J’abhorre ces bibelots brocantés au coin des corps, au bout des bouquins. Ces colifichets façonnés avec les outils de plaisir me dégoûtent. Ce n’est pas que les amusettes du moi sont des fétiches de péché dont je devrais me repentir et regretter. Ni que le spectre tremblotant qui relie la honte et la culpabilité n’est pas la gamaka critique que j’ébranle et trémousse, bredouille et chevrote afin de, soit punir, soit acquitter, ou soit, simplement, nettoyer toutes les fanfreluches qui prennent des poses, font figure, poussent la poussière sur l’échiquier social: la kyrielle foutue des pions, la gambade-svastika du cavalier, l’intrigue éblouie du fou, les passages élégants de la tour et de la reine, le traînassement ronchonnant du roi: tant d’arcane abruti simplement pour participer dans le va-et-vient discordant de la culture, pour delimiter une mélodie, même désinvolte ou incohérente, dans le gamelan du soi! La douleur, comme agrément de la mémoire, est plus intrinsèque que le plaisir, et donc je veux, avec un grand coup de balai mnésoclastique, déblayer toutes les connaissances que j’ai oubliées (si je les ai jamais apprises), et faire voler toutes les breloques nostalgiques exposées sur les étaux de l’expérience, les faire écrouler à terre.
I hate baubles bought from bodies and books. Gewgaws crafted with the organon of Lust fill me with disgust. It’s not that any kickshaw of self is a fetish of sin I or anyone else should regret and repent. Nor is the seesaw spectrum linking shame and guilt the critical gamaka we teslaphonically jiggle and flounce, whether to punish, acquit, or simply clean, all those tchotchkes striking poses, cutting figures, growing dust on the social chessboard: the doomed kyrielle of the pawns, the svastik-gambado of the knight, the vexed marplot of the bishop, the elegant swoop of rook and queen, the grumbling shuffle of the king: so much gormless arcana just to participate in the cacophonous give-and-take of culture, to stake out a melody, however cavalier or incoherent, in the gamelan of self! Pain readorns memory more intensely than pleasure does, and so with a mnemonoclastic sweep of the arm of all that knowledge I’ve forgotten, if I ever learned it, I want to send all those nostalgic trinkets displayed in the arcade of experience crashing to the floor.
Schizomythological clitalysis of the author’s text (SCAT)
Bodies and books
“Naked, in a dark room, I kneeled slicing the shy mirrors of snapshots, notebooks, poems, journals, letters, gifts of books and clothes. Such storm when I sliced my thighs knocked pebble from desk. That pebble shattered into crystal panicles of crocus and plum, bright innards of a precious geode the shards of which I was able to pawn for a chat with a guitar-wielding jester on the terrace of a cafe where the pale goddess of nicotine became my night’s beacon. Various bar-room clinches with midnight witches were also bartered for. ‘The hour in which I am is fragment of the hour which I become,’ proclaimed one of that coven. ‘Here,’ I said, hunched over my beer and pointing to my scars, ‘is music for your sabbat, stave and measure of nuptial communion, memory made flesh of raw debauchery.’ A nobler love, and never abased: could there be such carriage in it?” (M. S. Strickland, The Safely Waking Loam, Owlstain and Paris, Editions MSS, 2002).
The word is German and does not rhyme with the last word of the sentence that contains it.
“As rediscovered by Ouida, ludict assumes the form of an Ityalian lexeme (‘word’) possessing an inherent senimalistic gamaka (गमक) — et je pense qu’il est très peu de mots qui, même lu, dit tant bien que mal ce qu’il veut dire than the very sense it itself so ably conveys (das was es heisst, meint, bedeutet sich), which is the whole manicarnic gamut, gambit, game, gallimaufry, and gallimatia of semantic-pragmatic fluidity — such that its earliest attested avatars in the Ionis Astra, a court lyric ostensibly penned by the Poldevian prince Patrolius in On c. 1517 but containing moult distaff scats traceable by our author (OA) to the epic lucubrations as recounted to that diplomat by (a) lubricious courtesan(s) in the Lucullan sara-pardeh of Babur in Kabul c. 1505–1506 variously known to posterity as Nirusa da Norlia and/or Norlia di Nirusa, while bearing the core tonal values of ‘lyric, song, chant’, also express catoptroman(t)ic shades of ‘taboo’, ‘music’, ‘play(fulness)’, ‘(obscure) mirror’, ‘birth’, ‘liquidity’, and so on, that is, giving rise to the happy accident that, in modern usage, various species of ludic text(work) and ludic textuality can readily be made to insenimalate themselves into it, the term being able to withstand functional strains of a dual nominative-adjectival nature to such an extent that Ouida can both claim ‘to unsnap, unhitch, unzip, unbutton and unfurl my ludict unpacking of lyrical glyph’ and complain ‘Why do I find writing this ludict so difficult?’ — which happy accident, so to speak, nonetheless, leads many a critical literalist in the field allusively astray along that via dolorosa of subdolous ‘etymology’ which can nought but end most dolorously in the dolose delusive pitfall wherein the elusive ludict ludicrously presents as a mere duliostic ‘interlude’ (!) in lexical ecology, a ludibrious septentrional sport illusively ‘deriving’ from more disillusively meridional variants involving the whole humdrum collusion of ludi-, ludo-, lus-, ludere, ludicrum, ludus, etc., yawn” (D. I. Swopes, JSocPhys 01703, March 2010, internal references nixed).
“The starboard nymph fingered and stroked, often in a frenzy — soit focalized, soit longitudinal — of pornographic rapidity, something like a Teslaphonic sarangi, whilst the larboard apsaras diddled and struck and caressed, after dipping her tapered digits into un petit pot de tressallier belge, with tender circular motions the elastic lizardskin of a Kirliotactic kanjira connected to something like a Fresnel system of contrapuntal diffraction that extracted a stillicidal suite of synchronized arpeggios in a recondite Larestani mode from a homologous virginal automaton — and all the while they clocked and gyred in the most alluringly vulgar of manners the secular flares of their iliac crests!” (Michael Sean Strickland, Words to Make a Story Out of, § 13. Lares).
Alt. of mnemonoclastic. Cf. “... for we are essayists, nous autres écrivassiers de tout ce qui nous arrive, and the art of the essay is a mnemonoclastic art — the humble, rustic, iterative, comprehensive process of unread revelation, for knowledge (jñāna) is revelation (pramāṇa) of our own self (ātman) within which the pendular duel between matter (pudgala, bhautika) and Mnemosyne (smara, smṛti, smārta) naturally chooses to parry the yataghan of action with the claymore of a citation here and there; that is, a bit of homespun reading! — and we break our recalcitrant mémoires revêches with the brank of le vécu: more ancient than consciousness, that atavistic scolding-bridle is exactly the opposite of the abstersive fetters your morose faiseurs de vers employ to tame their ontalgia, for, as we recoil, like some hypersensate hermaphrodite cringing devant the calcareous harpoon of the Liliputian limacolept, the demented snail-spayer who would wound and woo it, from the supercilious scorn of all the semen-haters of all the sillons, ruelles, traboules, et sentiers of Lesbos as well as the shame, resentment, and stigmata of one’s own rathe menses, our task is not to decry fate, but to bear, comme celui qui a dit, ‘Nihil humani a me alienum puto,’ our psychomachy with wanton, heteroclite, incontinent, and though not necessarily silent, at least uncensorious equanimity” (Michael Sean Strickland, Words to Make a Story Out of, § 16. Accelerate).
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