First published August 2009 in Big Bridge/War Papers #3 The Very Origin of Artaud's Crablice For Democritus blinded himself, preferring the loss of his sight to the loss of his contemplations, which he felt to be interrupted by the straying of his eyes. This the Armenian peak of Ararat revealed to me in a downpour, revealing further on the nature of my private suffering: A desire, thus, participation through silence, through silent salience, through something other than actually doing in a dutifully understood sort of way, there's the rub, surely, there's the way I go all out with all pipes flaming in a whorl of dissatisfaction, a desire, that is, to do, to mean, but not to do or mean in a doing or meaning sort of way, no, more of a damp evening fogs of late autumn sort of meaning way, for truly, that's how I mean to mean, and believe it so confidently that we all hope to mean in that way, for Artaud has pried up the skunk odor cloth above the hopeless chasm where the currents of the time are named, and down that hole all the fetid binding tropes from slave-holding Aristotle (holding up his virtue ethics encased in class-blind pig fat, not to mention the suffering of the pig itself) to the very cusp of wilting modernity, where the asshole lords it over the brain, for the former controls the latter, eats only butter, speaks only lather, and chooses TV over anything, so, I say, there's the hard rubber end of the rub, like the blunt end of the cop club you find between your ribs should you mention any of it at all to any of the ass lather crowd, and that's the very origin of Artaud's crablice, which so miserly and miserably ate his brains away, but not before he spoke of it, thank the dirt and madly twisting roots that choke the culvert for that, for that is all we have to go on now, on our journey, I mean, whether you choose to go or not, commencement disregards you, and your overstuffed distressed super-sized everything is sucking you down the journey's shitter, where the crablice whom you've befriended only hope to eat your distressed bones in a dark hole where no echoing voice resounds, but only dampness, and that's not the end either, for there is none, only the eternal return to the eternal return as if you were cursed to live this all over exactly again and again for eternity, and this is what you'd choose?, this the how of doing?, that the way of making?, really?, nothing otherwise?, for I fear you've not impressed me with your choices, and now you itch to interrogate the interrogator, ah, typical crablice fashion, chomping again at controlling the terms, crab-rationality points to deviations from itself as examples of error, much as religious dogma refers to its own sacred texts as final proofs, but here, just here, in my only hope for screaming justice I dictate and bully freely, choosing there or here, here I think to end it, here against your chomping gulls, I say I win, with merely a dot, period. ~ ~ ~ ~ writing