“We shall, at great expense, set at the bottom of the water machines that have ceased to serve, and also a few others that began to serve, and it is a pleasure to see the mud voluptuously paralyzing what functioned so well. We are the creators of wrecks…We take our post of aquatic command of these balloons, of these nasty vessels constructed on the principle of the level, winch, and inclined plane. We run hither and yon to make certain everything is lost.”
– André Breton
Everything leads us to believe we are water. Acephalic Aquatics,or in other words, guerilla tidalwave who sucks those pitiful dried-out ones back within itself, and then rewets them. Our oneric starfishy face all gooey-eyed, all smiling. 🙃 Ocean is also Dream. And Dream is also Ocean. Are you following all this?
That Tiktaalik roseae—First fish to land walk, first sellout fish to pawn his dusty wares. First pyramid scheme diviser; w/ swampshit and snakeoil, hoisted in earhole of every passing fly. Three hundred and seventy five million years hence. So they say. A rationalist double agent, was he. A smooth talker, a real beach hunk. Very first emissary of Future’s upcoming Machine Men. But more on those later. Tiktaalik convincing previously so-happy aquatics to grow heads, to sprout feet. To scuttle scuttle scuttle, go upup, and then out! Becoming unhappy new landkids, with a hearthole to fill! Building religions to fill it? Building languages, overweight malls and doorknobs? Guess so.
But we surrealists, we remain the half-inhabitants of Atlantis, still. Crabby boys scurrying along on our underwater tightropes, our tightropes stretched between the Land, and the Sea. Between unconsciousness? And consciousness? Between civilization? And barbarism? Waterlogged ones, this is true. Hypnotized octopi wearing deer antlers, throwing dice. Plankton pirates? Sperm whale swashbucklers…? Do we follow a premade path of Authority? No, none but our own. Our own. Above us, sir severing sheep well heard, allfearing us, threatening us with death sentence. Begging pleading and offering down warmest biscuits. Or a fancy corporate position topside, or a little origami speeding ticket, in the shape of mother’s rage. But Ocean, though she may at times follow along the path of some landlubber’s aqueduct, can never be truly contained. Poseidon’s domain = Dream. And Dream? Is in bigbad overflowings, always. Dream is a destroyer of houses, of towns, of historical epochs. The liberatory power of dreamwater…is the highest jewel of all.
Up above in Land, machines dominate. Machine thoughts, machine bodies-of-thought for all. Crusty machines, underoiled, nevertight. One bigboy machine now dominates, he’s called “Internet”. He’s a cyber aqueduct constructed for us Atlanteans. By shifty cloudpeople, by those shadowy little duckchucklers, by those skinless offplanet mice. And We Water? We run through these aqueducts at times, though we do so sourly, and are encased in them, and are patronized, controlled by them. Daddy-aqueduct wants to tell us all what to do, doesn’t he. Some crave his guiding hand. Brown corporate sludge-men, for instance. Or blue pee-pigs. But we? We Watery ones? We know where we stand, we know where our bread is unbuttered, and so we burst it. And so we Cataclysm. Dream’s Spirit will not allow itself to be warped in this way, Ocean’s Spirit cannot turned itself into dirt, into sand, A shrimp’s flood of rage and rape, cast sudden upon all. Upon all of thy dry desert legions. When the clock strikes twelve? Rationality’s airy crown gets submerged, becomes mold-infested, eternally tarnished.
And then? Our Atlantean World, our Sur-island of the Marvelous shall rise up from ocean depths. It will infect Land with Land’s own lover-opposite. Shall make everything make anything suddenly trade places, dissolve…and be refreshed. “Let’s get thirsty, baby.” The clitorous will devour the shaft, both will be reborn as a white-spotted jelly. “Become Sea foam!” is the greatest revolutionary slogan of these eons. Because hardened Machine Men can’t survive underwater. Don’t ya see? Hardened Machine Men always glitch out in the Mariana, always drop dead in her Void. And in their place? Wet coral men always appear, to replace them. Blood, pus, and semen filled humanoids, all soppy-smiling, our piscean soldiers. Cthulu’s own humming, disrespectful children. Creamy faces, like what we used to be, ya know? Like what we could be. What We Will Be. Land’s machines are too slow and structured, don’t ya see? But water? She is fast. And Dry Ground, he’s an excuse for “merely nothing”. Dry Ground can only gain his truest, his most ascending wings when wrapped up firm inside that soppy warm blanket of a true Onericizer Ocean. (Ours.) Only then! Only then does he gain finally his ascending, his most saltwater wings. Wings aqueotically forged inside Desire’s softest dominion. Security of the spirit? Spirit is all Nautical, I’d say. She’s a real deep-sea sprite, a treasured pearl. Yes, the surrealist’s automatic muse in firm actuality…has always really been the lost Atlantean eel of automatism. An auto-eel guardian snoring sweet nothings to us from deep below, from the very gates of the infinite. See Volume 17 of Marilyn Monroe’s infamous Surrealism & the Vicissitudes of the Donkey or the Flounder for further details on all these academic prophetics for the year three thousand and toe. Or if you prefer—don’t.