Erinn Shaughnessy

Mix, blend, agitate, shift, disturb, rustle, awaken

[dashistir]

This was inspired by Foucoult, and a sunset over water. The invisibility of the force that makes the world turn, and the visibility of all those bouncy refracted rays.

 How much has been confused in the name of ‘figuring things out’.

[dashistir]

Do you see what I see, can you feel what I feel. It’s not that I’m special - no way. How do I tie this up in a cellophane structure. Preserve this brief blip. Incapsulate “now”. The feeling, the structure but more importantly the Knowing, the Knowledge the Understanding the Bloom. 

[dashistir]

Is this as obvious to you as it is to me? No, not really? okay. I want to say 

“There are two forces, and they’re dueling and which one will win?” I want to say “I don’t hear voices, but I think things - sometimes, maybe you think them too?” I want to say “I think we aren’t quite right about anything.” I want to say “but we’re so close, so close, I can feel it” I want to say “God I miss you so much” I want to say lots of things.

[grandmasterwoke-deactivated2020]

im doing research in the field of Hyper-efficient universal macroscopic theory synchronization through linguistic communication.

[dashistir]

This is an excerpt of thoughts which are inumnerable. Transcribed, here, in the moment they beget something which is far greater. I hope to have people read these and think “oh wow, I get it” Understanding that those moments will be interspersed with other moments of “what is she trying to say” The words are dense, each sentence conveying a message that, if not gotten, is completely lost. I struggle with this myself on the rereading, occassionally my eyes glazing over until “oh yeah”. It is supposed to be read with an understanding of phenomenological meaning or importance. The idea that a picture can be gleamed from something it is not explicitly describing. An impression of artifactual meaning.

orchestrated outrage at the micro level.

The coolness factor of where you are at the moment

For something to be orchestrated it has to contain certain things.

Deliberation for one. Mechanism, moving parts. Reality is not stagnated. At any moment it is all moving. Interspersing details on different descriptive planes, relative to their use. Potential, purpose. All subjective to the perciever.

You see how it gets tricky to analyze in a given space (between two people) let alone a culture (of many). A group of even more. Subjectively bleeding different identities - invisible until you open them up, and it comes pouring out.

The problem I have with American culture is we say “It doesnt exist” and the proceed to shout at each other about our identities, our histories, our expressions. Meanwhile, it turns out - as we always assumed - none of that matters. In an instant, poof.

Over the hump.

It is as if the gnawing becomes the culture. Marrow seeping into every bite. Wittling down truths and notions of reality, perfecting their shapes until Blech -

we’ve had enough with that one.

A powdery composite, grinding our teeth. There’s always a next agenda. An item of stressor for more.

We are blind in all this to eachother. The token de facto bretheren - of - land we’re against. By nature, we revolt against him feeling the sting of our burden, our plight.

Resounding, relentless, crescendo. Which voice makes up the loudest awakening, the rousng inferno of “Cool”.

We bite again. Forgetting the process, of which we’ve came. Distracted, once more - by whom?

[greencottagecore]

Perfect day

[dashistir]

A Mistaken Case of Identity

I don’t know how Kafka put it, or anything for that matter, but something similar is happening to me. A thing that happened to him, or some part of him - which foretold the reality of this occurrence.

I have become a cockroach.

Cockroaches relay frequencies back and forth to each other. A crossfire conversation exclaiming electric code.

Our thoughts are jumbled.

It started in my dreams, as always. I was sinking into something. A voice careened for my attention. Turning - I heard it. It said one thing:

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP - BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

Walking forward with eyes out to the world, when you see a sparkle shrilling in a corner you doubt yourself sight. Back and forth you tilt your head to recapture that gleaming occurrence. I tilted my head and I couldn’t deny - that cockroach was talking to me. Communicating the only way it’s linguistic orifice masticated sound. A transmutation of binary code.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP - BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

The weight of every Roachian thought and idea is carried in that perfect circumference. An eight sequence snake backing into itself, and the circuitry wrapped my brain.

