having no process certain mock codes had been reproduced, overly used, or plain repeated.

What is the value of such a text? Well it at least served in part as a reductio ad absurdum of certain deconstructionist principles. The primacy of language and the spoken over the written word to name just two examples. The second aim was a Romantic howl in pessimistic tradition, with an existential bent based on the banal life of a postgraduate father of two who was white and from an average working family.

Somehow I thought this level of engagement and commitment would save and reward me.

I am certainly not saved and I have not been rewarded. I have become a member of the underclass on prescription drugs for a vile condition which can only be described as people-mistrusto-phobia and inner-space in a strange place-specific agoraphobia.

I know for sure there are readers for me and that I will never reach them. My books are not showy or flash, they are hardly fiction nor fact, they consist in no plot, and there is no dialogue or characterisation. Alongside poetry the least accessible art on the planet. Combined with my violent infantile streaks of painting, I have hardly pitched myself towards popular, although the frustrating thing is that even among the unlearned, the time-poor, and even the unrefined, I have genuinely positive reactions as though I’m on to something. If I could find a way to get things combined I could reach a few more of the desperately lost.

If only for the company of a fellow soul with his rational mind consciously back to front: he knows like the wind-up toy he is pushed from within, not pulled calmly in front from behind.

If this act of mine serves as a commentary it is don’t be in haste, when you write or read our previous book. It is hardly literal.

The tyrannnical solipsist mode is the frustrated voice of a pointless liberal.

I do not believe in the right or the left but for the extent they believe in people. I do not trust the masses one bit, but I am not overly keen on the character or judgement of any individual.

I’m about as political as the man who says we share or split the apple. But it was pointed out to me that politics is really about who gets to slice the apple.

The wisdom of Solomon doesn’t work for more than two crying people.

In common with the last sequences I have never been sat for such periods of time immersed in intense writing. If for that and the flavour alone, consequent on my sweat, I will have my voice met.

If I am greeted at the last by my friend, by my reader – my end – all the pain I have had, all the longing I’ve held, all the gult I have owned, evrything I’ve done in the interest of letters, I will be made happy.

If I reach more than one fellow voice that I recognize as mine though it comes from another, I will know my work on earth here was done.

There is a long way to go before we can say that that has been done..

Perhaps this early on it is better to fix our eyes and arrows at the moon and not the glaring midday hot sun.

Of her I am quite tidy. Respectful of her married life although I wasn’t immediately: I felt used or shunned.

Although it was I who had done the shunning. How I turned my back at the very last instant of her coming here, returning.

And all for the one I still love but in who loving hates me. At least that is what it feels like. Jung said if you dance with two you will leave with none.

I’ve come to put it down to my subconscious, or my unconscious need for freedom despite my ego crying for security and it would seem motherhood.

Where does love go when it disappears? - of not all am I fond and then some more than others. It is no different I guess with your affections concerning friends: there is a sliding scale, a friendship spectrum, and unusually it can be a single person at both ends.

I can be read as an episode of manic depression on one of its few-yearly jump springs: something in me wants out a project as good as the last two even put together. And the eschaton sequences needed some background, some kind of handle or insight. This much I am told. Especially having removed the letter-long conceits and invented preface stroke faux introduction. The author is still dying to be read.

Ultimately the episode makes a change from lying in bed wishing you were dead or wanting to be twenty years or so younger.

I have to keep reminding myself how old I am for in truth I feel as though I have immatured in some naive ways: of the forgiving heart, in my soft generosity. But I have grown wisdom as well, I have learned discipline to a certain extent, I have learned manners.

I will share my last sandwich with you, you don’t even need to ask. In fact you oughtn’t to ask for my sensitivity to my vulnerability makes me resent your pushing an agenda on my free offering.

I can barely bring myself to make profit, something in me revolts and turns at the thought of making a play and gaining some advantage. I don’t necessarily mind the great game I just do not believe that everyone is playing with the same value currency.

You cannot get more different than cats and dogs, certainly proverbially so, but I had to observe each one respectively in each others’ presence andthey were alike as flies, forest ferns or flowers.

I enjoy a reading but I loathe my voice. In this respect, in this phenomenon, I am not alone. It has really made me think about how people hear what is to me a fused cacaphony of voices, and explained some behaviour which I might have thought ignorant before but now blame on my cracked or monotone voices.

I am forced to write right through the night, as I have explained before, because the world elopes and leaves me with its essence, on which I build my lattice lines and slopes.

I’m so stoned that I am seeing bloody double. I don’t mind the doubling up but the bleeding’s trouble.

I cannot resist a rhyme unless it’s reducing the lovely lines to inglorious babble. This would be an example.

I may be a feminised man but I am still a man’s man. Somehow I imagine all my readers to be men. Once I thought anyone, but especially young men’ Now I expect not to be read at all except for by lonely old men.

My problem was there wasn’t enough life for it to be ceremoniously slain; it was never released, it was never published, it never came from the clouds.

Perhaps this time there’s a better hope of suicide, far better evidence to hand of death by shop.

The first born would also be killed over copyright issues. I included many titles of many well known underplayed songs.

So the will is only half the story, the other half is the late much weaker consciousness and its forms of intellect. But this is where we start from. Something screams to me that this is an unfinished story.