I read the second chapter of your book first, then I read the first chapter second, and then I read the second chapter again, third, but the third has yet to be read, yet as in not yet, but it will be forth. The first chapter was actually read to me, to the extent that we might refer to the text-to-speech feature of my computer as "reading," and I think you will appreciate the irony of the synthesized voice being named ___. Yes so ___ -- the synthetic ___ -- read me the first chapter last night while I prepared food and everything was going just peachy keen until ___ reached the part of the text that is spelled out phonetically, or rather written to read the way it would have been spoken, with all the lingering residues of apostrophes and other half-incised punctuations sweetening the tea. When ___ reached this point in the text there was a collective wide-eyed pause instilled within all of the human beings present, which quickly transitioned into a mild hysteria and increasing throb of horror dispersed through the room, manifested in the shrill antagonisms (or were they agonisms?) of ___ most notably.

Interlude.

Just interrupted by ___ rolling up on a dilapidated bicycle. We discussed the dissociative experience of being nestled in mountains, signifying a ripping away from the body of civilization reminiscent of the dissociation experienced through psychedelic drugs. Or is is disassociation? Dis-association as in a reorientation of personal associations to self or things, or dis-sociation or even dis-socialization which perhaps refers more to the self being removed from a collectivized body? Perhaps both. Seydisfjurdur as a psychoactive state that one can dose. Then we stumbled upon -- quite by chance -- our mutual appreciation for dextromethorphan hydrobromide, or DXM, the primary dissociative drug found in over-the-counter cough suppressant syrup known commonly as Robitussin. Apparently we both have taken this poor-mans-ketamine countless times and find it to be a defining presence in forming our positions on privilege, which adds intrigue to the fact that we have such different articulations of such a position. We also swapped stories, almost in the same breath but in different meters, of how we had recently -- independently of the other -- taken walks up into the mountain, up onto a crest which neither of us had transcended to previously, different crests on different journeys to the same mountain, and had found ourselves trapped as we were unable to figure out a way back down again. Of course there was always the option of going back the way we came, but I for one couldn't help but think of your prerogative to never go back that way, the way you had come, and I in my own quest felt determined to only go forward and not backwards, which, up there on the ridge, led me to contemplate what and how and why this might be, or at least what it might amount to. If you walk up a mountain, by visible path or blind intuition, perhaps you would agree that there is an experience of ascension to ever great platitudes of physical endurance and mental clarity associated to the geographic stacking of mineral striations, of the Y axis, the vertical conveyor, climbing ever closer to the zenith of the physical world which somehow connects although perhaps only psychically to the cerebral zenith point of clairvoyant apperception. Through the breathing, the pausing, the small achievements of this plane or this rock, there are likewise earned small shifts in perception, creating a felt correlation between the muscles pushing the body up the sheer rock wall and the immaterial musculature of thought as it expands and contracts its faculties in its own silently exasperating struggle to achieve clarity. I have my best epiphanies at the crest of ascendant bodies. Even the smallest hills are ripe with intimate nuances of reverie -- have you ever read Gaston Bachelard's Poetics of Space wherein the author describes the psycho-somatic affects of corners, of columns, of staircases in relation to the crevices of memory? Anyways, up there on the mountain today -- and I must say it was a particularly warm and bright and in every way goddamn gooey syrupy saccharine pleasant day -- I was struck with the thought that I couldn't go back, wouldn't allow myself to retract my own path, and must indeed set a course directly ahead, over the precipice, over the edge of reason, over that limit beyond which I could not walk comfortably or even like the human being that I believed myself to be but more as a crab, a sheep with bilateral cloven hooves, a spider with maybe eight or more legs spreading out in every direction, some physical and some mental, crawling over the purple rock on my back looking up into certain doom. I slipped and spilt all the beans and paused for a minute to watch small boulders weighing at least as much of my own meat puppet loosen from the hillside and roll down, roll all the fucking way down, and in my mind projection could clearly see myself doing the same with one small twitch of foul judgement. Well, I made it of course, with only a few scratches and bruises and none the wiser to be sure, but even now it seems to have been an important decision to have gone ahead. ___ on the other hand had discovered an artificial wall up near the SEYDISFJURDUR sign that appears to have been built to prevent avalanches, the idea of which sent us both into an uncontrollable laughter as we contemplated the futility of such an embarrassingly human gesture.

End of Interlude.