A message. A whisper of a recurring sequence fissuring at the walls of my brain, extending outward. I was at the place an idea springs forth when I heard it; floating on the periphery of consciousness, the meniscus of osmosis transfusion. At an impasse, the decision being what to do next - I simply gave up. Delivering the slice of personal real estate to the voice now speaking to me in my head, I signed over my right to quarrel about identity. With a second voice now occupying my brain there was a jumbling of neurons that had never been. Rivets made in the swathes of previously unaccounted for territory. What had been a gloopy conglomerate of firing tissue now held noisy howls, scattered about no idea where which one came.

What would have been a jarring experience was dissolved in an apathetic solution. I pushed myself out of my mind, and into that of an observer. Peering over the edge of my eyelids, a lab report inferring a conclusion.

I learned that cockroaches are an emergent species. Their actions springs forth from the decisions of those around them. It goes on like this until one, I’m assuming nestles itself cozily in an outsourced agenda. They are social creatures following a pattern, making waves in places much like that of a mind.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP - BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

Each cockroach knows where they stand in an eight beep cycle. Neurons creating disturbances to communicate, make decisions, grow, change. When you’re introduced to an eight beep cycle, you become a 9th beep - a deviation. Chaos ensues. There’s a mathematic necessity to forward expansion, with momentum orienting the whole. For a time. Then it stops. Semantics filling buckets, spilling into the next. Rube Goldburg euphoria when what’s tipped turns into the next pivot, a point. Then a hallowing thud.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP - BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

My autonomy had been swept up into a dizzying spiral of uncoordinated events. My want  was integrated to every cycle, then the interval repeats. There’s a fate in capitulating to circumstances you’ve created. An illusion of independence to sway the pendulum, the purview capturing only the back and forth swing. The oscillation of the whole, obfuscated by a lack of purview - a loathsome uncontrollable agenda. A sight.

Was I ever in control? Before this sight pushed me from the drivers seat, deluding me of my own subconscious. Sight, like time is a spacious component in a claustrophobic box. A brain in a skull, biology redacting metaphor. The illusive transgressions of our ancestors and the minute agendas of history. A want accosted by fate. 

The unaccounted for variable of a brain occupied by an adjacent member. Unwilling to depart this neutral territory - I’ve, become a cockroach.

[dashistir]

How Your Mind Is Pulled

Each thing, occupies your mind with some kind of mental stimulus - Each vision of a snapshot of a room - a mental imagery. Comprised with a smell, an idea and awareness of outside noises - everything is evocative of an else. Add the complexities of a digitized inter-web - technology firing through your body, your cerebellum, your temples, your fingertips - the actual molecular digitizing of code to a particular frequency, calibration - set point. Your body, fires a response.

(I think of this every time I’m on a web browser set text to type, ready to write out ideas. Each thing on the page, the code, pulling me in, each one different in a visually specific way.)

And then also my mind is occupied by other things. Whole scenarios and ideas - visualizations of events Past and Future. Two cosmic leaps. Complete, fictive identities of a potential-in-the-future. A moment that might never have been, or be = our feelings attaching some sort of discouragement, fear or aversion, and sometimes a jealous envy of a future self - zapping us in the ribs. We are always in one of two places - and also always in both. Three. A trinity of identity. Voracious metaphorical concept. No cruelty of intention or malice in conforming. A hint of revery for, so alarmingly base as to hit at our crux’est of wiring. The language, a burning ember, semiotics of chance, 

Ideas and usage bubbling over onto each other spiraling and catapulting into another hinting at abrupt changes of visuals and narratives. We, as everything else, are always changing.

We see things in our mind differently, at several different moments (who can say when when it it seems that a single day can be siphoned off onto even smaller bits of micro separations of self) which category these “moments” fall into separating back further into all of the other categorical/mental separations we’ve given ourselves to further define a “moment” of self (coming of age, self discovery, mid life crisis)

And so these visual images, and these mental images are mixed up like a slide of colored projector paper overlapping themselves. Moving and sliding on top of each other. This is how your mind is pulled.

