writings

i have to admit my arms do drift to the armor that shines on a knight. but for the knight to spend the night he's gotta bend the rules to the room in which i sleep
to go to or not to go to just let my head and hand flor what the can and trust it to the machine in my brain that keeps me insane can you explain what the deal is i feel it if you can do it to a beat then its the feet that take to my street and wander into my circle with the shape of a square that stretches and strokes in different directions and sections the section the section the sexual cover is not the lover that conforms but the lover that informs, to be informed or not to be in form without the context of love, sex just becomes the next way to screw someone. Over. Over the top, under the bottom, the missionaries think they got em in a box of rain that the dead be grateful sane. Acid rain torpedo pain the can of paint releases faint traces of chemicals that kill the brain but of course we don't say it cuz we're all plain sheep to follow the mission.
Impossible to follow the train of thought that pulled out of my stationary
inclination for restoration, my ration of wit didn't hit the fashion
plate cuz instead i used a bowl to turn my head to the other side, the
dark side of the moon, and soon i will be in tune with the ride that i take on
a boat on a river, with tangerine trees and a mystical breeze that freeze me from the
confines of the classical times? no no no the jurassical times, push the rhymes further and
further away from the times yo daddy stopped, dropped, and rolled, papa rolled like a
stone, rocked it to the bone, rocked and rolled, we were often told that if we rocked the boat then we were turncoats, it was us or them so we condemned them, fenced them in
behind the wires and started the fires that smoked and smothered and took some other
mother, not mine, so i'm fine, except i'm not fine so i'll realign myself to the powers that i
be, that i see, in me. in we. we be together to gather around in spoken sound, just let the peace abound.

there once was a hus
on top of a hill
that belonged to the uncle
of one Kellea Mill-
-er, she had kill-
-er good looks,
her friends were fools of a Took,
they thought they could cook
the goose that laid the oily eggs
that was drinking away the world
down to its dreggs
so they packed up their beggs (say this new zealand style)
and put out their feggs (or cloves, if they didnt smoke feggs, or incense
if they didnt smoke cloves, or garbage if they didnt do anything at all
smoke related)
they got on a bus
and headed to a hus...
THAT.
SAT.
on a hill above a
CITY
that wasn't toooooo
SHITTY
but inspite of
THAT.
FACT.
the house didn't haaaave aaaaa
SHITTER.

la, La, LA, LAAAAAAA.....

shitterless hus! shitterless hus!
better lets US,
shit in the BUSH-US,
and if we CAN,
find a CAN,
or even a PAN,
we can take care of OUR shit,
and finally stop this BUSH shit.

see this morning i was sitting on the throne, peeing, not shitting, and i
was washing, (i try not to use paper when i pee now, i wash, it was hard
at first, but all good now. with shitting, i still sometimes use paper,
but sometimes wash. you wanted to know that right?) and i remembered how
we came back from the city and up those stairs at the side of the house
and then skiddled off the trees to take a shit. didnt even dig or
nothing, just sat and shat, and then wiped with a dry leaf and hoped that
all was still well with the world, and prayed that none of y'all saw me.

shitterless HUS! shitterless HUS!
hope you don't mind if i CUSS
about that
shitterless HUS! shitterless HUS!
cuz even though it sounds like i FUSS
really i know
that
shitterless HUS! shitterless HUS!
was the shiznit, the doowickety hang dawg
that liggity let US
rock the streets, drum the beats
in the early morning BUS
on the way to the
Reeeeeee
Vooooooooo
Luuuuuuuuuuuuuu (even thought the house didnt have a loo)
SHUUUUUNNNN!!!!!!!!

now.
somebody write that in Tha-yiii.

here's what we jammed on the train. the second part is my slightly edited
version. edit and send back if you wish and have time? if not, simply
read and chuckle at our locomotive literary foolishness.

Malavika


The cup ranneth over before they could catch the ambrosia, so they ended
up dying anyway.
"Fair enough," I said, and turned away from the camp fire. Staring into
the shadows, for a moment blinded by the flames' image on my retina, I
half saw a shape in the trees: a shape at once strange and oddly
reminiscent of something I couldn't possibly have swallowed, and yet it
coated my tongue and made it lead-heavy. Trying to think back over the
swollen soggy years hurt my brain too much so I gave up and sipped again.
This time I choked and died again. And again. And again. My soul was an
endless cycle of death, rebirth, death, life, death again and again. I
was the earth, the sky, the salt-flecked brine spray from the tip of
every wave of the wide Pacific, which rolled under me as I, the wind
moved, my breath was life, my blood coarsed through every stomata and
poured onto every blade of grass. The dew tasted like pineapples pulled
straight out of the ground and cut and sprinkled with salt. I no longer
felt anything in my ears or toes. As I rubbed my earlobes absently, Jeff
started screaming, " The clocks! The clocks! Stop them!" Clutching his
ears, he fell to the floor writhing, screaming in agony. I heard a faint
ticking. The clock struck thirteen and I died for the last time.
The End.

(slightly edited)
The cup ranneth over before we could catch the ambrosia, so we ended up
dying anyway.
"Fair enough," I said, and turned away from the camp fire. Staring into
the shadows, my retina blinded for a moment by the flames, I half saw a
shape in the trees: a shape at once strange and oddly reminiscent of
something I couldn't possibly have swallowed, and yet it coated my tongue
and turned it lead-heavy. Trying to think back over the swollen soggy
years hurt my brain too much so I gave up and sipped again. I choked and
died again. And again. And again. My soul was an endless cycle of death,
rebirth, redeath, life, death again and again. I was the earth, the sky,
the salt-flecked brine spray from the tip of every wave of the wide
Pacific, which rolled under me as I, I being the the wind, moved, my
breath was life, my blood coarsed through every stomata and poured onto
every blade of grass. The dew tasted like pineapples pulled straight out
of the ground and cut and sprinkled with salt. I no longer felt anything
in my ears or toes. As I rubbed my earlobes absently, Jeff started
screaming, " The clocks! The clocks! Stop them!" Clutching his ears, he
fell to the floor writhing, screaming in agony. I heard a faint ticking.
The clock struck thirteen and I died for the last time.
The End.

