Naked Lunch served at all hours in a dark, airless, transitional room full of transformations and metamorphoses. Kafkas cockroach fled in terror. Seeing and hearing new. Burroughs bought a stainless-steel dowsing ball from a magic shop and hung it up for decoration. We learned to scry. He was tossing back whole boxes of Eubispasmes to keep his habit up but his nose clean until he could kick Naked Lunch. Then, the All-time Home Cure with Mr Summerface in attendance. The All-time Grizzlies out of Bill, too. Horror bears in all disguise. Cosmic Hoods. Agents rampant. Bone-cracking crustaceans. Mister Ugly Spirit. Ah feel Ahm about to give birth to some horrible critter, he moaned in front of the pulsing mirror. Ah dont feel rightly hooman! Like the Old Man of the Sea, he dissolved into all the scaly-green monsters of legend, right there in a puddle of ectoplasm, there on his bed. Later, much later: I suppose, Brion, you know the story about the two great magicians who had a meet to prove whos tops? First one goes through his scary-faces routine and settles back, real confident: Now, you show Me. The second magician leans over and whispers: Boo! I look around at the pictures, which he was the first to dig: See the Silent Writing of Brion Gysin, Hassan-i-Sabbah, across all skies! I write across the picture space from right to left and, then, I turn the space and write across that again to make a multidimensional grid with the script I picked up from the Pan people. Who runs may read. I have, I think, paid the pipers in full. Within the bright scaffolding appears a world of Little Folk, swinging in their flowering-ink jungle gym, exercising control of matter and knowing space. Writing is fifty years behind painting. Painters have been doing this sort of magic for years. They sprung words on canvas before World War I. Surely, this is the artless art. You cant call me the author of these images come trooping out of the colors, now can you? Catch up on your writing: make with the words. I roll you out a bright, new cellular framework of Space and, in it, I write your Script anew. Light writes in Space. Art is the tail of a comet. The comet is Light. We aim to rewrite this Show and there is no part in it for Hope. Cut-Ups are Machine Age knife-magic, revealing Pandoras box to be the downright nasty Stone Age gimmick it is. Cut through what you are reading. Cut this page now. But copies—after all, we are in Proliferation, too—to do cut-ups and fold-ins until we can deliver the Reality Machine in commercially reasonable quantities - The Third Mind William S Burroughs and Brion Gysin: youtube/watch?v=BpnuPi51ksM
Posted on: Thu, 17 Oct 2013 11:56:27 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015