Thursday, 23 October 2014

songs of apprenticeship, songs of the underground, now

Apprenticeship. My Wiki Hegel.

when a master finds a slave they become a team
making him toil he treats him as a thing
moulding him- the slave soft as wax
planting doubt, self-doubt and fear
to break stubbornness
at the end of bondage the apprentice leaves
taking some of his master's with him

one day he will become independent
and return to where he belongs
as a subject
not as a thing he was
he will exist as himself for himself, not for us
the wax has hardened, he will be on his own
but kept on the chain and sworn

only possible if the service is completed
if it were interrupted because of his stubbornness
or never terminated - made endless
he would either sink into himself and his thing-ness
or stay soft and shapeless, being moulded by others

the master's interest will be gone and he will unchain
his bondsman
and broken, melted, remoulded without end
he will never get home

on his journey back
carrying his lord on his shoulders
he meets others and as the burden is heavy
he wants to trade in order to keep going, actually
it's the master pulling the chain
rattling it to scare him and keep on the track
of course, he is not going to shake off
and simply drop on the road his load
even if he is making bad deals
with the people sent by his lord
getting things that are of no use
and of lesser and lesser value
no way, he won't run back, he'll carry his cross merrily
he is not confusing the road with destination

the slave or master to be
is rendering his service to others
humbling himself  as a thing-subject not yet
not simply a thing like before as he gets as well
the wax is now hard, it's his shield, he is unaffected
his body's exhausted
but something has happened- a break!
he loses everything and he loses himself
he's no longer here, where is he?
he drinks from a fountain, what an abundance of colours!
a tree!
all what is lost is not lost and the tree is in bloom
his belongings are his as they're his master's
the master is here, it's him
he's returning, he knows where he comes from

Day and night

tristan and isolde asleep with a sword between them

Global desiring-machine

have a look at the global desiring-machine
it's devouring its son
biting, sucking out blood, tearing out organs, chewing, spitting out bones
here they are, they will turn into dust
each corn unique, nomadic, no identity, spreading diseases
settle and lift like a cloud- it's a global return

you're saying: we are in a desert
this kind of return's not for us
okay, let's check the machine, there it goes
stomach ache, bad digestion? let's see
it needs to go to a wc

you're saying: we don't know the rules of this game
we don't want to be manipulated into any returns
we need some explanations: was that son
sent by the mother with a clock and TV?
no, that was his own idea, the mother...
you've met in the desert
it's coming, what's that ?
it's young and it's strong, looking more like its son
i see double and i see a mirage- an oasis?
are you sure it's that global desiring-machine ?


i found my grail in the gypsy flag
with that red wheel ever turning
bringing waters down on earth
earth to heaven in reverse

but the wheel was from my heart blood
bleeding heart and tears i cry
i was mixing blood with tears
for the things I left behind

i am carrying too much
and the storms tear down my tent
and i can't read in the dark
as the lamp in it stops burning

i was begging in the streets
sitting outside the temple
i was stealing white wax candles
when i got caught in the rain

i was dancing i was singing
then the sun was laughing at me
when the sun was shining on me
all the candles dropped in mud

 once i was begged- didn't give
 and she told me "you will bleed"
 bound by blessings of that curse
 i sail back to native shores

on my road with no end
i kept grinding never minding
that the spokes got nearly broken
brought my wagon to a halt

should have sharpened all my tools
with the spark of stones well used
now my blood is thin as sighs
but at least i learned to cry


my sun is inside the earth
as a citizen of lemuria
i didn't want to be born
i stamped with my feet and i screamed
at her who gave me blue light

about my father in case you wonder                
first he worked in mines
then he was a rainbow in the skies

there must be my light twin on the other side
because there are no flights
to the poles of the earth
to fall down and meet in the middle at last
we have to dig through the crust

another method is to rot to the core
that blue light has helped me before

when the seed is corrupted by rot
it's not like in seedless grapes
we buy on the market and eat
for the sake of their sweet  taste

a totally separate mystical commodity
not an equivalent of value, neither usefulness
neither a show of effort made public
rotting is non-effort, digging sisyphean
and sweat seedless grapes are non-significant

when corrupted the seed's so not useful
that it's almost a work of art
and who can prove the impossibility of unity
with the southern twin rotting miles apart?
rotting, not growing downwards
we'll burn together as one, close to my father sun

Две песни из подземелья.

