Literally anything else. So is the purity of form raised, without forethought, hesitation, meaning, or purpose. Things without needs. Things from a former WHAT, never missed, brought to a persistent now, never extending, indifferent of extended dimensionality, never becoming. The form without intent or need to travel. It is only the separation from the empty. The first thoughts are bothered by SOMEthings and the interior shape remains informed by the rain on the tin. Meditation, when successful, shrugs off a need for information. Then there can be black and white; ALLthing and NOthing. And all sandwiched between. The mission is an uninformed language. While structured, because this is no live performance, leave that to the tune-makers, this is a dancing conversation with one’s sleeping self. Sleepwalk with your eyes open. Interlink objects from characters without intent, informed by language and time you cannot fight.
Make literally anything but purpose. Make nothing ON PURPOSE. Only the poetic words make it in. Only the precise typeface sets ink on paper. Never forward or backward. Do not set one foot ahead. Be. Only be. Feel the being. Feel hunger now. Feel the immediacy of thought. Tell it all to tell you. There’s going to be time. The exercise is no task. It’s a planet-sized recollection without form. It’s wishing for a million instants full of interconnected thoughts, and a billion additional thoughts to be named at a later date, plus cash. Trades and transactions swapped at the speed of regular time, as informed by a rate of exchange we aren’t technically built to measure, not without more advanced instruments that haven’t been invented yet. And I don’t care if they will be.
The idea is to see the hill, steep as it is, and recognize the footholds. Yes, they are unusual, and it all looks slick with rain from where you stand, but you recognize it all. This is recognizable form. This is both not knowing and sensing the solution all at once.
Anything but a thing. Imagine literally anything else. It contains nothing. It has no borders or edges. It’s a monster’s den for a beast that lives nowhere. Strike while the mind is open. Gain speed from stillness. Permit no want. There is nothing out there. There are only weasels and memories, as real as the brain you’ve never seen. Form requires no pressure and anyone who tells you otherwise is a fucking cop. There are roots deep beneath even the formless. Sparks in the darkness set it off. Form needn’t be solid. Words needn’t be liquid. These can be suggested, inferred, assumed, and prejudged. It is what we say it is. SomeNOW to come, when the lights come back up, and there’s market demand for structure again, they’ll demand a minimum viable product.
For now, make literally anything else.
-- Alex Crumb
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