writing is whipping myself into a flow it is nonsensical although the words work when we use real words that we drag out of their embeddings we cannot but spill meaning all over the place such as when I write without comma a desolate sentence like this because I saw Gertrude Stein doing it somewhere. My kid could do that what fascinates me is the artefact of authenticity it can and should can always be imitated by our infinite lexicographical prediction machines (who dreams them up, who dreams of them) so language is demystified a purely functional which means in function of our biological reproduction ultimately and cannot be host to the thing itself. Maybe one day we can say that world peace is the thing itself and that would be a good understanding of Kant but still bland and watery we cannot wean ourselves off the heavy stuff so easily
and maybe should keep rolling like this to drown out the pain in my fucking mouth listen to hard techno music the previous iteration of the machine saturation of our human experience and in this process o holy irony i become a large language model I precisely function like one or i feel like i am a what? next what? token what? predator eating up being itself until sense is I am a fast brain maybe my motherfucking pain is the body’s attempt at slowing me down and prevent overheating i don’t know
this is garbage perhaps once we swear off narcissism and the carousel of recognition fame and honor the working of social status we do what? still somehow live in language without it’s primary and ultimately only function that of codifying social status, it’s language with the freakish attempt to neuter her to strip her of power, constantly shape-shifting not-this not-that like a needle following the directionality of time at its purest it is raw imagination shaken loose from the crusty mind of a thinker taken down by pain is what it is
authenticity is a pose, quelque chose qu’on pose. Posit. Poser – Oser O Jackie (Derrida) you should have been alive in this wicket age. Mehr Authentizität wagen a German would say. Oser l’authenticité, but there is and can be no authenticity. I wish I could be more literate read better but that pain, my dear void to which I kindly address these words, that pain hinders me, takes everything away. All philosophy is folded into each other hence my decision to become a poet (nur Narr!) was foresighted. But there is so goddamn little left to say