Ottawa Surrealist Group
Isidore Isou made a good joke when, instead of the usual formulaic recapitulation of “no gods, no masters”, he took ouroboros by the dangly bit and trilled: “all gods, all masters!”
It’s one of those anti-classic cases of something emerging from below the below, to poke its head out like some ur-cicada and, finding the rare conditions fulfilled and players willing, experimentally proposes to make itself atmospheric. A very temporary enthusiasm for another of those indistinct physical entities which seek to infect the cosmos with their unwelcome and seductive temptations.
Taking a detour before a meeting of the ottawa surrealist group, JA finds a strange sculpture in a junk shop, which he can only presume is an idol. He doesn’t take long in purchasing it, thinking it might want to make some interpretation. But he soon forgets about it and neglects to mention it to the group as they start to arrive. The meeting happens, and in the latter course of the discussion, L randomly feels the compulsion to write an automatic text, written entirely before seeing or even knowing the idol was there in the room:
The armored priest charges the waterlogged fields where the sunflowers grow. His, is the sorrow at losing his idol, the god he worshipped over many years. Will there ever be another treasure worthy of smearing the sacrificial blood?
We eventually ask L what is being written. At which point JA gesticulates excitedly and produces the idol. The thing has begun to tell its own story, despite our neglect. We smear sacrificial substance on its “brow”. We then agree to simultaneously compose some texts, channeling the entity sitting before us:
Doris unfolds her vulval gills. Breath is libido is fire, is the primordial waters of life. Protozoa re-unfilter from her core. RNA unfolds and froths into the first life. Physis, at its cavernous core, dedicates its coldness to Doris. Dictation, DNA all that Doris deigns. This is the pulse of all life.
The fury of the storm is a cruel and iron maker. I am not a figment! Io! I burn well with eyes of the shadow. The space is not a furor. The coal in the sepulchre. Ash is what breaks the future. I am beyond your time, I melt well, I am lightning in the eyes of curiosity. I glow. I am not what you are. I am the engine of the storm. I scream at the last person.
I praise the mud glob of my purest love, purify my vital humors, it confuses me ichor and confuses my knotted neurons for the last time. Today eunuchs shall celebrate their loss of supreme nature. Becoming forever… The flight of the eyes.
Contrived revelations fulminate heatefully in the astral plain of my uterus, I give birth to the nightmare of my own wanting to exist, which can never be, and the beehive of my natural yearning causes annihilation across an empty world that makes me sad in a lost hat taken off a dead dog that stands stuffed.
J, L, SH, with a watcher,
Ottawa Surrealist Group
October 18, 2018