Кровавая Луна.

я нашла грааль в цыганском флаге
с огненным колесом
перекатывающим капли дождя
с неба на землю и потом обратно на небо

но это колесо
было моим истекающим кровью сердцем
когда я оплакивала где-то забытые вещи
слезы с кровью смешались, я слишком много
с собой взяла
истрепало палатку  ненастьем
там темно, больше читать нельзя
ведь лампа вот-вот погаснет

я просила милостыню на улице
мне подавали у дверей храма
как-то раз я украла белых восковых свечей
да дождь помешал когда я их зажигала

я пела и танцевала
пока солнце надо мной не насмеялось
пока солнце на меня светило
я все свечи в грязь побросала

когда-то и у меня просили
но я ничего не давала
и благословляя проклятьем, она мне тогда сказала
"чтоб кровью ты захлебнулась"

я бы домой вернулась
все катилась
по бесконечной дороге, колесо все крутилось
только когда повозка остановилась
заметила я
что ось едва не переломилась

надо было наточить инструменты
высекая искры из камня умело
сейчас моя кровь уже водяниста
как вздохи
зато плакать я научилась

Скоро новое солнце

мое солнце внутри земли
гражданка лемурии
я не должна была родиться
я топала ногами, кричала
на ту что мне синий свет показала
об отце, если вам интересно
под землей он работал
и радугой стал в небесах

где-то на противоположной стороне земли
есть мой двойник
вернее мы близнецы
самолеты на полюс уже не летают
не провалиться нам внутрь, чтоб встретиться наконец
надо тоннель прорыть
есть другой метод- до сердцевины гнить

загнивающий плод, где семена пропали
не как виноград без семечек
что мы покупали
я сразу ела, соблазн был велик
тот виноград
отделенный от нас волшебный товар
ни мерка ценности, ни полезности
ни демонстрация славной работы садовника
сладость одна
сгнить не работа, а рыть- для сизифа, сгнивая дотла
плод бесполезным становится
словно творенье художника, пусть мне поможет
синий тот свет
как доказать что союз близнецов невозможен
надо истлеть до конца
сгореть как единое целое, вместе у солнца-отца


it is actually happening now
two women speaking romanian on the tram
both look grimy, ikea bags, charity shop clothes, one of them's singing
a primitive song without words na-na-na
a peculiar kind- checkered pants, sits like a man
she is making odd rhythms to it with her umbrella
tapping her foot, laughing and swearing i think
her singing is really amazing
not performing and she is not begging
the song is too bitter, too crude, too hot, too monotonous
i wonder how she can sing just like that
only a baby with its arms and legs can express life so naturally
i can't be mistaken, it's her
i am turning away to avoid meeting her eyes
as mine may reveal dissolution, melancholy, amusement, recognition
to be completely honest i am falling in love with the situation
i have no rings in my ears, no nail varnish
she has
i am not celebrating
she is
she is joy, i am sorrow
i don't want to get off
i cannot cut  myself away from the song
i am compelled to look right in her eyes
to see if she gets embarrassed- she doesn't care
i cannot hide a smile and i'm nodding
she is saying something to her friend
maybe like
this one is definitely enjoying, mamaye
they are getting off, now the singer is angry and sad
she is sorrow and i am joy, but i can't just run after them
i cannot shrug myself off like an old coat to leave on the seat
whatever, i am getting off anyway
i am walking and my love light's too strong
it feels like a gloria, what shall i do about that experience?
i have never heard anything like that, and i'm sure it's her
she is poor, i'm broke, i need new boots
no, i 'm not buying boots- a one way ticket to a little town
i am totally in that na-na-na gothenburg tram number 1 song
i'm really not going anywhere and i'm on the bus now
walking, my love light too strong, my umbrella, my boots not so water-proof
sure that's her, i am hungry, she's eating now
waiting for bus number 7, it's coming
people get on, show their cards, getting on
where are them words of excuse me, but i have no money?
my card is not charged, the machine showing red, oops!sorry, now it's ok
the driver conspiring- my love light 's too strong
it's like a gloria, i'm singing that song


