May 27

May 27 To Mr L: A Tribute to David Lynch

Atomic versus Ephemeral. Eternally, its blast marks the Eternal. An Atomic bomb is forever.

Per aspera, ad Episode 8.

Twin Peaks: The Return.

Him. Above. In corrugating age

Erosion on face by the practice of art

Crumbling-dazzling

Primordial before the future, therefore ahead

Matter annulment

and corpse of vacuum

History is recurring regurgitation. Vomiting to vomiting... becoming: absolute gulp of what already was, there, and then, reject, throw up again. History is perpetual indigestion. History is puke of All Times.

In the Cosmic History, the history of humans never stops vomiting itself over itself

In repetitive, circular branch of history of art, mythological horrifying plurality (packaged into one figure) through capillary veins and historiographical thunderbolts, additional murky descendant from Beckettian absurdity, from stream of consciousness of unconsciousness of Joyce, from active thinking, from surrealism and expressionism.

Which kind of terminal fruit at the bottom of the tree are you? You, relentless revealer of the otherwise world. Spur recalcitrant subconscious is intention: a gesture, making another sign. Involving. InvolvingS how? Upsetting, emptying the meaning of meaning.

You-are traumatic concretion of perturbing hallucinations, givin' a life in picture from The Enigmatic to the phantasmatic of infecting, deformed shows. Freaks Circus.

You-were inclined to portray your frames as fire paintings into dreamlike verities. You demiurge and domains of mirroring-equivalent dimensions. Maze psyche. Cerebral labyrinth. Billboards in the dark. Lost highways, once taken, rewind.... rewind, Möbius strips.

Good paranoia. Vaporous articulations. You, creator of creatures where dream violence lets off. You unleash the savagery of limpid evil.

We gasp and try to channel attention, spasming for something to happen, giving us the self-justification not to wallow in inertia. We must purge. We wanna excuse for erupt temperament lava. It boils in stomach.

Condition: in The Eternal Return of Fraught, excreting themselves into fecal saturation machine

the indecorous defecation hole of vultures

This is our contribution.

In the connective system of galloping intercommunication, what to do about his death? Although nothing is asked of us and the best would be to do nothing. And I wanted to do nothing, but my concrete nothing. My esteem for Him is so high. I don't even dare mention the name (Have you noticed?). If I were to unveil the tribute, I would be betraying. Probably, I would fall like a tear in ocean of silliness, attempting to impose myself as an umpteenth praiser who celebrates themselves whereas celebrating the one to be praised. If I did that: I would melt into self-praise.

Hence. Why do I decide to compose the tribute anyway?

Eyes: Hands

using gaze to rummage

with meticulous passion, searching for inevident trace

through the most implied layers of the unfathomable universe

to seize its obsessions, its imprints...

Point. What better way to pay homage than with a single work SUMMA of overall creation?

The Blast teeming with multiformity

Impressive strike. That explosive fragment – hyper-flashing – left us stunned and motionless. Twisted and shocked. In souls trapped by brains, automatically grew one feeling: no vision had ever pushed so far in television anthology. The feeling flowed. Then hardened. That-that Epic of The Atomic Test Par Excellence Was

Brimmed a swarm corporeality: violence atoms moshed.

Overwhelm. It swept over the field totally. Blazing tsunami in the eyes. The-never-before-seen divide, overpowering... from 2017's programming. Counter-oriented at the bulimic (and tendentious) fatly devour, degrading our time. So, in our lifetime, vagabond borders opened. Borders with perspective lines escaped braving to indefinable anarchies. Decomposition could be composed, recomposed. Free (Even if, unfortunately, instead of recomposition, favored a diabetic congestion

In a nocturnal desert, one dissonance deflagrates white and breaks sky with vertical rise

while like aircraft

or ghost of the same artifice

with rectilinear motion, we approach, we approach... ONE MOMENT PLEASE, A LITTLE BIT OF PROCRASTINATION RHETORIC – because we'll soon probe the fission body: dominating devastation will come upon us, we'll become one with our future death, and witness the born of evil in its utmost ugliness. Birth and death in the same breath.

Nuclear test massive effect. We bump against the “surface” of deflagration. For real, not bump. We penetrate. We “repair” inside the glorious head of plume. Here, display and breaking: we experience atomic principle. We're the heaven in the night and burn. Indeterminate chaos, frenzy of infinite particles assail us. Dear Mr L, you-are the architect of the universe in the flame of blast.