⚧️ 05 Quintilis 2023 : Chronalatry, Alternative History of the Resurrection, A Letter to My Body

alt lyrics: i have played the fool for lesser kings (The longest Time, Billy Joel)

ontology of sorrow, of being sorry

Chronoaltry, the worship of time

listened to All Eternals Deck

The Mountain Goats Tarrot

!Go Tell the Young Messiah

Judas Iscariot has not .agreed!strike aged in 2 years. these have been hard years tho, try as he might to win back the trust of his rabbi-cum-bandit king Yeshua the Prophet, he has been confined to an ambiguous, hostile orbit among turncoats and Roman emisaries (the empire always likes to make sure it has debts on which to extract a return on every side of it's colonies and vassal states indigenous populations) he has neither secured his onetime lovers forgiveness (unlike Thomas and James, not unlike Peter and John) following their night of revalry when they thought their rabbi had gone mad and saught to use the holy name of God to destroy the Temple, or possibly to attempt to Bind or Exorcise God or launch a coup or abort a coup or resurrect Solomon and David and Moses and Enoch

alternative essay styles. see especially Borges, Benjamin,

to cut yourself is to essay the mortal text, to test it and install spikes and prayers, swords and wheels and flags and coffins. it is to attempt the impossible. to die is to not be. if it is impossible for me to be once undergoing death, then to die is to accomplish the impossible, to pass from one logic, grammar, spell, rytham of ontology to another. to change the cosmic song this strange ship of self sets it's oars to, to swap the program of self you expect like bare skin after years of indention, such that it's absence, it's raw woundedness has become a grief.

i am writing to you, and so i suppose this is already a collaborative work, since i wouldn't claim copyright over the version of you that exists in my impressions and memory and imagination and grief.

no, you wrote that into me, by gross and subtle measures, and for that i am grateful. so grateful.

if i must interpolate and translate and resurect and regurgitate my own past Zachariahs in ghost orbit with you and all your missing gravity, than make some marks on stone and silk and steel and light, to find your shadow puppet outlines,

i would write this not to a committee, nor to a Public Conscience, nor a philosophical school. that i think would hurt too much. but i can maybe write it to a friend, if that friend also understands already the perverse schematics of said haunted house.

my body is a temple

my body is a haunted house

my body is a page blank but for all the scars made writ upon her.

she is an ocean of essays at moving blood and muscle and nerve and bone into a series of places at innegotiable rates and times.

she is a shadow in flesh, the material fact, the face without the name.

she hears what they call her

she feels what they say

she does not complain when it is not her turn

her expressions constantly broadcast how miserable all this bullshit is making her

she is an idea, a reality, a qualia, a breathing thing. she does not want to hurt others, she is certain she has and she will.

i cut her with my knife. i cut her with my fingernails. i cut her with razors and with rocks and with enamel and probably other things too. i cut her deliberately, stealing myself, steeling myself, shoplifting myself, bolting down myself, making sure my hands moved like in a fight, the way I've trained to expect them to move, always more impressed with my hands and my feet and my eyes and my back and my legs and my ass and my intestines and my stomach and my heart and my lungs and my teeth, always more impressed with you than with myself, with me, with my work ethic, my effort, my force of will, my self discipline, and self hatred, my God, my value, my soul.

the part which wakes up new to, let's say, each train of thought, each mood, each bridge of work-and-lookwork that spans the nebular minutes and misty hours, broken only by vermilion planks of pain.

the color is hypnotizing. i have no way to charm you into feeling it's allure, this will be one of the many things you'll have to trust me on. all political phenomonologies require trust.

what trust does kant demand of the reader? how does the text react if one refuses consent.

23:23