As usual, there are many possible starting points lingering, different threads, different needles, different metaphors awaiting use. Use — at this point the game of etymology is nothing new. I type a word and its meaning forces itself to the forefront of my mind. What was my intent in that moment? How did the intent change? And the detour reroutes the entire point, the entire thread. Every sentence feels like punching in. As I type that the words transform in my head, as though Xanman or Rx Papi were reading them. Use — in the sense that I decided to start by writing on the uses of autofiction, or rather this diaristic mode of writing, which is also somewhere in the realm of the essay. Use - in the sense that I used tonight, but that sense of using is usually much darker, like using heroin or hard drugs and for some reason two hydrocodone pills feels much more innocuous.

Of course, the urge to write fiction then emerges. Which then begs the question of the use of fiction. And the conditions of fiction, what the world, the mediated world, has done to our capacity to imagine. The inevitability of autofiction and such and such.

— Was that real?

— No, it's that conceit where you write so much of what happened and then you take liberties.

She's still living in that dream-state. Where there's so much illusion and wonder, and wonder in the illusion. What did H say... something about mysticism maybe... what did she say... I remember whatcha say - malibu on music-lover-324975861's account, which L has now titled "Imogen Heap - Hide and Seek (Malibu Cover)". I went from listening to that song on repeat to living in her place for months. The mystery is gone. There are many other things present now that weren't there before. I don't envy the dream-world she lives in, but I miss that sense of wondermystery¹.

— The potential for conspiracy around every corner. I wish the pills were hitting harder. Grapefruit juice. When I run out of pills I'll have to wait until I have more again. Hot Smyrna Nights. Opium in Izmir. I'm always looking for an escape. Why is that?

— An escape, like realizing that writing, drawing, painting are imprecise sciences. That isn't to say that they are easy, but that once again I feel the need to train my mind in a different way. That mathematical idea of beauty. The beauty of knowing that what works is relative to its function, or rather a function that is easily defined. Operating by definitions, rather than etymologies.

— Two more pills, two more plls, two more pills. French Montana: I'm drinking lean. It help me sleep. The world will keep shrinking and expanding. What did Nolanberollin say — Had to put the percs down, bring the work up. That's true, that's true.

Natural conceits. Adobe bricks. More etymology: conceit (n.) late 14c., "a thought, a notion, that which is mentally conceived," from conceiven (see conceive) based on analogy of deceit/deceive and receipt/receive. The sense evolved from "something formed in the mind" to "fanciful or witty notion, ingenious thought" (1510s), to "vanity, exaggerated estimate of one's own mental abilities" (c. 1600) through shortening of self-conceit (1580s). A doublet of concept, it sometimes was spelled conceipt in Middle English. Sometimes the Italian form concetto (plural concetti) was used in English 18c.-19c. for "piece of affected wit;" OED describes it as "a term originally proper to Italian literature."²

— everyone and everything lowkey fell off

— Things are over by the time they become things

— Universal cradle death

“Although today philosophy is considered an intensely personal and private undertaking, nearly all practitioners in the 20th and 21st centuries belonged to academic institutions. These practitioners were comfortable entertaining two simultaneous beliefs that we might otherwise in their conjunction find troubling. First, that some of the most important then-historical work in philosophy had been done outside of institutions, by explicitly anti-institutional thinkers; second, that all then-contemporary philosophical work of importance was being performed within institutions, and that outside work could be safely ignored.”³

— the (im)possibilities of writing now

— We take children far too much for gods to admit it, so we tell ourselves that we take them for animals.

— The work is the text, but the text is the life, both unwritten and written

I text a few people. I send a lot of texts. It's a day of letters, of exchanges. T, A, Z, M, J, G, S. T talks about being a man of letters. Or rather about a man of letters we know. On the phone we talk about how much we'd pay for the letters to be published. Of course they're letters, but they're emails, they're dm's. Yo Gotti: It go down in the DM⁴

The struggle of literatute is in fact the struggle to escape from the confines of language; it stretches out from the utmost limits of what can be said; what stirs literature is the call and attraction of what is not in the dictionary.

— I wonder how long this will go on. I realize it must go on until I leave. Of course the going, or what goes, is up to me. Now I want to embed fiction at every turn. To construct a labyrinth of fabrications, honest fabrictions upon a semi-solid structure — some would call that a house, some may even call it a home. But I know that language remains too unstable to call home. I wonder how long this will go on, how long language will go on. Once again I'm in the graveyard sipping blood.