The recreation in your head at the mind in all three places, This is how your mind is pulled - mentally, visually - and then you - the intermediary joining the absolute potential for two. 

[dashistir]

Diogenes

Diogenes was a man I had just learned about that very second. A story perhaps from a time the world seemed much smaller. A name - when there could have been none. How many years far removed until we ask ourselves - this this moral? To capture a moment to this degree, snapshot splicing history. Stymying divets toward the future.

It comes in waves like all things, the ability to sustain yourself in either direction and illusion safe guarded by chance of sight.

I wonder how much longer we’ve got, our bodies break down naturally the revolution in our minds. A coordinated set of functions deviations sidestepping the whole.

[dashistir]

The world subjects every enterprise to an alternative; that of success or failure, of victory or defeat. I protest by another logic: I am simultaneously and contradictorily happy and wretched ; " to succeed" or " to fail"  have for me only contingent, provisional meanings (which doesn't keep my sufferings and my desires from being violent); what inspires me, secretly and stubbornly, is not a tactic: I accept and I affirm, beyond truth and falsehood, beyond success and failure; I have withdrawn from all finality, I live according to chance (as is evidenced by the fact that the figures of my discourse occur to me like so many dice casts). Flouted in my enterprise (as it happens), I emerge from it neither victor nor vanquished: I am tragic. (Someone tells me: this kind of love is not viable. But how can you evaluate viability? Why is the viable a Good Thing? Why is it better to last than to burn?

Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse

[dashistir]

“If we choose, we can live in a world of comforting illusion”

-Noam Chomsky

[dashistir]

idk tbh idc

The narrative

Grandiose 

An arc

The cast of characters, remembering differently

History forgets the indifference. The spirit of banality, permeating the moment, nudging the inevitable.

We understand history in explosions.The instances of rousing turbulence and colorful indemnity. Intellectual, Scientific, The Bang; looking back we see a revolution in-spite-of. A snapshot excavated and discussed “a pivotal point when the people demanded change”. Preserving the narrative we retell it using the only linguistic tools we have. Sentences disjointed and reductively inclined. A subject a predicate a verb, onomatopoeia. “Boom!” A shift.

Indifference leaves no artifacts. A gust of wind, a bullet of ice - an onlooker sees patio furniture revolting against its upright state, a gaping hole making itself known in the flesh of a slumped man. The illusive force long gone.

History is propelled by these small acts of individual shoulders shrugging in the direction of faces like novacane. The confusing task of retelling the indifference sparking the flame falls on deaf ears. Where’s the meat? The spongy oomph to sink our teeth into? Unsatisfied with nuances we ask: Who Has The Beef?

It is the revolution we see in portraits left behind. The leader who Became. The crescendo of the moment, resonating into gooseflesh that piques us into thinking “we Can become too”.

Somewhere amongst the indifference everything changes. With your iphone and your paper plates. Tepid to the movement of Now. The proliferation of shouting voices like grains of sand adding themselves together, it is only in the portraits we are shown the moment they mysteriously become a heap.

[dashistir]

Men R Arrogant

Even from a young age, I’ve never trusted man’s arrogance. Flying. Flying has always seemed so arrogant. Can you imagine? The balls. The sheer insanity off thinking you could do that? Bordering on unethical. Were the Wright brothers met with a rift of screaming moralists? Chastising them for challenging the God’s omnipotence. Man’s fallibility. Self idolatry?

The feat, defying physical impossibility and exponentially catapulting the Human Spirit. Giving magical qualities to man’s ability, along with something else. Presenting, a secondary gift of Sight.

A type of view possible only from high peaks - obstructed by an angular quality of standing on a ridge and looking out, out, out. Looking down from this view, predictable, a sight awe inspiring, but never changing. The ancient mountains remaining stationary.

