Academic journal article Chicago Review

Leave It All, Once More

Academic journal article Chicago Review

Leave It All, Once More

Article excerpt

It's four light-hours to the edges of the solar system; to the closest star, four light-years. A disproportionate ocean of emptiness. But, are we really sure it's just emptiness? All we know is that there are no light-filled stars in this space; if they existed, would they be visible? What if there were non-light-filled bodies, or dark ones? Couldn't it so happen in the celestial maps, just like the earthly ones, that the star-cities are shown and the star-towns are omitted?

-Soviet science fiction writers scratching their faces at midnight.

-The infrasuns (Drummond would say happy proletarian boys).

-Solitary Peguero and Boris in a lumpen room foreseeing the wonder behind the door.

-Free Money.

Who has crossed the city and for music only had the whistling of his kindred, his own words of amazement and rage?

The beautiful guy who didn't know

that girls' orgasms are clitoral.

(Look for it, not only in museums is there shit.) (A process of individual museification.) (Certainty that everything is named, revealed.) (Fear of discovery.) (Fear of unforeseen imbalances.)

Our closest relatives:

sharpshooters, lone rangers who destroy the Chinese coffee shops of Latin America, the broken in supermarkets, in their huge individualcollective quandaries; the impotence of acting and of seeking out (at individual levels quite muddied in aesthetic contradictions) poetic acts.

Small stars full of light winking an eye at us eternally from a place in the universe called The Labyrinths.

-Dance-Club of misery

-Pepito Tequila weeping for his love of Lisa Underground.

-Suck it to her, suck yourself, let's all suck it.

-And the Horror.

Curtains of water, cement or tin separate a cultural machinery, which doesn't care if it serves as conscience or ass for the dominant class, as a living cultural event, screwed, constantly dying or being born, unaware of a large part of history and the fine arts (daily creator of its crazy history and amazing vine harts), body that for now experiences within itself new sensations, product of an epoch in which we move at 200 kph toward the shithole or the revolution.

"New forms, rare forms," as old Bertolt would say somewhere between curious and chuckling.

Sensations don't come from nowhere (most obvious of obviousness), but rather from a reality conditioned, in a thousand ways, to a constant flow.

-Multiple reality, you make us dizzy!

That way it's possible, on the one hand, to be born, and on the other we are in the front row of the last straws. Forms of living and forms of dying swirl daily through the retina. Their constant crashing gives life to infrarealist forms. THE EYE OF TRANSITION.

Put the whole city in a madhouse. Sweet sister, tank howls, hermaphrodite songs, desert diamonds, we will only live once and the visions each day thicker and more slippery. Sweet sister, car rides to Monte Albán. Fasten your seatbelts because the cadavers are getting watered. One missing move.

And good bourgeois culture? The academy and the fire starters? The avant-gardes and their rear guards? And certain concepts of love, nice landscapes and the precise, multinational Colt?

As Saint-Just said to me in a dream I had some time ago: even the heads of aristocrats can work as weapons.

A good chunk of the world goes about being born and another one dying, and we all know we all have to live or all die: there is no middle ground on this.

Chirico says: it is necessary for thought to move away from all that is called logic and good sense, that it gets away from all human hindrances in such a way that things appear under a new aspect, as if lit up by a constellation appearing for the first time. The infrarealists say: let's stick our head in all human hindrances, in such a way that things begin to move within one, an awesome vision of mankind.

-The Constellation of the Beautiful Bird. …

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