The Book of Mummy

The writings of Colin Bolton

I have a funny story to tell you. I went to the store to buy some beer and some coconut water. At the checkout counter, the beer rang up as a 60 watt soft-white lightbulb. I stared at the screen in confusion. “uhhh,” I said. I said, “uhhh,” and at that point, the girl at the register noticed there was something wrong.

She hollered over to one of her coworkers asking him how much the can of beer cost. The beer in the little white can. How much does that cost? Her coworker went to the beer cooler to check the price of the beer in the little white can. While we were waiting for him to come back, I said to the girl behind the register, “it rang up as a light bulb.”

I don't think she understood me. Her coworker came back and said, $3.99. It took her a moment to void the payment of $14.99 for the 60 watt soft-white light bulb. She asked if I needed a bag. I did, so I said yes.

Here are some of my writings. I really don't know what you'll think of them, or if you'll enjoy them at all. But I do hope that you might enjoy them. I don't always know what to make of them myself. Who's to say if they're good?

For me, it's really besides the point whether or not they're good or bad. That they exist at all, that's what intrigues me most. More often than not, though, I do get immense pleasure out of writing these things, and I usually do enjoy reading them as well.

I do think pleasure is a big part of it. One goal, if you could call it that, with these writings, is to give you secret information without you knowing it. With the equal hope that you will give the writing something in return. I think if you read it, I mean, really read it, you will change it. You will change it in some way, you will add to it.

How do you understand the communicative force, or the necessity for understanding? How do you understand understanding and its role in, let's call it an overtly artistically motivated linguistic undertaking?

Well, I'd imagine it's hard to define what you might consider to be a linguistic undertaking that is overtly artistically motivated over and against or up next to what you might consider to be something like ordinarily motivated language. I suppose there's other modes like (emergency)  speech acts or the informative form. One question I might return to myself — that which informs, disinforms, misinforms in the service of anther non-serviceable kind of information. The informative mode undermined by informalism, the will to inhabit an inhospitable space inn laanguage, to seek out the in uninhabitable within the unhomed, the homeless, uncanny of language.

But was I to take the word at its word? To take your face at word value. To take the word. To mistake you for your word. To take your word. For it. To take it on your word. To take on your word. To take you up on your word as it, is to let you tell me that it is as it is, and to run with it; and if i were to run with this dog gone train of thought, to hop on this train, to train hop thought with you, that would be to agee and say, okay: this is an overtly artistically motivated speech environment— alinguistic environment that takes speech as its as its vessel, and writing as its covert mode.

That this is what you're hearing now— what you're reading now, after it's been transcribed.  This is speech that knows it will be transcribed and is thus already writing, not only through its awareness of its own futurity, but by the attitude it inhabits. What is a writerly attitude? You you ask me. I can hear your voice. I know you're asking me.

At this point, the dialogue becomes a monologue. But the the speaker, the writer, is imbued by and sectioned off into and absorbed by the other, the other voice. The one speaking is interpolated by the other speaker and the listener (who listens in the snow). The interlocutor is interpolated by the interloper.

The interloper is invited in. The mere presence of the interloper is an invitation. Unlike so many everyday situations in which my subjectivity, or at least the one closest to the surface of the socius, the recording surface— now,  this is the real explanation (writing as explanation, explanation as explanation), the answer to the interview question; one one device falls away the other resurfaces; aa mask, the accoutrements of an actor, an outfit, a costume —  In everyday life, I get the feeling that people take automatic liberties, or otherwise imagine that one's presence— to present: here again, preferring presentism over and against representationalism. Repressentism. That my presence, that one's presence, in this case, my presence, is an invitation.

Inevitably, it is, acertain kind of invitation, anyones presence. And we find our ways to be easy and agreeable, to agree to play the game, the language game of other people (between wittgenstein and derrida). No one makes the rules. We cannot first step outside of the game to define the rules, and then commence the game, playing by those rules, breaking them all the time.

The rules are always retroactively manipulating circumstances, setting the stage, giving shape to the particularity of the situation. To switch from the general mode to the individual, to individuate myself from the general, my presence, I declare — I find myself declaring in everyday life— that my presence is not an invitation. For what? If taken transitively, what objects does invitation take?

None. Personalized presence taken intransitively.  I mean it with a period. It does not take the form of an invitation. It does not beckon or call for the other, finding a hardness there, and always working to dissolve this hardness, but not struggling with it or against it as much as I may seem to be emphasizing here. Becausein truth, the easy dominates. But by force of will, not by nature. Naturally, I think, if I'm making a claim about my natural state—which I'm also saying is highly denatured by the socius or the surface of my connection to my unconscious or an individuated connection to unconscious— in general i makae a habit of  decoding totalities, disentanglinng tongues from this socius; my denaturalized nature, hence my predisposition toward the oblique, the incommunicable, the in-formal, the mode of incommunicability as a kind of celebration of the true and the real, one image of a genuine search for the novel.

