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          A    "Collective Karma: Response to          aNAda #41   A
        A          Uberfizzgig aNAda #39:                            A
     A     Vincent Van Gogh: The Suicide of Society"   04/16/00         A
 A                         by AIDS                                          A
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	My mother always told me... Well, my mother said a lot of things, but 
 she said, "son, a man can defile himself so bad in this world that not even 
 his own mother and father will acknowledge him."  Right about now I feel
 like the Dali Lama's mother and father; those who would accept the Dali Lama
 as a fair representative of the Tibetan people are whores and thieves. those
 who would accept the idea of a common or collective karma being responsible
 for any event of /significance/ are fools. 

	an example is given; the example is that of Moses. 

                            likiki tikitiki 
                            litiki dataka 
                            datki litakika
                            tomba diataklia
                            diatom baklika 

        The artists all dead so early; a short list: edgar allen poe.
 vincent van gogh.  antonin artaud.  isadore ducasse.  gerard de nerval.
 apollinaire.  baudelaire.  rimbaud. 

	In his excellent work "Vincent Van Gogh: la suicide de la societie",
 Artaud addresses the problems of the collective karma; the common karma; the
 people together. 

        A scene: Detroit Institute of Arts. March 25th, 2000.  Special
 exhibit: Vincent Van Gogh.  portraits thereof.  And then I am exposed to the
 bitter women with their pinched faces, geriatric sluts who have come in lieu
 of anything else to do; scent of social securities spend on culture is
 thick.  Others too; those who describe Diego Rivera to me; classes examining
 Graeco-Roman antiquity, magnificence of sculpture.  It's an open banquet
 here, everyone's feasting. 

        Counter-point: self-portrait of Van Gogh.  Light brush strokes for
 the man.  No visible globs of paint.  Pointillist.  the strokes, light
 dashes of color, circling around one single point of focus: the left eye of
 Van Gogh.  It brings me in.  It's sucking.  Calling in.  Hither.  Thither.
 I let it, but I don't enter.  I am incapable of entering, but I hear the
 call.

        The others go about.  Oil paintings of filthy french families; ink
 sketches thrown off into the water are resurrected and posted on walls; they
 are read like church bulletins.  Believer and heathen alike.  130 deaths in
 Whitechapel this week, 128 of the plague.  130 deaths in Whitechapel this
 week, 128 of plague.  Fund raiser next sunday for new organ.  New priest
 coming next month.

        An eye: watching.  The orange of the beard; the color of the
 crusades.  Begging for mercy.  The Knights Templar founded in 1180, put down
 in 1320.  I'm brought into the Saturnalia.  December 25th is long gone, and
 I am here in the musuem with the same girl who kept my bed that night. 

        Outside the sex is as thick as tapestries.
 
                            dididi dodilaka
                            latika fiki 
                            totum tata 
                            fita tumta 
                            dodila lafita

 	
        at night, the genius sleeps.  visitations.  all the horrid faces.  a
 slow conspiracy of the overclass; of all those whose daily life is food.
 Those men and women who Trotsky and Rivera would paint murals of; those who
 would ask you to set up printservers; people who look and sound just like
 you. and just like me.

        They, too, sleep. merging back into that great unity from whence they
 came.  Together now; they look up and down through the dreamworld; they seek
 the ones who are not part of their pattern.  And then it's black magic time;
 the spells are cast.

        Visited.  Night visitations by the horror the tattering horror which
 takes the soul and reduces it to threadbare carpets use to hide stained
 floors.  What was is unmade.  Purity of vision is deluged by cars and
 analysis and metal and wire and choking whores putrid rancid with syphilis
 patients babies screaming web designers calling down the pain mother's worry
 over her missing baby cash money tomorrow today yesterday last tuesday
 splattered all over their impending what was isn't can't be and never was
 Well, we ain't got it on him, but we sure got it on his helper.  Everyone
 you know and everyone you don't know comes to the banquet; what's the main
 course?  souls.  soul of van gogh.  folk singers come and look at the
 paintings, go perform on stage for those little girls existing outside of
 perspective, and then both peformance and audience go home and dream black
 magic spells.  well, uh, what's the point if no one can enjoy it?  It's all
 about having a good time.  Hear that?  That's a death rattle.  Let's
 celebrate.  salivate.

                            tiki laka 
                            lumata biyata
                            liki tikati
                            limata biyatiki
                            aliboom biyai

        the enemy wasn't the pharoah.  it was the hebrews and it was the
 egyptians.  Sleeping at night dreaming of desert oasis and the yearly flood
 they send their black magic spells down upon Moses.  Dead before the end of
 the Pentateuch.  Moses at night is visited by the god Anubis, but Anubis is
 not weighing, Anubis destroys.  He is Kali.  Moses fears but goes on.  The
 dreams of the egyptians are of little meaning.  What harm can they do?  He
 is young.  He's a white magi, student directly from the Trismegistus.  The
 attempts of a society not his own will never pull down his statues. 

        Bring him out into the desert with his own people and the dreams
 change. 

        A man can defile himself so much in this world that not even his own
 mother or father will acknowledge him.  My mother told me that.  But there
 was a lot she didn't.  She never said anything about getting eaten alive and
 having a false history attached to your name, and then, perhaps worst of
 all, being given the byline. 

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 {  (c)2000 aNAda e'zine *                            * aNAda041 * by AIDS  }
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