Monday, December 27, 2021

​Jim Leftwich, EITHER BOTH, OR AND

​Jim Leftwich

Asemic writing does not participate in the language game of giving information.

If asemic, then pansemic.

Pansemic is the dirt. Asemic is a beautiful, imaginary tree. Pansemic is the air. As above, so below. As inside, so beside.

Asemic is the alchemical elixir. A phase transition. Always somewhere between water and ice, between steam and water. Analogous to itself, as the I is the only anagram of the I. The sign, like asemic writing, always fully present in its nonexistence, marks the passage from signifier to signified, exactly as a phase transition. Reading is a kind of collaborative writing. Where there is no writing, reading writes itself.

The only important thing about asemic writing is its failure to exist. Therein lies its power. The pansemic phlogiston passes through the numino liber null of asemic writing and is transformed into the pansemic phlogiston. It is the mysterium coniunctionis at the center of Our Magickal Absurdity.

He who Knows the magickal absurdity Knows the language game of the emptier signified. She who Knows the magickal absurdity Knows the language game of the emptier signified.

Asemic writing makes us stronger. It does not kill us, but it does banish us forever from the popularity contest, the power lunch, and the party of special things to do. Asemic writing makes us stranger.

The nonexistence of asemic writing is dependent upon the omnipresence of Our Pansemic Phlogiston. Our Pansemic Phlogiston, which is everywhere all the time, emits an emptiness at its center -- the center which, as always, is everywhere -- into which emptiness it then invents itself, as failure and in absence. The magickal absurdity of asemic transformation can be known, but it cannot be believed.

Roanoke VA USA

Sunday, December 26, 2021

Jim Leftwich, Everything But A Shortcut

​Jim Leftwich
Everything But A Shortcut

If writing entangles thought in quantifiable slipknot, then asemic writing must unknot the ideas at their axes.

If writing entwines the dendrites, then asemic writing should unknot the axons.

No quipu, no qubit. Or: if qubits, then quipu.

Even the axles of Event are unevenly temporal.

In the geological stratifications of human consciousness there is only juxtaposition, in one direction or many. Nearby, as if draped over human consciousness like a blanket made of stardusts, reside the ripples and convulsions of concocted time.

Between the signifier and the signified lies the absent sign, the eternally and infinitely nonexistent center of all things semiotic, spewing an incessant spray of semes and antisemes, like an aerosolized essence of sense for all of human existence.

Ben Brubaker -- "The qubit is an electrical circuit and putting the tardigrade next to it affects it through the laws of electromagnetism we've known about for more than 150 years. Putting a speck of dust next to the qubit would have a similar effect."

I have been thinking about subjective reality ever since I remember being given no choice in the matter.

         You don't seep beribbons
         Nor cult as sure as shoes
         Your eyes bespeak / Thy will be done
         On willows where we weep

Once upon a time, which was now, as then: we hardly know how to embrace it as belief. Once the absurd becomes predictable, it is no longer the absurd, it is only a disinterested style of misguided nostalgia.

So, yes, asemic writing does indeed lurch and stumble towards the sun, the sun in the sky around which our Earth revolves, and also the Sun in its Alembic, around which our Minds evolve.

On the journey of The Poet, asemic writing is little more than a Hastings Cutoff for the soul. It is everything but a shortcut. Cannibals await inside us. Either way, write or be written, eat or be eaten, steam rises from the mud, snow settles on the slopes, streams flow to the sea. Consciousness leaks through the fontanel like baby angels ascending William Blake's Ladder to The Moon.

Asemic writing will take us on a wide, winding walk through a long, windy desert, where some of us will dream of napping in a hammock beside a pool, while others among us awaken to the doubled dream of dust, with one foot on a rattlesnake and a tongue to taste the sky.

December 26, 2021
Roanoke VA USA