And when one says novelty, there's cellophane wrapped around it, connotatively. But when I say novelty, I mean an encounter with  pure contingency. The vacillation between all that vacillates. In the vast relatable—in the vast stream of relatable content, it is incumbent upon me to present an alternative, and in that case, i haven’t got time to test it, to see if it works, to learn of it’s nutritional content, like a new drug that has yet to reveal it’s ugly side effects. It's an unaapproved nutrient that should nourish one's own capacity to grow stomachs.

It doesn't fill the stomach to create a future absence of that same substance. It creates a substance that then generates a substance made of that same kind, that doesn't need the propagated vessel or the propagator or the proper gator. The alligator in a white tuxedo seated upright at the dinner table at the dining room table. After returning from the dance floor in the ballroom where he executed a square step waltz with great finesse. It's always my hope that what happens, all that is rejected, all that is negated, happens that way to give rise to a new son.

A new son. A fatherless son without violence toward the father or blame for any transgressions that are only vaalidated in the tragic mode or Oedipal system. But it is always my hope, implicit in the kinds of negation that I witness myself in relation to and in attending to, that these negations become fully what they are.

Abyss and darkness of whirlpool, acorn and unfolding self chained to matter from scintilla to gold, yoke as sun point glass, as prima materia and vessel heart of Mercurius, as sub rosa, subclimactic air, as a scale as sulfur under the rose. Under the scarab, the hoofed man, the scarab headed man, the woman bird, anthill opening to the underworld. The stag turned star turned mirror turned prison as secret fire. Mummy anthropos, Mummy and tropos. And apple into exile.

And anemone. White elephant, airplane, Ajax, with his daughter on his knee. Labidinal alchemy whitening the ashen dawn. Torpedo rose, and colors, and rose, in colors of feathers as stages of salt and sewing. The bear.

The bear's golden urine, devouring the unconscious blue flower, the blue flower changing filth into child's play. Yellowing the conjunction, incest as reanimation torpedo rain, as torpedo, as reddening dog of separation, and dawn, and depression, dissolution, understanding and returning to womb, drowning in the womb, blood vessel as makeshift flood vessel. A swimming eagle, and tears as an ascent up the staircase. And stages of vessels, and putrefaction. The brain as a cave, as chrome chrysalis, the anus, the lower mouth, kiss, the anus and grow ravens. An index of life and sunrise.

Dragon marriage as a convex fountain, as poison stone blackening. Purgatory antlers and dove castle, turning dead matter into chrome womb. In a room in the brain, rocking on the rocking chair. Aping Aphrodite.

Baby Venus monkey, the child of Eros and apple exile, and dove, and rose, and mermaids. Rabbits combing their sacred hair before burial. The gardener of dismemberment, peacock's esophagus, and the stone wolf, the orphan Ibis, born from the union of tree chance and city angel. The chaos cobra as primal rooster.

Material stored within mountain. The brain. The brain.

The cave. Arrows in the dark. Poison darts. The erotic monkey. Airborne as archery, in the dark, as putrefaction, in the dark, the worm in the stone, growing crows. Rolling up heavenly ravens in the vault of spider myth. And rose and trumpet and women's hair.

The beheaded elephant as mermaid.

Part 2

Strings. Circling the empty hole in the wooden body like vultures, circling the body, stretched across rocky cliffs. The cavern and the wooden body across vertical bone, hollow marrow, opal hats on pegs that hold in place the copper and nickel wound wire. Circling around the strings, pulled taut over vertical bone.

The moment the skin on the end of the fingers makes contact with the copper and nickel wound wire. It presses the string against the oak. Finger and wire tucked tight around the edge, sitting in a perfect position behind vertical nickel bar, embedded in horizontal Chestnut.

Cotton t shirt between armpit and  wooden body. The s curve pressed into bicep. Under elbow. Loose wrist Django. Stretched over empty circle. Only the moment in direct proportion to its perfectness will sustain. The fingers placed on the ideal grid, responding to the call of resonance. This is my only means by which I can extend the life of a note. To stretch it across the swinging bridge on a windy day. To mitigate entropy with no effects built into the instrument. Only the wooden body.

No natural effects, unlike the piano, which contains within its natural body an artifice of extension, poised before a player with the will to extend the life of a note. No built in effects. No well. No warm and fuzzies. No plug ins. Only accuracy by the demands of the resonant cavity. The b string's been buzzy lately.

