From: Ariosto Raggo <df803-AT-freenet.carleton.ca> Subject: Re: city of shamanic cooking poets Date: Sat, 6 Feb 1999 22:18:59 -0500 (EST) > > Ariosto wrote: > > >now I am on my way to look for musty tomes, > >jack of all trades, > >Ariosto > > Yes, down to the root cellar. Have fun. Got any artichokes down there? Or, > is it a matter of the usual yams? I cooked up a latin meal for you today love, flaming hot booby traps of the kind you liked setting on the forest floor of military operations. Right now, this evening, back from the library I am in the old cell with a straw mat woven in the abyss, the restless lack; I am listening to latin jazz now flowing through the labyrinth of my ear, "nunca se acaba la cosecha de mujeres.../ the harvest [imagination] of women never ends" while contemplating Lacan's _FFCP_ chapter 6 on the split between the eye and the gaze, and also a short initiatory story by Luisa Valenzuela from _Open Door_ called "The Attainment Of Knowledge," shamanic gnose of course. And as well nearby is a passage by Gracq from _en lisant en ecrivant_ on the description of literature as _chemin_ or road. I am getting hot and I know it, the cannon is going up in flames. > The weed don't interfere with our lens, so to speak. > Whatever distortions we get is what just comes down the pipes quite > naturally from having to serve penance between these two or three osseous > predispositions--what your mama or your grandmama might have called the > psycho-cell walls--whatever you want to call it--the spiritual graveyard for > all musty things--yams and artichokes alike--the vine of the dead or vine of > the souls--in other words, your cranium, i.e., skull. > The one Hamlet talked to? Slip...... yes, here I am again smoking rhizomatic weed, so to speak, near brain death. The communications are flowing like smoke signals from the dreampipe shaking down the wires and waving a hello to all players caught between fantasy and reality, cooking hot and dancing to the houserhythm, the housemusic that spreads through all the streets of the city like a swarming contagion, pulverizing everything and turning all into ashes.... disaster and the smell of burning flesh everywhere. All that remains are valuable artifacts here and there, a gold tooth, a wrist watch, opulent stones set in the metal of barb wires surrounding the field of idealist communicative rationality and swish! what a cut! and we are in the ecstatic flow dancing our restlesness off.... yes,yes cooking > If you ever wondered why them ol' pirates ran up the skull and crossbones on > a black flag, this is it. I reckon them boys understood the implication just > fine 'cause everybody knows you don't get out of this motherfucker > alive--not in the usual sense anyway. > > Myself, I am rather hoping for an early reprieve. I done my time right good, > I reckon and I figure I'm due for a break. > > Ya'll take care down in that cellar, now, you hear? Musty things have a way > of breeding other musty things and, next thing you know, you be growing > mushrooms and whatnot down there. Them things have a way of taking over and > they give off this noxious air, know what I mean? Makes it hard to see in > all that must and darkness and whatnot--hanging fungus and yeast. Next thing > you know, you done mixed up your yams and your eggplants. No big thing, I > reckon, but, then, you never can tell where some rascal might have hidden > the gasoline or the oxygen tank. You go looking for some sweet potatoes and > strike up a match and it's all over. > > You can blame it on that mushroom air all you want but it don't matter once > it blows. > > Rule of thumb with a root cellar, you see, is you have to know where your > vegetables are at all times. You can't let 'em co-mingle. > > Yessir. Every shaman worth his worry beads and sakee knows this. You have > got to keep them vegetables separate or it will lead to disaster every time. She is blowing sky high love, yes, a little bit hot peppers and then a little honey to balance the heat and the acid of the mountain tomatoes, yes, that's it... do it like that.... houserhythms... And an old woman gets right fucked, "She begin to notice that her knowledge had grown with the heat of the flames, and she felt infinitely wiser than before, having survived her forced pilgrimage. But wise for what? To be unable to transmit to anyone, as usual, especially among those who know only the ineffable (the wisdom of those on their floating islands of fresh straw, and that of us all who believe ourselves secure with our feet firmly on the ground). <snip> From fire to flame, from flame to ember to warm ash, to that other ash, dry and sterile, that with the wind's help covers everything with gray. These had been luminous transformations--pure, internal joy in no way comparable to simple happiness. <snip> When she felt complete, she set it all afire, thinking that somehow the others would understand her message, thanks to the dark cloud the flames would send aloft. In this way, without meaning to, she reinvented the telegraph. In sum, another worthless holocaust: the others far off could not or would not decipher her message. perhaps they already knew." houserhythms. disaster!trauma! thump thump thump Lacan done up the ass, which is how Deleuze describes the job of philosophy... in a lucid style....vigilant and awake, "Father, can't you see I am burning..." houserhythms. "nunca se acaba la cosecha de mujeres..." repetition, ceasura! That man is holding his crotch now I bet. ...The old houserhythms, opulence of silver threads weaving shamanic spells, setting traps, phrasing booby traps, and boom! you are in the ecstatic flow..................slip.....glissement............... An encore later, Ariosto --
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