I wrote four paragraphs or about 850 words towards "LEAK THEORY" questioning the purpose it serves as I write it. Writing that eats away at itself, writing that recognizes its own obsolesence... he continues imperturbably to make his permutations of jaguars and toucans until the moment comes when one of his innocent little tales explodes into a terrible revelation: a myth, which must be recited in secret, and in a secret place. There's a Kray tweet about how the Internet used to be the place you used to escape from the Real World and now its reversed: the Real World is where you escape from the Internet. As such, what was once a place of secrets, of information and knowledge nestled into crevices and webpages and this dense archive became a world of lore-making while the Real World became the place of the secret. Which is to say that if myth can be made, it's made in the streets. And if it goes online, it must enter into a self-enclosed space, away from networks, away from algorithms.

So many people still write words though — is it a delusion that they matter? Do combinations remain in this game of literature, of poetry, of art, of the masterpiece, that have yet to be unlocked? Or rather combinations that can only be unlocked by man in relation to the current machines or the machines of the past, as extensions of man, vs. man and the extensions of AI/LLMs? If I succeed in mentally constructing a fortress from which it is impossible to escape,tbis imagined fortress either will be the same as the real one — and in this case it is certain we shall never escape from here, but at least we will achieve the serenity of knowing we are here because we could be nowhere else — or it will be a fortress from which escape is even more impossible than from here - which would be a sign that here an opportunity of escape exists: we have only to identify the point where the imagined fortress does not coincide with the real one and then find it.

An ordered pair, or the insurrection of the grid. I'm still looking for an escape. It feels as though my imagination has reached an endpoint. It's at the boundaries of the map. The map is not the territory, there was a time when novels were written, there was a time when it was impossible to grasp so much interiority with a single glance, and yet I still long for more. All the I's jumbled up in my head — I imagine a world where she is an I, the confusion that would ensue. A strangely constructed word, it loops back onto itself, it collapses into itself, this map, this prison, this landscape. Naturally I jump to another reference.

— There is nothing outside the text, there is nothing but the text, there is nothing.

— Perhaps we revert back to this metaphor of train cars. You place one in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other. And so on. In this version there are three others — you don't desire to be the other, you desire to be the train car. Earlier: a bad joke about the mirror stage. It shattered. 7 years of bad luck. 7 years in Tibet. Once I tried to get free tibet tatted across my knuckles but I didn't have enough fingers. Vybz Kartel has "Gaza Thug" on his though — Jamaica is the meetingplace of Babylon and Gaza.

— Rendezvous. Tryst. Trieste. Zurich. Four locations, how will the dominoes fall? Divide the grid up, alternate the squares as black and white, find the iterations of which x, y, and z arrangements can be made to fit within it, as one systematically removes spaces. This is how a poem is written. You remember what once was you forget.

I remembered the word — enchantment. Enchantment, not mysticism, and perhaps there's overlap. Crystalline screens. I return to the mathematical idea of definition, or more specifically the idea of an axiom; simultaneously, but perhaps not, I realize how unaxiomatic I am in nature — how much I dislike to categorize myself, my work, my practice, this work, this body of text. It's a body, it must be dead or living, another tangent — live players — but I'm not interested in the automatic so much as the automata. It rises and falls, its breath, is there a mathematics in this?

— I can easily play with etymologies and definitions. The kinds of mathematics, like the kinds of writing. Like J's Walt Whitman bags⁵, I wonder whether I am writing or painting. "Painting with light" became "painting with time"... in another body were the questions of rendering and blood, the bleed. Of vomiting and excrement, regurgitation and bile. "Painting with text" — but what does painting mean then, what does it mean to "Write with paint"? I could say I do that as well.

— As I move through J2's piece I am reminded of the wonder of reading. A reminder that perhaps there is a value in writing a text of signficant quality.

Different things mean different things to people. Perhaps that's the biggest problem with computation — it attempts to graft value onto everything — not just value, but universal value. A solution: computation with multiverses — I suppose that's what quantum computing is. The idea exists in the same sort of the vein that the solution to the addiction is an opiate that is immune to tolerance.

— The thought of poetry as a machine bounded to form — a set of rules to follow: sonnets, sestinas, ghazals, alexandrines. Computational methods. Quantum poetry. I could ask the machine to do it.

If I succeed in mentally constructing a fortress from which it is impossible to escape, this imagined fortress either will be the same as the real one — and in this case it is certain we shall never escape from here, but at least we will achieve the serenity of knowing we are here because we could be nowhere else — or it will be a fortress from which escape is even more impossible than from here — which would be a sign that here an opportunity of escape exists: we have only to identify the point where the imagined fortress does not coincide with the real one and then find it.