For years, I tried to force language to do what it couldn't do.The e string has been busy. Buzzing busy lately. Should I change my strings? It would be silly for me now to want to try to make the guitar into a piano.

Do you wish to be a piano? The guitar asked. If you open into the humming hole, is often a range of pitch that will catch hold and carry, through the entire body of the guitar, the entire life of a note.

Part 3

Snakes and dreams.

The dream that the old black dog Lucy had a snake head.

The head was squeezed with a violent pressure.

The snake bit Lucy's head, and Lucy's head became a cobra. Her cheeks hissing like a punctured ball. The fangs punctured her cheeks. Lucy's cheeks are biting down on my head. Lucy is biting down on her own head.

Lucy's ouroboros was deflating. I had to save her. She was attacking both me and herself. I released the fangs in dream, in the dream.

Without turning over the ancient dimensions, the bridge contains Exchange. The hand-off happens at the reverse apex of swinging bridge between the cliffs. The cliffs, the tree lined rocky cliffs on a windy day. The wind is a question.

What was the exchange that took place? What was transferred at the middle of the bridge? An infant multiplies its hands.

Syntactic foam. A non resonant phenomenon (the common failure point under tensile stress). To stave off implosion. Some of the particles do not become hollow and sink to the bottom of the ash dam. A non-evanescent light-beam propagates after emerging from the shadow-side surface of an illuminated microcylinder. Perturbing far field backscattered power. Photonic nanojets. Subdiffraction, nanopatterning, and nanolithography, low-loss wave guiding, and ultra-high density optical storage.

A protozoan child. Free living, organic matter; the first animal.

A single celled organisms with a membrane bound nucleus. Eu (you) meaning true or good, and karyon (carry on) meaning not or kernel (colonel, leader). The good kernel and the bad kernel. Beyond good and bad kernels. The hard kernel of the real, indigestible writing. Microspheres. Readers undigest. Microscopic spheres of glass. Manufactured hollow glass microspheres, microballoons, glass bubbles. Syntactic foam, lightweight concrete. Low thermal conductivity and resistance to compressive stress. Constructing the hulls of submersibles, deep sea drilling equipment. To keep them from imploding. Found in slow release pharmaceuticals, radioactive tracers. Filling for polymer resins, beneath fiberglass laminates on surfboards. Made by heating tiny droplets of dissolved water glass in a process known as ultrasonic spray pyrolysis. A substance added to the surface of hollow glass microspheres to increase the matrix/ interfacial strength (the common failure point under tensile stress).

Cenospheres: waste products in coal fired power stations. Small amounts of silica in the coal are melted. As they rise up the chimneystack, they expand and form small hollow spheres. These spheres are collected together with the ash, which is pumped through a water mixture into the ash dam. Some of the particles do not become hollow and sink to the bottom of the ash dam. The hollow ones float on the surface of the dam. When they dry, they become airborne, blowing into the forest. Photonic nanojets in whispering gallery mode. A narrow, high-intensity, non-evanescent light-beam that can propagate after emerging from the shadow-side surface of an illuminated, lossless dielectric microcylinder or microsphere. It is a non resonant phenomenon. Perturbing far field backscattered power. Photonic nanojets. Used for detecting and manipulating nanoscale objects. Subdiffraction resolution, nanopatterning, and nanolithography, low-loss wave guiding, and ultra-high density optical storage. Snakes are terrible fighters. Their only weapon happens to be in the same location as their most vulnerable and weakest body part.