это в общем-то происходит сейчас
две женщины говорят по-румынски в трамвае
обе замызганные, мешки из икеи, куртки с чужого плеча
одна из них что-то поет
примитивную песню без слов на-на-на
странная, в клетчатых брюках, сидит как мужик
зонтиком такт в пять на шесть отбивает
ногами притопывает, ругается думаю я
смеется, пение просто прекрасное, не на публику и не за деньги
слишком проста ее песня , груба, монотонна, горька, горяча
я удивляюсь- как можно так петь?
только младенец
от избытка жизненных сил
руками ногами такое выделывать может
я не могу ошибиться, это она
я отворачиваюсь, боюсь встретиться взглядом
так как мои глаза изобличают тот факт, что я
пытаюсь скрыть меланхолию, увлеченность происходящим, узнавание
если честно, я без ума от самой ситуации
у меня  в ушах нет колец, ногти без лака
у нее есть
я не праздную
она празднует
она радость, я горе
я не хочу выходить
я не могу себя оторвать от песни
я вынуждена ей смотреть прямо в глаза
захотелось проверить не смутится ли - нет, ноль реакции
мне не удается  в себе подавить улыбку, киваю
она  что-то говорит подруге, может
смотри вон той явно понравилось, эх мамае
им пора выходить, певица расстроена чем-то и злится
я радость, она горе
я не могу за ними бежать
я не могу стряхнуть себя на сиденье как старую шаль
сейчас и мне выходить, не важно
я иду и любовный мой свет так силен
я его ощущаю как ореол
что же мне делать? ничего особенного не произошло
я никогда не слышала ничего подобного и я уверена что это она
она бедна, я в безденежьи
мое ботинки совсем никуда не годятся
нет, я покупаю билет в один конец
еду в маленький город
без денег на обратный билет
я вся в той трамвайной песне номер 1 в гетеборге
в действительности я не еду
гуляю под зонтиком, ботинки мои прохудились
свет во мне по- прежнему очень силен
я уже совсем уверена в том, что это она
она ест, я голодна
сейчас жду автобуса номер 7
вот уже подъезжает, люди садятся, билеты показывают
я тоже сажусь, у меня только старый билет
где же слова извините, нет денег?
водитель- да да, все в порядке- все как сговорились
свет мой все так же силен
как ореол, сижу я  ту песню пою

Sunday, 19 October 2014

Unity has to be fabricated

Unity is a missing part, it has to be fabricated and added to the rest. The idea comes from "Anti- Oedipus".

Deleuze is considered a philosopher of multiplicity and immanence, concepts usually contrasted to unity and transcendence. However, if we look for transcendence on the plane of immanence, as something outside of consciousness, but still belonging to a human being, it is probably the unconscious. To abstract from individuals, it's the collective unconscious as an enormous reservoir of memory of the mankind, connecting us to nature and expressing itself through myths, the motives of which are similar across time and space, perpetuating the code of an archetype.

There is an emptiness in nature. I am not referring to Hegel, but to what causes the eternal return, why repetition is repetition with a difference, or how dialectics of existence blocks concepts, theoretically designed to produce returns of the same or loops of general particularities. Deleuze, discussing singularities and how they disobey the rules of the general, points at some mysterious verticality in nature, the laws of which are superior. This verticality, obviously transcendent, is like an axis in the middle of a black hole, in proximity of which behaviours deviate.It is responsible for difference in repetition. Repetition itself expresses universality in singularity.

This emptiness was called the fifth element or aether by the ancients. By pulling the 4 elements inside it produces quintessence that turns everything it touches to gold (the salt of the earth that doesn't burn, but can be volatilized into spiritual fire). Unity we are looking for,contemplating phenomena and numbers, is strongly suggested by the overall uniformity of everything- the stages of embryo development coinciding with the steps of Darwin's ladder and the Chain of Being, patterns in nature following the golden section etc.  So we can conclude that multiplicity affirms unity, in the same way that becoming affirms being. However, as empty or a missing vital part, it can only be fabricated (this introduces an artist as a magician) and added to the partials,to complete the whole that extends itself, is animated with life, breathes. Deleuze is more interested in how it works:
"A magical chain
brings together plant life, pieces of organs, a shred of clothing, an
image of daddy, formulas and words: we shall not ask what it means, but
what kind of machine is assembled in this manner—what kind of flows
and breaks in the flows, in relation to other breaks and other flows."