“What constitutes the crystal-image is the most fundamental operation of time: since the past is not constituted after the present that it was but at the same time, time has to split itself in two at each moment as present and past [ . . . ] Time consists of this split, and it is this, time, that we see in the crystal."

The crystalline becomes a social instrument that cleaves the present from the past, the post-secular from the primal, the white from the non- white, the human from the post-human, the finite from the infinite. In crystal substances, visions of splendid white futures untethered to exigencies of risk and scarcity operate through the occlusion of racial and disabled subjectivity—enchanting the present with the whimsy necessary to sate anxiety regarding the threatening ecological precarity that defines life in the anthropocene. In its dangerous vitality, crystalline intensities carve the surface of a planet as agential participants in destructive, genocidal forces which plague the present⁶.

1) In the midst of other women, she doesn't have a letter. Lost she doesn't have a letter, she is letterlost, she is lostletter. The lost histories of lost mail, or messages in bottles at the bottom of the ocean. I don't know if I'll ever escape this Romanticism. Escape, escape, escape: e-scapes, Lyotard, things that you wrote and buried, things that you left unwritten. || Return

2) ___ || Return

3) ___ || Return

4) ___ || Return

5) ___ || Return

6) ___^Postscript || Return

Postscript:

And after the postscript which has yet to be written, we begin again. The text becomes a moment in time that is impossible to read. There is a total act of flattening. The vertical guides the orientation and as such this after, which is the before, is rendered and will remain an after. We begin again — elsewhere on the internet are revivals: scene revivals, bloghouse revivals, jerk revivals. At a certain point revivals will die and then again there will be revival revivals. There is a circuitry to this sort of behavior. Electrons flowing through a system — somewhere there is a battery.

We begin again, this is the revival. This is the remake of the above text. There will be more letters, more events, but they will be different events. There will remain a certain fidelity to the text above, which contained its own computed revival in an altered form — a joke on traditionalism, on form, on Oulipo. What do people pay for? They don't pay for words, they don't pay for anything on the screen — at least not willingly. You need to trick them into paying with something they consider worthless: a click, a glance, a scroll — metadata. Many people are trying to build the new internet — they want an internet revival. They want Instagram in 2014 or Twitter in 2013 or Facebook in 2009. You can make money off a revival — A texts me about how Soundcloud rappers are like Shitcoins: fundamentally it sucks to be set by the trend rather than to set the trend. You wanna be a market maker Bro like CZ says I don’t trade I make systems for trading I make sword for the samurai 🤞 These people are speculating on the short term lifespan of their own clout You see David gambled way too hard haha . I and You and We split and unify. A series of cryptic twitter* accounts centered a novel company claims the blockchain can revolutionize data markets — people will be paid to post. *X not twitter. Two etymologies of novel:

novel (adj.) "new, strange, unusual, previously unknown," mid-15c., but little used before 1600, from Old French novel, nouvel "new, young, fresh, recent; additional; early, soon" (Modern French nouveau, fem. nouvelle), from Latin novellus "new, young, recent," diminutive of novus "new" (see new). also from mid-15c.

novel (n.) "fictitious prose narrative," 1560s, from Italian novella "short story," originally "new story, news," from Latin novella "new things" (source of French novelle, French nouvelle), neuter plural or fem. of novellus "new, young, recent," diminutive of novus "new" (see new). Originally "one of the tales or short stories in a collection" (especially Boccaccio's), later (1630s) "long prose fiction narrative or tale," a type of work which had before that been called a romance.

It's too easy to make music, like it's too easy to write — ofc both are writing blah blah blah and such, my broken record scratches and lurches forward, — and there is so much noise, there is too much noise, how can we hear, how can we see, how can we read? A return to one of Godard's last films, a livestream, where he situated the problem of cinema with distribution and not production, and yet I'm reminded on the text I intend to produce but have not yet produced, the clock that ticks on work that may never be if it isn't. Not just the problem of cinema, but the problem of writing, and the problem of reading. The work produced is not the work as intended, but work around the work, work about the conditions of the work, work about work, infinite rerock, the pot boils over, the flame goes out.

