Let us complicate things. More complicated than conspiracy theories involving medicine and health. Fuck the mindfuckeries vigilant citizens preach as if they were fact. What if the doctors aggravate maladies or worsen malnutrition so they remain the answers to your prayers, as if they are heaven sent if they cure you of the illnesses caused by the very society they un/consciously serve? Aren't the same corporations that create antivirus programs the ones that create the viruses themselves? Just as the United Snakes create an Osama that later turns into the Frankenstein that they failed to control, as someone has already said? Point is, whatever discipline we are into, we do things to preserve our selves. Or, do we?
What if this wearing of spectacles, our wearing of spectacles in particular, goes "according to plan"? Whose plan? What plan? Is there a plan? Random is the plan, the framework, or the thought of the plan, the framework. The frame wherein lenses fit to aid us in what we are supposed to see. Who decides what we are supposed to see? Do we? Do you? Do some higher-ups live up to the messianic task or responsibility--or "burden" just like that of the white men?
Let us complicate things more. More complicated than art and society. The bullshit that we do--or we think we succeed in doing, that serves a purpose--or we believe does serve an essential role, no matter how grand or how trivial, to society. Art being something we think is as necessary as breathing, though we feel like it is an excess, or a vanity, that shapes society to an extent we may not be that aware of. What does that mean? I do not know. Nothing means anything these days. What I know is:
Art is something that binds us. Not us, humankind, but us--we as two individuals attempting to see the world in lenses that may be actual lenses, imagined lenses, or hallucinogenic, if not delusional, lenses observing a reality we think is the truth, a mindscape we feel is another reality, a psychedelia that we believe an "other" mindscape. Do not ask me
what that means. Do not ask me about the arts and the theories criticizing the arts and the society contextualizing the theories criticizing the arts. Do not even ask me about me. And the interactions or interrelations of the aforementioned matters and such to each other. Ask me about you. Or about us. Or about what this is all about. Do not expect a quick, straight response, though. Expect stuttering, breakdowns, stalling, interruptions, buckling, thunderstorms, stalling, apocalypses, sudden lisps, tongue twists, stalling, and other instant speech defects care of hot then cold deluge of water from both heaven and hell. Besides
the sense of sight and that of touch, my sense of taste begins to have troubles in gordian knots--not because I have an awful sense of taste caused by this awkward motherfucking cosmic yet quantum whatsoever, which cannot be represented in words for you but I am quite certain that the unnameable is some sort of "feeling," something more sacred than founded beliefs and deities; but because the sense of taste, the tongue, needless to say, is an organ associated with speech and explicit communication, unlike the so-called windows of the soul, the eyes, that speak in silence.
Let me complicate things further and add details. God is in the details, so, he might hear and see this and do something about it either to convince me of his benevolence and superpowers, or tell me to go fuck myself with the blasphemies I utter on a regular basis. I thought alcohol blesses men, and semi-men, and not-men, and ex-men and un-men with the courage they need to tell someone something to their face. God is dead, Nietzsche said, but someone insisted that god is red, thus he is in red wine or any equivalent beverage. I am not quite sure if all alcoholic drinks count as such, but let us say they do. If god is red and he is a spirit and he is in alcohol or even the alcohol, it seems like he is angry at me since he did not bother to help last night:
If my memory that often does me disservice serves me right this time, that was the third night that we tripped and talked together. I remember how you take off your spectacles from time to time while I have mine resting in its casket since I am wearing nano-domes of transparent plastic wrappers as visual help. Are our perspectives "corrected" then, since we can do without spectacles? Are we to lessen dependence on them? I thought my vision and yours are becoming clear as the starless night skies we drink away, but apparently, visions remain open and dead--deprived of interpretation and meaning. Also,
this was another of those few days when we see and did things out of the game plan, i.e., tripping and talking in spontaneity and uncertainty instead of doing something sophisticated and profound as projected--not that our tripping and talking ended as tasteless, unrefined, crass waste, but it is just that our tripping and talking was a bit too "lighthearted," whatever that means, compared to hardcore intellectual jousts oozing with splattered cerebellum, cerebrum and medulla--and sometimes, broken spinal columns.
Ironic how our conversations felt like clouds in broad summer daylight while my chest feels like a heavy tempest at burdened seas wreaking havoc at the so-called temple that god inconsiderately built in humans so he can reside somewhere and have a vacation during weekends. Let me complicate things up to the boiling point or freezing point, depending on how you look at it--as complicated as sending you an email with these--or a link to these--scrawls, with no other text than "read or click at your own risk. More disturbing than child pornography in 3D. You have been warned. Let the asexual facade wear off and may all who has eyes to see and ears to hear know that I have the sick capacity to desire."
Fuck this. Day is almost over and failed to send you any word yet.