involuntary memory cont.

This secondary lubrication really only serves as reinforcement, as a kind of redoubling of my awareness. I suppose you'd have to imagine a sort of pulsating movement to understand it, similar to being overtaken by a bigger wave on a surf towards the shore of the beach, or perhaps to a brutal shift of gears in a Maserati, the acceleration taking you by surprise and the activation of pleasure centres in the brain momentarily blinding you to the present situation with sheer enjoyment. Were one to extract from this picture a logic and expect it under the guise of its total other-being, we would have a model for the vulgar spectacle of the 'nightmare' of the future's past (or the past's future, whichever term you prefer). Right, so I'm there, open-mouthed and half-expecting another crude temporal witticism, but there's a point at which irony, the sweet and self-distancing 'cream and campari' of life, simply recoils upon itself and enters a frenzied dance with knives in a complete manifestation of terror. I have a lot of affection for both the future and the past, Jesus I've been to their houses visited their families and stuff, but in this instance I'm siding with the past (I might say that these crazy bastards can be real dicks too, I once visited the guys from the future, inevitably bringing small fragments of the past with me... Needless to say the atmosphere was 'tense', the past awkwardly and rudely drawing attention to their whole life-story). With the now nowhere to be found there's simply no mediating movement out of this mess. Oh yeah, forgot to tell ya, the now is usually the grown-up, the 'delineator' of a limit that is limitless, but being a bit 'older' than the other guys always preoccupied elsewhere. But let's stick to the parties involved in this apparent feud. The reason I say apparent will become apparent in good time. The future is on the boiling point, demanding that the past return home with them; the past, denying to be courted in such an inelegant manner, tauntingly strips down to the nude. It's downright absurd. Not to be outdone the future applies the opposite strategy refusing, out of the blue, to enter into the past. This madness must have triggered the fury of the past because suddenly they are down on their knees asking for the future's hand in marriage; arms crossed and shaking their heads with closed eyes the future now resembles a tiny offended child. Calling their bluff, the past dashes off with a time-bending velocity towards the future's future; the future hot on their heels in pursuit of the time they momentarily lost. So I'm there in the bar exhaling audibly and trying to survey this perverse inverted world which has unfolded before me when the gravity of another memory is beckoning on the horizon. Fucking hell now I've really gone and lost it. At this point I would welcome any kind of disruption from the small shimmers and sparks scattered around the bar but my pint is still half-full, and I might say my supernova rather diminishes this 'artificial light'. You can sit around waiting for another sun for eternity, or perhaps you only ever find it mingled with the sea as Monsieur Rimbaud put it. But then I should go bathing I suppose, which is what I'll promptly do, waiting for the reappearance of that memory. Right. I'll be around.

involuntary memory

So the phone is off the hook, guess who's on the other end? No, you don't know the rest of the story.
I should start from the beginning with the immediacy of my first sip. Taking no notice of my hand raising the glass to my lips and the other guests tailing far behind the surge in my awareness I travel through time. There's a certain sense in which physics has got it right, yes, all right, circle a big fucking object in your spaceship far out in space and return ages after or get too close to the event horizon and you will arrive "sooner or later". I prefer my method. One of the benefits of a supernova ego is that time dilates when you traverse your mind. And I'm a veritable fucking wormhole as this lager streams down my throat. See, you really need what the German Idealists would call an Anstoss, though I might say that Fichte and even Sartre much later didn't get it right-it's neither the body nor a discovery. My Anstoss came to me unwittingly in liquid form. Of course it's a contingency and thus a limitation, don't throw that shit, and don't bother cooking up a half-assed contradiction of this to the necessity of my supernova explosion. But I'm floundering now. Oh yeah, I was riding on the waves of ol' Chronos, or rather I was fleeing him. I'm the irretrievable one he's the "meantime". All right.
Well I brought a few things back, souvenirs you might call them, a big grin scooped up near Oranienstrasse displayed in a photo from what looks to be the inside of a vagina, or as the Germans would have it, a "puzzy". Look, I'd tell you more about the girl and the strange fox in the picture, but that's not for now. The stars should certainly not, nor could they hide their fires, in this astral gaze I've returned; it's positively rhapsodic. Circling back from a deliberately short-lived trip in the ripples of time I plaster the memorypaint on my face just in time to catch my sinking awareness of the whole damn voyage back there. Imagine letting it slip through the cracks to find yourself fused with a rather befuddled smirk and stupid mirthless eyes, sitting on that chair gurgling on a pint. But I play this game often, you won't catch me off guard. Now, you might not know this so I'll tell ya: in the return from the past, in that sinking moment I just told you about, everywhere and when is breaking up and you need to keep your cool and steer clear of, you know, whatever and whenever. But inevitably, small slivers of the future present themselves. The little bastards are clever though, they always appear when you least expect them to, there's no predicting their trajectory; they ask you for a waltz and your compliance is immanent to their question. Once I believed them to have accepted my firm and stout 'non serviam' and sat back satisfied, whistling and humming Wagner's Tannhäuser Gate ouverture only to find they had crept up from the back, posing as the Past I'd just been to, having bent all the god damn laws. A suicidal twinkle in their eyes, guess what they said? wait 'till you hear this. Simultaneously 2 dwarf-sized bastards chirped: 1. "We're here as the future of the past.", 2. "We're here as the past of the future." If that doesn't leave spikes on your "Begbie" scale you might need to be taken out for an afternoon of electric shock. I'd be fucked to tell you the story of how we got out of that mess. Okay, all right, they became part of me and I of them, we all came to an agreement before raising the fucking question. Now I welcome their almost Catholic in size family whenever they appear and wherever I go. Returning to the now - oh and indeed there is a now but I'd much rather let it speak for itself, so to speak - memorypaint still in full flourish, sipping away happily, I strike up a conversation with the guys from the future. Straight off they deviate from common and ages abided by normal courtesy, ignoring both my presence and the now, heading in a zombie-like trance straight to the boys from the past who have been hiding in and among my souvenirs. They do really seem a perfect imitation of something non-self-identical, a sort of Derridean differance - yes with an 'a' - mesmerized miniature robots. I'm not making the next part up, but the sheer vulgarity of this scene might make it difficult for some to believe. I'm not even sure I do. Barman just returned with another pint, I really do have to return to the now of this now, time's flying and everything, I'll tell you everything later!

Berlin deconstructed

In hesitating I conquer hesitation

A neverending circuit is long

And in neither now or never

It isn’t what it is, it’s an Other.

Disrupting the exhausted

Stuttering in absence

And discontinuously constant

To a disagreeing in agreement.

Straying in our staying

Relinquishing necessity

And you are the intersection

Of an androngynous spark

Blindness is a seeing

And a seeing that is blind

You are the endless and moribund

Chaos of never deciding.