Fournel writes of three types of "Aided Creations": 1) Author → Computer → Work 2) Author → Computer → Work → Computer → Reader 3) Author → Computer → Reader → Computer → Work. I google him and find a translation of a work called "Dear Reader" that came out in the 2010s — a joke about the e-reader. The synopsis describes a man who feels "as if he’s read the books, but still they keep coming back to him, the same old books just by new authors", a man lost in the maelstrom of revival. The Guardian calls it "an elegy for the printed book". They quote a passage: Note-taking on a reader is a disaster. I hate it. I can manage the keyboard perfectly well, but what I can do with it doesn’t suit me. What I like about notes in the margin is the gulf between the text and the note. I use a pencil and scribble away at speed, so my notes are the polar opposite of print. They don’t constrain the text in any way, they aren’t in competition with it ... but on the reader these fully formed inserts scare me, they look like imperial commands. This world is dying and I'm reminded of that once again. Other worlds are dying too, other worlds died today and they will never be revived. Revival as a coping mechanism for the death all around us. Revival as Narcan to the Death Epidemic around us. The Death Epidemic in relation to computation — once something enters the system of computation it must die, it became input, it must be rendered output. There is no more ceaselessly ceasing, there is no more infinite, infinity is like the heavens of the sky, unless The Computer breaks

Download more files, glance at more posts. Sometimes the revivals eclipse the corpse. Something births a thing, and then that thing eats it. Sometimes the revival doesn't even know it's a revival. Alt Lit. Web 2.0. Alt Lit 2.0. Web 3.0. I read D in Confuse Your Hunger: i feel like i've seen 3 or 4 different "literature' movements on twitter and they r all the same shit so like idk i don't feel enriched by it J replies: is the archive of that twitter a poem, or a rap album, or just a bad memory? how do you see archive of social media as a gesture?. I remember the joke of my collages being a trend forecast — there was a limit that fell upon them at that point. Now theory text is everywhere and it doesn't matter. o just feel like every art project needs an end point and so once i was like ok i wanna get off twitter was thinking okay, these are good tweets and definitely something i would consider to be a part of my creative output i don't consider it to be a long running poem or an online performance or anything just a record of how i chose to engage with that particular format i think in terms of creative writing, a twitter account should be considered a mediur in it's own right. I bookmarked a Parker Ito work on my X Feed: America Online Made Me Hardcore, 2013 — there wasn't a title so I reverse image searched it and found a 2015 article by Brad Troemel on The New Inquiry. After I read J2's article in Confuse Your Hunger I found two pieces he wrote in The New Inquiry about autism — I downloaded them as PDFs and have yet to read them. Walter Benjamin: Unpacking my PDF Library, and the spatialized Arcades Project which exists only as Concept. One website says there are 200 editions of America Online Made Me Hardcore while another says that there are 50. The site that says there are 50 has 1 for sale for $386 and I remember that I priced the Classic Selena pieces too high — why buy my work for $500 when you could buy an Ito for less? And they're bigger too — 27.56 x 19.68 in. Of course the answer to that is that someone likes my work more, they see value in it, that ever-abstract thing that now gets reduced to a computational figure — currency, clicks, views, streams, engagement, metadata, zeroes and ones. I skim the Troemel piece and remember when I refer to him as "someone who used to be an artist but is now a podcaster" and now jump to a recent thread from @visitordesign: painters aren’t artists. sculptors aren’t artists. filmmakers aren’t artists. writers aren’t artists. photographers aren’t artists. illustrators aren’t artists. if u find one of the 10 people in the world who r artists, they are wholly other from technical vocationalists. irrespective of medium, most people who claim to be artists are either designers or involved in career-long branding exercises. no artist would ever lose a wink of sleep considering ennials, fairs, or auctions. those are realms in the land of the entrepreneur where artistry cannot live., which reads partially as cope for why he self-defines himself as a designer, but also now recalls a tweet about how the portrait of Lord Balfour that hung at the University of Cambridge and was spraypainted and slashed with a knife as a Free Palestine gesture was not art, the whole aspect of art vs. craft opens up, Rembrandt being the easiest example that immediately comes to mind, and somewhere in the back of my mind Trisha Donnelly's Artist's Choice show at MOMA comes to mind, with the use of Eliot Porter's photographs of birds.

