One

What does ‘one’ — what can ‘one’ — even mean? Why the sentimental obsession with holism, unity, the undifferentiated core?

Parmenides is chuckling in his grave about this cultural neurosis and all the difficult exclusionary politics that follow from it.

Olga Goriunova provides a different perspective:

Distributed bodies—distributed apocalypse. Metaphysics everywhere. Your body is coupled with environments both immediate, distant, and microscopic; it is bound to the internal abyss, the eternal possibility of the annihilation of ‘you’ at any moment. The internal abyss is mirrored in the external abyss. Hell was, for Sartre, other people. Today, hell is, first of all, yourself, and then, hell is everywhere. The bass of the Last Days is a resonance between the inside and an ecology of indefinable boundaries. (10)
Olga Goriunova, ‘The Bodily Sounds of the Abyss.’
In Unsound : Undead, Goodman, Heys, and Ikoniadou (eds).

The body distributed, the distributed body politic. AnthrApology as a continuously expanding set of internal expressive differences; in Simone Bignall’s designation: an ‘affective assemblage.’

You can’t step in the same river once, let alone twice.

(From 69. I’m sorry for all the bad poetry.)

I’m sorry for all the bad poetry:

The night opened like a flower, a rose, maybe an orchid, wet with the liquid of life. On its face.

When I find the love of my life, I might die from how serious it will all feel.

The road was glistening, and, like a life, my life was moist and full of meaning and possibility.

See what I mean? Totally sorry.

God loves the flowers and the lambs, God is like the shepherd and I feel like a sheep most days. Baaaaaaaaahaaaaaa

The birds of paradise in this tropical land are like a package of potato chips rustling in the night. I want to crunch them, I want to eat them and make them me. They are salty, salt in my wounds. Salty angry birds of paradise pain.

My heart pounds, my heart poundeth, it is true it is true it is true. I feel, I feel firm. Firm everywhere. What are you looking at?

Normal men and women, wearing jeans, our time under the hairy sun.

I’m sorry for all the bad poetry, the misfires, the stinky verse, written by sad sad people, so sad, the saddest people, mournful like doves with broken wings and sad crossed eyes. Pathetic more than sad. Sick and dying. Sick sick dead dead pathetic sad dying people, blue like the blue guitar, blue like a blue angry sun of rage, blue like a bull’s balls in the spring. Oh blue oh blue oh goddam blue and sad. Pathetic really.