Maurice Clifford World: Force of Entanglement,
a phenomenological fragment
I am under the spell of an image. It is the vision that demands
that I say everything the vision gives to me.
Pierre Klossowski
breathe
MauriceCliffordWorld: primal prometheus attempting to spring out of and simultaneously burrow into the flatness of everyday life, trying to be free of the weak messianic (technical) force of everyday life — and its ill-prepared drum and bugle corp/se –both internal life and external life, attempting to wrench free into some sort of Hegelian Absolute Knowledge where everything falls away in the obsessive search for IT, down the tubular and out and then flooding back into the tulpa, er, I mean the Tube, a conspiracy, THE Conspiracy, all connected with everything, maximum leveraged payout, a pagan world of multiplicities, back doors, only to break out upon the labyrinthine, obsidian black mirror, granitic emergence of the monumentality of the Law (what is THAT?! It must be conspired continuously to us apes, we who are always determined to spread feces on the granite corridors) the constant breathing together of the Law, yet constantly shifting, undermining hyper-monadologies, connecting all the way up and all the way down, escape proof, seamless, forming its own bedrock reality, gods flaming on dead, the secret life of rust revealed over and over, the corruption of every sort of body yet forms continue to bleed through the massiveness of the Law, fabulous, phantasmal and continual sproutings, incredible verdancy escapes through the mysterious cracks of the laws of form, a ginned up profusion, haunted by the artistic and mystic: mystical because speechless, breathless, vertiginous assaults, artistic because freedom and the soul of the uncanny nest in each other, Russian Dolls at the still center of Maurice Clifford World (MCW), debris launching upon and breaking against that MCW Center (always shuttling back and forth, periphery to center, forces hopelessly entangled, cum smeared dialectic breeding breaking the spiraling force sliding back and forth breathing time and space folding numerous rotten supports blasted apart and jammed back together, the Black Mirror grabbing bits of rot with a tip of the brush, trying to pierce with dead inky paint matter and skin of dinosaur poems, porosity being the secret lie of the canted solidus holding apart the apocalyptic and the prophetic, the one always carrying the other it its temporal wake, through porosity even, meanwhile waiting for the breakout, the final entanglement of all loose Ends, MCW entertains eldritch unthinkables, where SOMEbody must know SOMEthing, concerning the Last Days of the empire of rust, even mounded up into a fake, fairy Institution of Rust death dirt debris, conspiring beyond the Edge, beyond the Pale, signal propagating through the soil of WHERE WE ARE NOW!! Even you! no matter where who when living dead, Spukhafte Fernwirkungen spooky signal entanglement no matter you are in the continuum of to come, has been, still here: yes, we are all becoming MCW now, the breach of the old sublime by the uncanny, arriving from underneath, sub-Euclidean chthonic forcefield beneath of irreducible haecceity, the unique ‘thisness’ on the verge of being subsumed by the neuter of generic rust of death, the explosion of the flat frame: how to capture on flaming canvas the exploding pustules and yet…there is always some other, subaltern, some other position–let’s call it Egyptian–that hides in full sight from MCW, a conspiracy that is always, fruitlessly, to suture the prophetic and the apocalyptic, energy centers that never fully reveal themselves but must be launched against endlessly, on voyages of dark matter and dark energy, sorceric incantations wrenched to frame, both for and against the fog of rust and particulate matter urging production of delirium, ecstatic masses leaping dangerously from rift to rift, from death to death, attempting to stave off any universal disaster: “The end of the world haunting this ‘prophet’ of the absence of the other, the catastrophe of the Last Judgement in whose abyss he disappears, comes to a halt before ‘the name of that which has no ‘name’ [….] no nothing, no thinking about nothing, concerning nothingness can be allowed to punch a hole in the corpus of his identity. He is at the last frontier–the putrescent–before total decomposition, and he can allow himself no rest and no absence, for there is nothing other than this proliferation.” Michel Certeau, on The Institution of Rot
Breathe
MCW, painter of uncanny proliferation, blood sacrifices (all breathing together now, all guilty) energy torrents released whether Mayan pyramids or hyper capital collapse of 9/11 or ‘only’ the ongoing collapse of the modern sublime empty, emitting or receiving furls and coils of energy blackening the canvas surface with fugitive figures mired in chthonic misery and mystery, instead of pyramids now mystery cosmic linkage of appliances and being (“Built of rust and dinosaurs’ oil, the appliance has a ‘state of emergency built into it, its failure mode [default position, redundancy] necessary for its operation. Every manu/fractured object is an explosive device that has already been exploded–and is now, as modernity–shrapnel in mid-slo-mo flight. The hand always a trigger, the target nowhere in sight.” small appliances, Fehta Murghana)
MCW realizes and seeks to make manifest this powerful techno-mantic, even messianic, phrase: ‘Collective Synchronization can act like a phase transition’ wherein, behold! ‘Something New Emerges (is that ever the case now? Wouldn’t all breathing stop, final fulfillment?) In MCW the new always arrives besotted, clogged in clouds of debris, lust, rust, dust, particulate matter of ever increasing density, blotting out light, even as the canvas cuts away to reveal galactic planes of compaction and fragmentation of brush’s whisk, dip and twirl, inhuman force tangled with all-too-human.
breathe