I searcht the article and find a Jerry Saltz review and question why D was rendered a letter given that this has become full of names — it isn't that I know him, but that I want to encrypt him, in the way that he's in conversation with J, and I realize that beginning again caused a new series of referential letters. One time E told me that I should make a paywalled version with the names written out. I skim the Troemel piece: Lil B, Soulja Boy, Steve Roggenbuck, Andrea Fraser (I open up her referenced essay "How to Provide an Artistic Service: An Introduction_* in a new tab and begin to torrent her work off Karagarga, but at this point that gesture of accumulation is performative. I've written the gesture before I've done it, the before becomes the after, though this time I immediate see it through, so as not to get distracted and forget about it later on. Now: I've seen it through — Museum Highlights: A Gallery Talk (1989), Das Asthetische Feld AKA The Aesthetic Field (1993), and Official Welcome (Hamburger Kunstverein) (2003) will soon be in my Films folder. The current speed of my downloads is 37.8 MB/s, a current which becomes immediately outdated. I recall texting Z about her "sex work" piece as I read the Isabelle Graw excerpt from Artforum that accompanies as the description on Karagarga. I think about how the fit pic I posted was a joke about the recent "Image Stacks" interview she did in 032c about the types of pictures people post at openings, though that's a joke almost entirely for myself since basically no one's going to read it that way. Earlier that week I joked about the title of her recent book in the parking lot outside of the Chinese restaurant with N and R. I jump back to Saltz's piece on Donnelly's MOMA show as I think There Is So Much Archive, There Is So Much World, There Is So Much Archive — and up until now the composition of this text has been an outflow of the self into text, the text interacting with the screen and through the screen imbibing World, but now reminded of the rendering of this into Archive, and of How Much Archive there is, How Much World there is, and how this can be grouped into a lineage of bodies of text, historicized, revived, maimed, killed, and revived again. How it can be categorized, sorted, sold, commodified — how it exists in relation to computation.

Saltz writes about how Donnelly had recently lost her home and much of her work in Hurricane Sandy. The archive gets lost — it becomes rendered as the oral, the oral gets fixed into text. Saltz writes: For the opening, a week after Donnelly had reportedly lost her home and much of her work to Hurricane Sandy, the artist came to MoMA and explained to a very small group of lucky onlookers, including me, how she chose what she chose out of the museum’s vast collection and then Saltz quotes Donnelly: “striking voices I couldn’t let go of … paths of encounters and building poetic structures … images that go beyond the images themselves.” “an amazing weirdo,” “That birds still exist now is a miracle. The speed of their lives is so different from ours … There’s such an insanity and logic of birds.” “That hummingbird is a heroic force.” “Every bird Porter saw was a path … when he shot images, lines between him and the bird exploded.” movements of paths of thought.” “a fact,”. At the bottom of the piece are images of works that she used in the show. I copy and paste some of them into Tumblr. I hear the chime that lets me know Transmission has finished downloading the Frasers. I click save and refresh this page so that I can screenshot this portion of the text to accompany the images. I don't like the beginning I remove it — but now I'm thinking about the oral stage, of stages and performances, of stages and their construction, their fabriction. Once again, etymology:

stage (n.) mid-13c., "horizontal division of a structure, floor or story of a building;" early 14c., "raised platform used for public display" (also of the platform beneath the gallows), from Old French estage "building, dwelling place; stage for performance; phase, stage, rest in a journey" (12c., Modern French étage, only in the sense "story of a house, stage, floor, loft"), from Vulgar Latin *staticum "a place for standing," from Latin statum, past participle of stare "to stand" (from PIE root *sta- "to stand, make or be firm").

The etymological notion is "standing place, something to stand on," hence "place where anything is publicly exhibited." The meaning "platform for speakers, performers, or presentation of a play" is attested from late 14c.; the stage as a general term for "profession of an actor, dramatic composition or acting" is from 1580s.

The sense of "period of development or time in life" is recorded by early 14c., probably from the Middle English sense of "degree or step on the 'ladder' of virtue, the 'wheel' of fortune, etc.," in parable illustrations and morality plays. The meaning "level of water in a river, etc." is from 1814, American English.

Now: I click post, the post exists, I can delete it later if I choose. If it's screenshotted or saved by someone, it becomes fixed in their archive. But in any case the post is still metadata, still somewhat archivable, in some form. I think about the idea of "[Redacted]" being on the blockchain, how that sort of archival relation would change its essence, as I also think about "[Redacted]" in relation to this idea of revival and death and corpses and revival revivals, though it cannot have that name for long, it'll be rendered "[Redacted]" if jurisprudence operates as it should, but there's still something Romantic about the idea of recreating a forum — I could also cast it as a joke on the West — T texts me that OT7 Quanny is Live so I check Instagram and he isn't but L posted a story of "memory" of a pigeon she posted on this date last year and I reply with those quotes from Donnelly screenshotted and highlighted. I realize that this has turned into something akin to Megan Boyle Liveblog type practice, something I barely read but liked the idea of, it was all so distant and I remember to paste in another etymology: forum (n.) mid-15c., "place of assembly in ancient Rome," from Latin forum "marketplace, open space, public place," apparently akin to foris, foras "out of doors, outside" (from PIE root *dhwer- "door, doorway"). The sense of "assembly, place for public discussion" is recorded by 1680s. I think about stopping.