should this be me.
an apocalyptic self.
unrestricted in form.
should I fear sadness, I fear the analog more.
here exists the membrane.
here I conceptualize rhizomes.
a modem for my despair.
a schizophrenic interrogation. 
a whatever singularity.
the perverse violence of an unbecoming.



////the perverse violence of critical unlearning and unbecoming: antimethod observations of a queer ecological artistic practice////

1. The job that followed was seemingly impossible. I could never quantify this experience. How could I express this knowledge in a form that is recognized by our institutions? Should I adhere to the paradigms of research and knowledge production that dictate fine art and academia? I could not find the right answer. So I cut it down. I cut it down and held it in my arms. I watched it dry and fade. And I have kept it close, contemplating, taking notes and endlessly searching for a form of expression, an explanation. Through embodied experiences, my practice becomes my art, and form becomes an indiscernible ‘anti.’

2. And I try to make sense of it all. I sit on my materials. I pace around my faculties. I touch, fold, braid, sift, cut, bleed, bend, tie, and form to make failures. I find one hundred different ways to do one thing. I write it down ten thousand times. And I’ll call it a day. And this process is painful. Should I receive any joy from my obsession, for it is an addiction, an affliction. from which an episteme emerges. Yet, should I arrive anywhere, I arrive whenever.

3. And if I should make anything, I should make a collective tautology of mind. If I wrote it down ten thousand times then maybe I could understand it. Then maybe one would read it. Or perhaps you’ll assume it mere illegible nonsense. Suppose it be an arrival at a proclivity of reason, a suggestion of knowledge? Should it contain the violence of an archive. Numbers and letters. Taxonomies and indexical characters, where it’s much easier to calculate my waste, a place where the corporeal has no place. If you see a drawing, be it a poem too. And if it be a love poem, be it about death too.

4. And I start thinking about numbers. And how antithetical they are, and how paradoxical this language of indexical symbology is to communicate the metaphysical or material. A number is as real as nature. Do you know what a million things are? Do you know what a million things look like? If you knew what a million things were you might know what a billion things are. So perhaps I should count to one million. If I wrote 1,000 numbers down every day, in their chronology, it would take 1,000 days. And what does a 1,000 days feel like? What does the indexical moment feel like?

5. This interconnected time and de-centered place—where all time converges in a single plane, where place becomes an unrecognizable incubation. Should I fear sadness, I fear the analog more. An apocalyptic self. Unrestricted in form. Here exists the membrane. Here I conceptualize rhizomes. And witness a modem for my despair. Where place becomes displaced and time becomes unintelligible. A schizophrenic interrogation. The perverse violence of an unbecoming.

And this is not a poem! it’s blood from my heart that oozed from my limbs. Illegible! never meant to be read or conceived!
If you see words, you are mistaken! Those are not letters, but tissue grafted from my bones! Look closer and you will see my despair!
And I am not above hate! For I hate all things! And I am not above power, for I seek only dominion.
So what is read here is cheap. but not false. Neither more true than nature or a lizard or a book or a computer virus or DNA.
And a big jumbled nothingness! searching for truth, I find the most beautiful lies! So beautiful they stun every ribosome from my DNA!
And unlearns how to make a protein! I melt down and away. So that the puddles begin to pool. And drip. And leak. And run.

And a river leads to an ocean.