VITA‎ > ‎CHRONOS PROJECT‎ > ‎1994‎ > ‎

LSD in europa

28 Feb 1994

LSD in Europa After Hours


The primordial mystery: a man laughing at a stone

he has washed in a river. 


The stone has a carving on it, a heiroglyph:


What it the connection between

Salgado's Workers and

the Indian Saddhus?

Between the particular and the whole?

This moment and the transcendent?

What do you live for?

The only true service

The only authentic work

is one under 

anonymity

in a place of no reward

outside of history

of the redemptions

of time

which ultimately

are religious

and pleasures of

god.

What is authentic?

Here is a question

Heidegger had to ask

again & again.


How are you being?


How is it possible to

make a poetic statement

in such a lost apocalyptic

age?

What is it that lasts?

To the last?

Truly?

Who do you eventually stand for?


Who do you eventually stand for?


What?

A title? A phase?

A tune?

Or an idea.

Who did Plato stand for?

Who did Christ/ Judas stand for?

Who did Faust/ Goethe stand for?

Who did Hamlet/ Shakespeare stand for?


[ scribbles on page ]


Isit alone now.

only satisfied

with a good

dictionary.


That I should be

as Salgado has imagined...

and Burkert [???] hs worded...

That I should be as

Salgado has photographed

and Burkert has written

***

Slowly, slowly,

I come around to the

awareness that 

closer I come to god,

the closer I go

to death.

A vision, while Uncle Tupelo is

playing, that the only

possible aesthetic is

one of death,

not just of death,

but of doom.

Only the Aesthetic of Doom

will grant delverance

from this world.

Assume: death, starvation,

bones, murder, sickness, bones,

death, old age, sickness...

assume all of this

inside

The Machine of

the 20th Cen.

And only the Aesthetic of Death

is valid?

Faulkner asked: what will our

poets write about after

the bomb?

This, William, this.

Drink up. And die quickly.

Adorno's question is ours?


Poetry is barbaric

in the face of such impossible

existence.


Rilke was the last pure

poet in this sense.

***

Faulkner's question is ours.


Cynicism = False Enlightenment

Acknowleded

Now What?

The temperature is increasing.

I feel bubbles in my bones

Go Pop.

Bubbles in my bones go

Pop!

Only the skull

seems to know

of the eyes

lonliness -

And if I couldn't stand higher

than these shelves of philosophy

I would end my life

here and now

instead of

making the moment

of my [horror/honor] my [reb???]

So many have died

before me.

So much blood.

and yet...

I am no one.

What is this for?

I want to write to

Salgado and

ask him this

question.

***

Kierkegaard's piece of worn out

jade -

carved with an emblem of

poetry

being used as a 

dildo = 20th Century Consc.

Take my picture off the wall.

Take my picture off the wall.


Really thought it would matter.


Really though it would matter.

What the hell were we thinking?

Before the fire

burned out?

[Ink splotches on page. Scirbbles.]


Show me

Ink


[Cut myself three times on my chest. Wrote letter in ink/blook to Mysti. Card with Uncle Tupelo "Halls of Shame" lyrics to Bill.]