Disjunctive synthesis is another paradox of the same kind. I remember a scene in a Bertolucci film, I think it was "The tragedy of a ridiculous man", where one of the characters, working at the cheese factory, is literally assisting the flows of coagulated mass to be cut into and dropped down as separate cheeses.Initially they were liquid- milk, the living mass of primal matter. Cheese was the owner's gold, made capital, the flow and consummation of which was crucial in the film, as he had to get his kidnapped son back. The son was gone, but he returned. Magical 9, he lived, as the seer in the film predicted. In the picture below (it has nothing to do with the film), the sum is always 9:
4+5, 3+6, 2+7, 1+8, 0+9, -1+ 10 (horse shoe counting)

Production, consumption,consummation was like a desiring machine coupled with a body without organs. Work often looks repulsive, but it brings money. I don't mean we can't survive without ( not discussing lack as the basis of desire, neither is missing that unity as emptiness a lack, but rather a yearning), it's just that production has to go on in one way or another and the products are consumed all the time. This consumption and consummation are important for the process to start anew.

I really don't like pragmatists very much- they use and are being used, why can't we do things out of this yearning and simply to keep moving? Sometimes it's looping (habits, automated responses and ways of production), but it can become moving, if we discover potentialities of the emptiness. The path to it lies through ego destruction, as only an egoless body without organs can make itself fluid and indifferent, plastic enough for becomings, but it has to be coupled with desiring machines. Without application in real life it is a closure in the imaginary- "Better to flee to the body without organs
and hide out there, closing himself up in it." Here an ego loss means schizophrenia, but real sickness is in our split culture and closed minds.

An ego will always speak in terms of lack, envy, possessiveness (will cling to the results), self-preservation. Another condition allowing for intensive flows is that of a full body, in which opposing principles are in balance. It draws partials to itself and the axis around which becomings occur is a magic fetish- independence of familial reproductions from social production and reproduction provide "a transcendent detached object that crushes their polyvocal character; the detached object (phallus) must perform a kind of folding operation", not in a mode of oppressive triangulation of Oedipus- "3+1 (the four corners of the field folded into three, like a tablecloth, plus
the transcendent term that performs the folding operation"), but as 4+n, far beyond, reaching the ancestors. In primitive cultures all members of society undergo initiation into real life to be integrated in the group, not isolated egos. They are not conditioned by any grand signifier without signified- Father, not merely collective archetypal patterns either, but by real functions and intensities of filial structures.

The second synthesis, connected with the past or the virtual, leads to the third- the static synthesis of pain and bliss, opening to the future. Virtual as an undifferentiated flow of forces, that take shape and start making sense (becoming structured and thus coherent) and after breaking into parts, their consummation in emptiness, return. Indifference of a well-balanced body is not a cancellation of passion, but will to power, the way it is understood by Nietzsche- willing it so much that you want its return and for that being ready to go under.

"- We shall speak of an absolute limit every time the schizo-flows
pass through the wall, scramble all the codes, and deterritorialize the
socius: the body without organs is the deterritorialized socius, the
wilderness where the decoded flows run free, the end of the world, the

I'm afraid I am making a mistake, described in "Anti- Oedipus":

"The three errors concerning desire are called lack, law, and
 And it is futile to interpret these notions
in terms of a combinative apparatus (line combinatoire) that makes of
lack an empty position and no longer a deprivation, that turns the law
into a rule of the game and no longer a commandment, and the signifier
into a distributor and no longer a meaning, for these notions cannot be
prevented from dragging their theological cortege behind—insufficiency
of being, guilt, signification."

But I see the cure in polyvocal applications, not playing a global game, having fun (what's fun means nothing). So here is my advice (to myself to start with): move your Plato to your heart and live your ideals of harmony, (don't forget Aristotle, he provides tools), seize the now- that ever escaping present - and never let it go, stay open and keep loving your life.

I round up with a beautiful poem (in Swedish) by Bruno K. Öijer- "Tätt Intill" from "Svart Som Silver".
SSS, try to decode it! Everything is expressed there and so much better.

dom viktiga åren

och hela mitt förflutna

verkar så avlägset

men ligger ändå nära tätt intill

håller armen om mej när jag sover

och får allt tungt och värdelöst

att släppa taget

lossa sitt grepp om mej

en natt som den här är jag fri

fri att tänka mej hur långt bort som helst

och varför ljuga

jag väger mindre och mindre

svävar nästan till över marken

glider undan från tillvaron

som om jag

brutit en fjäder ur den dödas dräkt

och förstått

hållit den länge i handen

och lärt mej använda den

lärt mej till slut vad allt gåt ut på