Yes hmmm conversations yes. I want to conduct conversations with you and transcribe them into ruinous diatribes that shake the terra firma of the masses, and also weave them into delicate tapestries that hang loosely over the decaying flesh of the smoldering corpse of postmodern apathy, or at least call attention to the smell, and also perhaps mold some into cement blocks to which we can tie the delirious hopes of ignorant privileged upper-middle castes - and for our own amusements also, as voyeurs and interlocutors - watch them sink all the way to the bottom, that theoretical bottom which both of us knows doesn't really exist. And the audio books, don't forget, I really want to make those happen. And the cover for your book, I want to help with that. I really like your writing by the way, the style and the content, a hard combination to find satisfaction in these days. How many more chapters are there? And your tape loops, I think we should make a polished cassette tape release for my tape label and plan on printing covers for that when we all return to SayThisFührer this winter. And perhaps some kind of tripartite collaboration is called for as well, between you+___+myself? ___ and I are currently preparing a collaboration performance for an "exhibition" (oh the horror) we are having at the HEIMA house on Friday. He will effect/affect my voice through his pedal chain while I read some of the more -- ahem -- "aggressive" texts I have been producing (for this particular scenario the aggression will be leveraged against the seeming-apathy of the Swiss nincompoops down the way, whom despite my attempts to prevent such a thing from happening have left a rather sour taste in my mouth. Perhaps I am just ripe for the marauding and need any excuse for a target and they are the only fitting fodder at hand. Anyways, not a one-off, but an edition, but yeah let's do the one-offs too. I love the handmade paper from Kathmandu but I think I love the story more than the material, and the cement. We need to research some artist book/ephemera collections that we can send our non-editions too whom will hold them gently and turn them over quietly in a time capsule and lend an air of silent sophistication to our otherwise delinquent dialectic. I think they need to be seen and heard and handled, but not owned or kept, a kind of secret in plain view that you will only ever see if you are looking but could also very well stumble over.

My own book is coming along nicely. I'm figuring it out and ironing out the creases even as I'm making new ones, creases that is. As it currently stands I've distilled a system of language based on cuneiform -- the triangles and lines that almost-ancient (presumably) men pushed into wet clay that comprises the earliest form of known type -- and have compiled a taxonomy of every known figure, abstracted into a vector graphic with some subtle unperceivable alterations to make them more archetypal. Alongside this I am developing a new color theory, a theory of tactile color, based upon the notion that vision is not purely passive but palpable, a sense which reaches out of the body and interacts with the object in a dance of mutual exchange rather than just a spongey mass of rods and cones condensed into a pupil. The proto-linguistic glyphs are being joined at their intersections to model the self-making (autopoietic) structures of cellular automata, with the end product looking like some kind of post-LSD Mondrian broadway boogie woogie mixed with the schematic circuits of an alien technology... very satisfying. Then I've collected a series of symbols derived from some alchemical occult text, each pattern representing a person and a sound and material and a poetic tangent, as alchemy is prone to do. These symbols, encapsulated into circles, are then composed into "meta-forms" of bifold symmetry, akin to the Metatron cube made up of Platonic solids (like those adorning my digits) which we were looking at one night. Circles of symbols building up a lattice of larger circular symbolism which represent two-dimensions of information coagulating on a three-dimensional axiometric perspectivalism of the universe, spun through the velocity of time. Finally, this multi-tiered system of abstraction will be presented as an empty vessel waiting to be filled with content, which I will eventually (probably tomorrow) top off to the brim with textures pulled from the internet hyper-consciousness at our disposal. Images of wildflowers, mineralogical specimens, and colonial snail shells (imported from Spain to combat the other invasive species of aptly named "murder slugs") will be inserted into this model architecture of archetypal forms to function as maquette for the sculptures which I am already making, emphasis on the already making as I see this whole goddamn book to be a kind of reverse engineering of my thought process in the same way that designs for top-of-the-line VCRs are made economically viable through utilizing shit components and slave labor. Ok, not exactly the same thing, but in the same vein.

Like I said earlier, today was a most magnificent day out here at the edge of the world. I spent all day at the table outside, and in fact I'm still sitting here now as I write this to you. While basking in the sun I wrote a text, which I will attach along with this one, concerning the same theme that I have been building upon -- the self as an infinitely white hot dot -- but this time oriented towards the context, namely that of a proverbial table setting.

Second Interlude.

While writing this letter to you it was demanded of me that I attempt to read the aforementioned text outloud, so I will attach this recording instead. Immediately following this reading we commenced to drink copious quantities of beer while rehearsing the above mentioned collaborative reading/noise project, then ___ mysteriously appeared and drank the rest of the beers, then I got far too drunk and giddy like a fucking sloppy teenager and giggle fucked myself while trying to tell idiot anecdotes of my worthless autobiographic escapades and for a minute felt bad then let it all slide and felt better then ate some chili peanuts and felt worse then work up still drunk which feels pretty fucking O-K since the sun is out again and I feel like I have somehow gone full circle, straight ahead, in spite of the clocks and calculators to end up back where I started but changed and so much for the better for not having turned back.

End of Interlude.

End it as abruptly as it began.