public domain

This is nominally the second volume in the Mississippi series (LAW: eschatology), consisting of folds, pleats, involutions, moving from etiolated personal history to the metaphysical and theoretical, back to the aesthetic mass folded and creased forward and backward, generated by the first person conceit and then third person. And not only can this volume be considered as ‘art damaged’ but that theory and internet damaged as well. Some might say that it has left nothing but then we know the pleasure of such shredded desuetude since these are the forms a great many live in today, the personal (and anarchic) preceding it at one time and succeeding it at other time, a question of agency always being the fall guy. Perhaps the precinct of rational thought must of necessity be left alongside the road, unable to enter those shining towers and institutions(the inhabitants less and less available while becoming more and more visible; that is about to change no doubt). In which case all writing can amount to no more that kitsch, blemishes and stains on the way ‘forward’, curios from a last forgotten stage, the ragged decentered edges and camps of modernity and postmodernity, constituting inscrutable opacities, understandable as nothing but exclusions from aggregations of large data pools, any hermeneutic giving way to archivization and display. In such a real the thing which perdures is not biography but life as writing, the screenplay within the play, the signals within the smoke. This also is where Law resides, fitfully prophetic and looking backward, beautiful–and fearfully unbroken in its own primal reserve–much in fact like the subjective itself. Law, like Capital, vast,  cold, and indifferent: false infinite of H. G. Wells’ Martians, struck low at the end by the activation of homo sapiens auto immune system. bodily memory and archive emerging much like the uncanny also held in reserve. running over broken ground running toward milky ways galaxies revered in the ‘old home place’ memory being the biggest false infinite false because memory always closes the circuitry at the end looking backward from the past not the future nothing but a Mobius strip itself, no, himself, always finding the same place over and over again, twisted, foiled, refrigerated: poor man’s infinity…right after the latest movie that is. The Last Things and the first things maybe the same things? the fusions within all poetry…