Etats in French means states. If I wanted I could write a paper on how the Anglostatian something mirror follow (British then US empire follow french).

PSI vs PSi: if i wanted i could write a paper on how the power imbalance of capital letters over lowercase represents the current global domination of capitalism as an ideology.

axes of eval.:
academic worth
aesthetic worth
activistic worth

if i knew what performativity was, i would talk about the lack thereof in the paper that was read out loud by a performer as a presentation, with the occasional audience eye contact to justify coming to the event instead of reading the paper at home online.

This is what I want performance studies to be.

Art as faeces. (flowing splat everywhere randomly with ease or hard shapely things pushed out through enormous strain and effort)

Holy fuck! How's that for you!?!? How's that to get you excited and want to stir shit up!?! How's that to make Daisy think, "Did Mali write that???" :) Man. I'm planning something cool for Leap Day. That's for fuckin' sure! Ah, Mall... I miss your crazy energy! But it still inspires me, from afar. :) In fact, example. Thought up tonight at the dryer while folding laundry and planning to write you back. An ode to your mind. :) The mind of MOO-MALI!
 
Malavika
Mall-a-vee-kuh
Ball-a beef, what?
Meatballs
Warm, brown, oily globs
gelatinous
delicious
red sauce covered
lost, and rolling
off of the table and onto the floor
just because I sneezed.
made from beef,
just like me
see, some say that I've got a little
of that mad cow disease
perhaps they think i'm loony because i
don't listen to what they try to tell me
perhaps they think my brain's gone
spongy with square pants on
but what they don't see
is that the holes in my brain
are where the firing synapses spark
and what they think is madness
is merely an opening of my mind
to new ideas and way of thought
giving my synapses more room to
breathe.
more room to think through those problems
that face our imposing grey matter
and can't find a way in or out
to be figured.
and what were they thinking?
feeding my brain to other cows?
those who moo pleasingly in the herd
chewing their cuds cuz
they ain't got a care in the world.
they disassembled my body and mind
and scattered me to the four, foul winds
of stench, decay, disease, and pollution
that plague the factory farms where our
meat products grow before being brought to our tables.
they saw, but couldn't, no, WOULDN'T believe
that I had strayed as far as I had.
that I would not come back to the other side
if they only willed it hard enough.
but their wasteful ways,
their disregard for their self-poisoning ways
the ways in which they kept me and my cattle brethren
tied up so tight
that our shit ran not only together
but ran over us and coated us,
and they fed me my sick brothers and sisters,
my bovine siblings,
hoping that they could cure my siblings' illness
with the increased profits they would reap.
And what did they think
would happen?
Perhaps if they'd let in a little air,
given their brains some space to think,
they would've realized that their ways
could not last.
They call me mad.
But really...
Is the cow mad because it produced a prion?
Or is it the system that produced that cow
that is mad?

On March 19th, the Bush administration started bombing Iraq. Again. The world has yet to see evidence to justify the unprovoked attack that has killed hundreds of US and British soldiers and thousands of Iraqis. But as General Tommy Franks said, "We don't do body counts."
Bodies don't count, but profit does. In the midst of the immeasurable loss of life and rabid destruction of the earth's resources, corporations such as Lockheed Martin, Bechtel, and Halliburton continue to profit from the war that they had so persistently lobbied for. (I use the word "war" only only to be able to use the label "war profiteer", not because there was any form of...equal...in the attacked country.) Deals were made, contracts were signed, people were killed, and a country was occupied. All the while peoples of the world cried out helpless in outrage and condemnation, ignored by the military industrial corporate complex that stands in place of a democratic government. With every avenue of democratic participation stripped away in the name of "homeland security", people in cities across the United States took to the streets demanding peace, justice and global freedom in the same spirit with which the Boston tea party was carried out.
In one of the bellies of the beast, the Bay Area became a hotbed of nonviolent direct action.
A new level of consciousness was reached as residents realized what was taking place in their own backyard.
On March 24, 60-odd people had crouched shivering under the orange glow of schoolyard lights discussing and consensing on what became the foundations for the organization of an utterly and sincerely non-violent demonstration in front of the Bay Area headquarters of Lockheed Martin corporation on April 22.

They got in touch with me the day after Douglas Adams died. Well actually, two days after, but the day after I read it in the paper. I never read the newspaper on the day it comes, in case it turns into tomorrow's newspaper instead, like in that show Early Edition, and then I have to go and be a hero or something. So Douglas Adams died one day, I read about it the next day, and they sent a telegram the next next. I didn't know people still used telegrams, I would have thought faxes and email are ever so much faster, but I didn't want to embarrass them, so I just replied to the telegram with another telegram that said, No.

They came around the next next next day. They were quite polite about it. Firm, but polite. They must get a lot of training in these sorts of things, I was quite impressed. But I still didn't want to go. So they went away and came back the next next next next day. I gave them a cup of tea and smiled and frowned at the appropriate times when they spoke and then I drew a diagram of the house with a particular emphasis on the door. For good measure I threw in an X where their car was parked. All in scale, of course. They went away. By their third visit it was Thursday, and I had decided that I should always go fishing on Thursdays, so when they got to the door there was a Gone Fishing sign on it.