Date: Tue, 06 Oct 1998 10:38:27 +0100
From: Daniel Haines <daniel-AT-tw2.com>
Subject: Re: infinite sounds


(un)leash,

i like this very much, and have a few questions...

i don't mean this reductively (no, i  really don't mean this
reductively) but are you sure you've never taken acid?!!  this
disjointed, multiply connection stroll is tuned in very intensely to the
part of my brain i get to explore when i am tripping my head off! 

in a way it seems  similar to a kind of non-styled minor literature i've
been trying to de-evolve out of our major literature over the past year
or two, putting  intensive connections in the place of narrative
connections, but it is quite different also... more focussed than my
work, and perhaps for that reason more effective/affective...  

what was your process? is there more of this stuff?  would you consider
this a machine? fiction?  theory??  why did you write it?? 

dan h.


Unleesh-AT-aol.com wrote:
> 
> The sounds are infinite. The sounds determine me. I am a machine of the noise,
> it comes at me uncontrollably. I should walk into the street. In front of
> cars.  I own this street. Yes, it is my territory. The street's flesh and mine
> merge. because i am a machine controlled by the noise. I only respond, filter,
> select. There's too much going on. I don't understand. I have to absorb. To
> absorb. To allow all the noise to filter itself. There's no such thing as
> cognition. Noise filters itself. Differentially. Different each time. It
> confuses me. But it's real. The only thing that's real. Out here in the noise,
> nothing else is real. And in the ocean, they are swimming, and in the ocean
> they are crawling along the floor, and in the ocean they hear the sounds of
> the waves but they say nothing. In the ocean they are buffetted by waves,
> surrounded by vibrations. They can't make them all out. They can't ever make
> them all out. But they stay in the confusion. Sweet, sweet creatures. They
> love the confusion. Stepping outside, across some fabric I can't fathom, I no
> longer respond to signification. Language is no language. Signals passing
> through and around me. So many. so fucking many. And I am a creature of
> signals, without wanting to know, with no interpretations, a groping in the
> white noise, staggered grasping in the static. Oh, I've passed beneath the
> sieve, and all you see is the other side of the sieve, but not what passes
> through. Underneath, so many signals passing through and across every word.
> The text is porous. What's my soundtrack? Refer me to the right library tapes.
> My instructions are imbedded in the sounds? Immanent in the noise? I am
> understanding? There are many things which could happen. All happening all
> around me. Simultaneously. So many things happening. Impossible for me to
> sort. Impossible. What does a concept capture? Very little. It is what it
> allows to pass which is significant. But how many look there? Ah, yes, look
> there. Jump into the confusion. Make it your milieu. Refuse to understand.
> Refuse to interpret. Bathe in the confusion. Seek it out like a salvation,
> like a secret source, a fountain, an ocean.... I'm laughing, god such joyous
> laughter. Such confused laughter. Laughing at those who think sorting ...
> hahaha. No. No, it does nothing. No, it's arbitrary. No, it's an aesthetic. Oh
> yes go wild. Go wild with your sorting. Create an aesthetic. So arbitrary. You
> can't connect all the dots. Too many dots. But paint a picture if it makes you
> happy.  Ha ha happy. Look at my silly way of connecting the dots. Ha ha
> silly... Something playing at such a low volume. Tune in to the microvolume.
> These decibels so faint. Where something is creating itself, gathering its
> vibrations off the marginalia of more powerful formations ... migrant,
> collecting the castoff vibrations, gathering power ... The radio is playing
> backwards, all signals are being distorted. Voices are cutting in at random
> times. So who would be so arrogant? Who would be so arrogant? To assert their
> fragile aesthetic as some sort of truth? Truth? In the noise? Too much. Way
> too much. Overwhelm, not truth. Mama, you are my phonetic experiment. Dada,
> dada, you are too juvenile. Develop it further dada. Dada, don't just react.
> WWI isn't worth it. Dada, take it further. Dada, don't stop at punk. Dada
> don't stop there. Dada go further. Dada go on. Dada, don't hold back. Jump in,
> dada. Meet me here in the noise. Construct confused environments. The more
> sensical, the more delusional. Don't support the masses' delusions. There is
> no sense. Stop making sense. Stop making sense. Stop making sense. Engender
> the confusion. Usher into the overwhelm. Let us link robotic arms and march
> gleefully into the noise. That's where all the concepts are.  They're all out
> there waiting for us. Waiting to impregnate our bodies. To impregnate us. To
> penetrate our flesh. To come to our proprioception and say, here I am, take me
> home, develop me. No, no explanations. No explanations ever again. Never
> again. Swear off them. Immersion. Immersion in the noise. Don't try to figure
> it out. Don't try to untangle the knots. Add your own knots. Enter the jungle.
> Engage the chthonic directly. Connect the dots to warp space. To add a new
> fold. To fold over newly. To multiply the confusion. But not to know. Never to
> know.  Not to make sense, no, don't be vulgar. To add to the tarbaby. Yes, the
> tarbaby. Come inside. This blob. This is it. This is the reality. This is
> philosophy. Get sticky. Become immersed. Get tangled. Become a tangle. Tangle
