DECONSCRIPTION-Writings of Curtis Cottrell


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By Jacques Ladidada, Pataphysician

Where is the Men's Center?
Have we one as yet?
Who cares?
Why must we do what we are told we must?
Who cares and why?
Why not?
So I ask this friend to go to the show, and she says, "Why don't you go by yourself?"
"Oh, yet you always go with Ms. So-and-so."
This ain't high school, brothers.
Go out and catch a fish.
Language is a vagocentric vortex from which we are excluded.
Why must our identities be bound to some prenatal entity?
Why can't we say what we want to say? What system of decorum dominates our discourse to the point of deferral? Who cares?
Really, who cares?
When we ask for help, who really cares?
You said it. You just did. You know you did; so admit it. You think this is a bunch of what? You know you do: so say it. Or, can we really say what we want to say?
I forgot what I was saying.
I forgot my umbrella, too.
So, anyhow, death is bound by life yielding yet more life. And death. So, if beings are bound by time into a bungled bundle, is Being a doubleheaded ax? Ax again.
I am asking if I can say what I want to say without saying what I don't want to say. Or can I say it another way?
I careth not, quoth Mercutio before the tick of doom.
Time has her horny hand on the prick of noon.
Ho hum, what was I trying to say?
Is our destiny determined by a black widow's web or mantis preying? Will we let Medusa astonish us any more? Who cares?
Now I don't care about history; because that ain't where I want to be. I just want to determine my own destiny. Here. I don't want to sit. I don't want to split. I need my own space for my ______ soul. I can't say it. Where is it? Why did that space take up my space and my time? There it goes again. You know it. It happened to you, too. And again, just now. No fun.
Why are we chained to our desks? What hand guides ours as we write? When we want to say something, why can't we really say it? What is it we want to say, and why must we not say it? Who says?
Fecor ergo sum. Mama's little lump of dung.
Be here now and come with me. Why can't you come?
Who said you couldn't come? You can come with me now. You can if you really want to. You know you can. So why won't you come with me now or then? Anyplace or any when? Do you care? I would care if I were you. I really would care a lot about it. Do you believe that?
If you cared, you would let me know. I would, if I were you. If no one really cares, who cares whether they care or not? Do you?
If I said I did, would you really believe me? Would you? Would you go so far out of the role you play to see as I do, or be as I am. Do I really exist to you, or am I something you half-create and half-perceive? Am I an emplastic emanation of paranausea? A plasmatic, spasmodic, psychotic, reaction?
What delusion differentiates personae? Why can't I be what I want to be? Who cares whether I am or not? Who cares whether you are or not? Do you really? I can't say I do. But what about you? Who are you to tell me? Should I care?
I am under observation as I write in this squirrel cage for your amusement. The words go around and around, but where is the payoff? What is the bottom line? The bottom line is doing what we want to do when and where we want to do it. So, how do we do that? If you really cared, you would know. You do in the back of your mind, and you can sense it around the corner of perception, but who has perception cornered? The epistemology of ontology may admit some exceptions, but the rule is to toe the lie. So tow that line, and lift that bale. Get a little drunk, and you land in jail. Says who? Ole Man Ribber? Who he? Say what? Who dat say who dat when I say who dat? Who be Boo? Who cares?
Do you have your act together? I don't, and I'll tell you why: because to have it really together is like nowhere. The big D-Splitsville-Unbeing. You can't do what you want to do when you are acting like someone else. For who knows?
Social codes are pitfalls into which we are always tripping. Once a code entraps us we are its entities until the entire system is rejected, dejected, neglected, and inspected for flaws. Flaws may be trajected into faults, and the faultline of language is apparently factitious in its fragmentation of real experience. You know what you know because you know it, right? If you did not know it, you would not know what you did not know. But, knowing it you would go on and do the same thing as if you had never known it in the first place. What do we think we know? If we knew, we would not be doing this in the first place. And if we did not know, who would care whether we knew or not, in the last place.