** ☆**

ocelot fantasy parlor cleaner

gnat weight guesser

deer shelf robber

panda gambler

beaver activist

academic porcupine consumer

wombat respect producer

archerfish who trains

pig thirty

hound salesman

universe frequency tailor

exhibitionism theologist

requiem cleaner

careful buffalo singer

chimpanzee celebrity scientist

poultry they model

tamarind blue jay

hawk magician defunder

mule joiner

different pipelayer

leopard bunker cleaner

eagle mason

mole shredder

seal formation

viper carpenter defunder

otter weight guesser

symbol widow

federal cheetah taxi

poultry they

snipe model designer

thick canon salesman

meerkat sight writer

expense sailor

fisherman disagreer

lark status harlot

bass violation

owl bag

mule shortly geologist

pig thirty optician debunker

moth city surgeon

gnat statistics lecturer

snipe model

cub relation laborer

sheldrake personality butcher

rhinoceros construct

rhino illustration debunker

badger motion instructor

jaguar forger

cod emailer

scenario interuption cleaner

visual ferret pedlar

iguana auditor

baboon instructor/player

cattle exhibitionist

dinosaur picture

smelt symbol widow

lark squat barber

mortician gallery

moth city sight weather

dogfish prompt writer

owl bag architect

coyote limitation developer

leopard maker

guineafowl magistrate

beaver killing advisor

crocodile critic

hyena hip painter

hard partridge examiner

thrush production worker

world physician destroyer

mallard length subaltern

badger instrument nun

alligator gallery

owl bag midwife

agent for mole shredder

pony librarian for you

ostrich expense sailor

deer shelf

goldfinch magistrate

greyhound sex nurse

marten builder

ibis actor, regardless

cod email

turkey dinner employee

snail hair drafter

heron horizon hermit

lice park journalist

goose access

calm orange

leather gush

revered drinker

moronic sleuth

muffin government

clover support

confident nod

thawed message

cuffed sawdust

faulty shape

sign replacement

adjoining table

smile deficiency

authentic feather

violent species

pesto pants

moist exchange

sulphur poodle

trashy bellhop

pants conspiracy

squeamish bonus

broken vines

webbed dad

cheddar postulate

sleep ban

gossamer arches

diamond weakness

dollar bath

cotton jungle

phony rebel

letter catcher

tumeric axel

nowhere raft

pear storage

lung title

gross trick

snippy dialogue

serene exit

[dismal celebration]

Hidden Blossom Falls through Celestial shaft in cast iron Drift whose broad Dusk was just asking about you and your fine arbor of promises, the one that also has planted in it by the Meadow of merry seeing the Phrase Weeping Horizon, a bleary bouquet that displeases the Judge of non belonging when it claims to also harbor mastery of a chaste Mist and hell Moonlight, shedding in the sides of her mind Petals Dramatic and Star Ripples that could fold a circumstance a couple more times than you might expect, you, labor, a new country with used gospels that pass the black Night over in the Secret Bliss of Despair, you the tight spitter in spotted furs that hold tight the Footnotes of Euphoria that furnish these damned tales that struggle into your hot, sharp ears that spend many long years pondering this sentence, trying to see it as a minor skirmish in the big long fight to strum Grace into Heartache, a Melancholy Lullaby to shoot oneself with during the forthcoming earthquake of Nostalgia, the ugly Passions that imbibe pencils with manes and get down to business, and get busy with Reverie on the veranda, spew Serenity all over the other side of the .444 light eating animal ribbons thrumming and hunched across one's own sweet lynx of Solitude, punching Sorrow with a Tenderness so Tranquil it wonders how it'll ever go on Wondering how to stop Yearning for that Ancient Ephemeral Eternal Fragment of an Obsidian Moment in the Nowhere of Midnight Infinity, stop smelling for that Alluring Aroma of chrome Twilight that Chimes the whole valley with sick crickets and constant protection from the evil Harmony of mockingbird Echo, a harmony so Hushed here in the meadow of merry seeing that its faint bedmudled Lilt nearly plunges to its birth in the burning Silence of cracked mountain Murmur opened by the red whims of that poor old Abyss that Dreams it as Enigmas’s best young woman.

this pome is an attempt to destroy the universal by scooting it so next to itself that gets embarrased by its own self proximity, and not only that but self proximity itself and by proxy seeks in tiredly new sequence of substitutions or a window seat like a wilted flower and being that universal it taps out a response within the laws of conventional connection it has either rejected or submitted to and been rejected by, a series in which it seeks and finds weak comfort or weakness itself comforting the faithless jump it makes when the image takes a day offline to touch a very, very cold surfaces while the lamp sways a little, haha harassed haha by a yes haha that tries to explain the explanation as a welldigger's ass for cleverness and missing the point imperially, citing the mercurial glory of rectal agression, and gets carried away, all the way home, right back up against itself.

[this is where]

Me and Robear are sitting in the car. He's plugged in to the bluetooth. You wanna listen to this album by these British ladies? Yes. Yes, I would like to listen to this album by these British ladies, I replied. He played it, and it was good. Later, I took over the aux. When I plugged in, it kept jumping back and forth between his Bluetooth and my cord. When he realized this, he said, oh, let me disconnect, I think our shit is competing. I said, yeah. It's like our psychic goo is competing in this electronic womb for Sonic Ascendancy. Where do you come up with this shit? He asked, laughing. Right here. What? You asked where, and I'm telling you: right here. This is where.

[real music]

I wasn't vibing with the music they had on at the supermarket tonight, which is crazy cause they normally play great shit in there. Like I've definitely heard them play Used To Be Young by Miley Cyrus at least twice.

[This drawer]

is full of pants

I never wear.

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