> freely, creating machines of tangles which generate new effects. Oh, yes. Yes.
> New filter programs please. That's what a concept is.  Old filter programs
> inadequate. Plug in new filter program. Greater resolution. Higher relevance.
> Select new bandwidths. Correlate with heterogenous flows. Experiment. See what
> happens. I'm connecting this short wave radio up to my television set and that
> up to my computer and that up to my anus and that up to my VCR and that into
> my eyes and that into my dog's brain and that into a swarm of mosquitos and
> that into many women's genitals, and into many men's anuses, so the whole
> thing connects heterogenous flows. I want to see how the signals transmogrify
> each other. Yes. I want to spit in your mouth and then you spit in her mouth
> and she'll spit in his mouth and he'll spit in her mouth and then it will
> return back to me. Concrete bodily telephone games. I want to see how the
> information of drool changes as it passes hands. I want to experience the
> current. The live wire. Of transference, of translation, across bodies. I want
> to translate the neural signals of anal pleasure into radio signals that
> broadcast over the air waves, so everyone may hear my pleasure. Then maybe
> place those changed signals into a distortion box or a flanger. And then
> connect those up to the sounds of your throat as it swallows ice cream. Let's
> place a very sensitive microphone inside a dog's ear so we're hearing what it
> hears. Let's amplify those signals and have them drive a woman's vibrator so
> her pleasure is stimulated by the dog's sense of hearing. Let's place a
> pressure sensitive membrane by her feet so that as her juices drip onto the
> membrane, they trigger other signals. Let's have the intensity and frequency
> of drips drive a pixellator, so that a film of the woman's pleasure is
> produced through her vaginal gushings. A color sensor converts the color of
> the film into sounds, which the dog then hears, completing the circuit. But
> any sounds that come into the space will alter the circuit and become a part
> of it. So when my anal radiotranslator is hooked up to the machine controlling
> the flow of ice cream going into your mouth, we will truly know each other
> then and only then. Still, in only one aspect, but how intimate, how intimate,
> mistress. If you ask me if I am gay, I will say, gay? I do not know what that
> word means. I have interacted in many ways with many entities. I don't know
> how to classify them. I don't know where to begin. I'm confused. Which
> entities? What circuits were we involved in? Which anal radiotransmitters?
> Which ice cream? Blue, that's beautiful.  Never want me. Just want the ice
> cream. And ask which flavor. Or you can feed me ice cream. That's ok. That's
> always ok. There's always a flow of ice cream. There's a flow of ice cream
> coming directly from a cow's tits. Many cows' tits, all in unison. My god,
> hooked up to refrigerators. A flow of ice cream from refrigerators and cows
> tits all in unison. And those cows? My god, a flow of grass. Those cows are
> transmogrified signals of grass. But that grass transmogrified sun.
> Transmogrified sun. These machines converting energy variously all over the
> place. My god. My anus, the sensor, the machine, the sun, the grass, the cow,
> the tits, the ice cream... your mouth ... all connected, signals crossing.
> Walk into the noise. Walk into this concept drift.  A concept drift where
> there are no maps. It's a walkabout in Dreamtime. There's a plateau forming, a
> plane of consistency. It's taking on form. It doesn't yet have form. Don't
> demand that it has form. It's still forming. So don't look for what you're
> used to. That's all you mean when you demand sense. The plateau is forming. It
> will not reach a peak. How long can it be sustained? A long sustaining at this
> point. Yes, the drift has carried me far, like a riptide, but I welcome the
> uncertain. I welcome the danger of thought beyond thought. Yes, yes, far
> beyond sanity. A boring mediocre film that too many people went to see, and
> made it a boxoffice smash, and kept going back to see, and rented on video
> until it got old until it got old until it got old. So stop renting it. So
> tape over the video. And return it to the video store with new films. Films of
> your smooth, cool releases. Of feeding ice cream to your dog. Or to your
> lover. Films of you shaving, collecting the whiskers into a shoebox filled
> with old whiskers. Everything you do. Return the video to the videostore
> altered. Film yourself taking a shower. Film the inside of your mouth filled
> with cookie dough chewing, chewing, chewing, nothing but chewing for two
> hours. Then spit out the cookie dough. Then spit it out. God yes. A vomit
> simalucrum. A seeming-puke. But just a spitting out. A spitting out. Oh,
> gentlemyn, it has been a delicious delirium. A very delicious delirium. Where
> concepts have been engaged and discarded as they began to weigh down the
> flight. Let it flow its own. All there are are delusions. Choose your
> delusions. For their effects. Are they effects you desire? A delusion is a
> machine. What does it do? What are its energy requirements? Is it fantastic?
> Does it do something for us? Ah, well, then a fantastic machine.
> 
> (un)leash

-- 
Ware ware Karate-do o shugyo surumonowa,
Tsuneni bushido seishin o wasurezu,
Wa to nin o motte nashi,
Soshite tsutomereba kanarazu tasu.

We who study Karate-do,
Should never forget the spirit of the samurai,
With peace, perseverance and hard work,
We will reach our goal without failure.