Flying gave the ability to transcend and overlook, down, down, down. Peering into where you just were, and where, the people you just left - remain. From this height, you see the distant territories as constructed. Geometrical in a way they hadn’t been before. The intuitive nature of interactions with your surrounding building your idea of what they look like. The only possible way they could be. - But up, up, up. Interacting only to look upon, an objective documentarian divorced from the nexus of stimulus guiding you: You See. A stark purview. A rare moment of forced perspective change, in which you can’t deny the perspective.

Everything you know, is different. Exists differently. Always has. You've never seen it. This way. The only place you've known.

Your microscopic sense, trained towards reduction. Easier to dig down, dissect and analyze, extrapolate . Reductive perspective in, in in - you've explored every nook - every cranny. Tilted your head every angle, listened to the wind through every tree and seen every slice of gossip tasted every piece of pie. Never knowing.

 One Plane Up: That Arrogance. Shattered.

[dashistir]

[dashistir]

I’m Wearing Pink & You’re All Going To Die

All pink. Red pin stripe pants, black sweater, pink denim, silver necklace, shoes, blue bag. Walking into an all black coffee shop. My friend - from the Black Forest. Letting me sit with him. I’m frazzled. Spastic. Why. Having snorted 5 mg of Adderall. Chewed 10. Okay. Should I stop. No. It’s how I’m wearing this. I like this outfit too much. Aesthetics. 

Good reminder. Back to Art.

{Inexplicable beauty. Does it even exist. We’re all going to die.}

The absurdity of life amongst death fuels most of the things that I do, and think about. The idea that we would have a rigorous undertaking of any subject, without the impetus of the pen stroke being on our impending death - seems [scary?] No. Chilling. The repetitive task of an insane person. The jerking movements, without obvious construction, but with such flailing passion - unsettling. Giving goosebumps and piquing mysterious sorrow. We recognize insanity almost instantly, intuitively. Excess in any direction interpreted as insanity - the gluttonous accrual of such odd specificity. Shivers are sent. We recognize ‘wrong’ ‘useless’ ‘un-human’.

A man passionately digging into the earth, shouting in excitement, examining the soil, jarring it, boiling it, shaking it, inspecting it. His movements, wild and rapidly focused. 

“What are you doing?” you ask this scientific man, of obvious scholar. 

His eyes lock with yours and he starts yelling off the names of past presidents. Focusing his eyes on you when he says “Taft! Eisenhower!”. You flinch. He goes back to shouting at his home, his dirt samples. Turning the glass and inspecting the jars obsessively in the sunlight. His turns and his inspections taking on a new meaning.

“Crazy” we say. His words of explanation mismatched with his movements, obsessively organized, vacuously didactic - obviously crazy.

That is the sciences, the distracting philosophies, capitalism, abortion, Manifest destiny. All of the things we dig our heels into and build, build, build upon. So close we are! With our jars and out steam diggers. So close! The shelves and the checklists, bouncing back between each other passionately flailing - we’ve found this! The one we’ve been looking for! The one which answers the question that came before this one - that proves the assertion that justified that thing. Eureka! It exists!

Peering our head down the hole, into the trench, soft earth pressing against our shoulders as the haunches of our center of gravity shifts, the warm wet air filling our mouths as we inhale - 

“YOURE ALL GOING TO DIE!”

  we yell into the darkness, the words, hitting the edges closest to us and reverberating back in small ripples. 

Did they hear? We take a full breath, deeper, wanting to feel the bite of an over pressed lungs so we can push out fuller force this time - dust speck sweeps silently into our mouth and lodges itself in the back of our throat. 

Impulsively, robotically, we lot out a quick, sharp cough. Again, cough, again. Doubled over - satisfying the biology within us - an internal pleasure response dings a “good job!” “cough!” “thats good!” “cough again” We smile, satisfied. Distractedly confused. Out basest biology clouding the intellectual indignities - should I refill my lungs? Yell back into the abyss? Suddenly - tired from the cough - wary of the dust. 

“Why?” we ask ourselves. “Whats the point in bothering?” we realize. “We’re all going to die.”