Whatever it is we want to know must be worth knowing in the first place, or else, why do we come at all? This consideration cannot be avoided, but in avoiding it, we can act as if it had never come up in the first place. Why do we have to do what we are supposed to do, when we could be doing something else that we had wanted to do initially, but perhaps forget that we knew what we wanted or knew what we wanted to know about being someone else who knows what he wants to do and why he wants to do it, and if not why, then why not? Why don't you go do whatever you do when you do it. So do it to it. Enough is enough. Go do it now. Do it in the street. Do it for everyone to see who you are and how you do what you do as you do it to it. If you did it, it would be done, and you would never have to do it again in the same way. You could do it any way you wanted to do it whenever and where ever you decided it needed to be done. It will never get done by itself. You have to do it and do it now. If you don't do it now, then you can never do it again in the same way, because if you did it in the same way, it would mean that you had never done it that way. So we never stay the same. We differ. We differ from that which was what we used to think was the thing that we thought we had been. And now we have nothing to say about it. This nonreferential discourse can get to be drag at times.
What we need is a place to do what we need to do when we want to do it. Just room: to breathe, to move, to get down with it. Are you going to be the problem, or are you going to be the solution?
It's time to testify, and I offer you a testimonial. The Motor City has nothing on me. I was once a person like that myself, and where did it get me? Here. That is all. That is all I am, but what can I ever hope to be? Are you what you had hoped you would be, or would you even still want to be what you had wanted to be then? You could have been like someone else we all know, but then you had to be different or you would not be you, but instead, you would be someone else who is like no one else we know, but who knows to say whether or not we will or will not meet someone like that or something else. That is to say, if you cared to know who you were or were not to become, all you would have to do is ask. Are you OK? I mean, are you OK?
That is, not in every sense. Because if you knew that it was all right to do whatever you wanted to do, then you would have done it. Or you may have done it anyhow without knowing it was the thing you had really wanted to do, but instead you believed that it was something you must have done because you were supposed to do it.
Language functions as a pragmatic determinant for our historio-critical matrix of understanding. I have a dove, a horse, and a hound. Simplify, simplify. A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of minds limited by their own understanding of our misunderstanding of temporo-spacial actuality. The square of our existence is circled by the arc of another contingent to that which we think we know to be, whether we thought we knew it or not. Given Ringo, John, George and Paul: who is the walrus? None of the above.
Who will release us from this womb of existence from which we enter and re-enter the world again and again. My ears are ringinging. As if we knew from whence we came and for what purpose. Who cares? When it happens again, you will know that it has happened by chance because I told you that you would know it would happen again. There. It just did. It happened, and you knew it did. Do you want it to happen again? Go ahead and do it yourself. Then you can do it anytime you want to do it again. Or, you can wait and do it some other time. But when you do it, do it right, and remember that I told you that it would happen again and again.
Does it matter who does it? Of course, it does, because if you did not do it then no one else could do it in the same way, at least, not as far as you are concerned. Are you actually concerned at all? Do you know what time it is? Do you really care? It is not time to do whatever has been done, not is it time to do what cannot be done. Either we do it, or it never gets done. That is the story of the blues.
But what about the Reds? I knew they were lurking somewhere.
If value becomes a null set tangent to zero and infinity, pigs can fly. And what has four wheels and flies? If you are a have not, you have probably had it. The ratio of so may imagined existences to a certain being is qualitatively determined by the differentiation of purpose and action involved in the integration of time and a contrived essence of which we know not the form of articulation.
D-U-M-B, everyone's accusing me.
J'accuse. That look. Somewhere out of the corners of our dreams, it lurks, and we stand here and critique each other. (While we lie in wait for ourselves.)
You're OK. How am I? When I find myself, I will tell you what I mean: when you find yourself, then you can tell me all about it. Please. I want you to do it now and thenceforward until.... Oh, what was it I had wanted to say? Perhaps we may never ever know, yet