Dual Cyclone (Denmark's Holiest Mountain)

Don Q.,

You demand from me, not so much writing, but a unique theory of writing. How quickly you account for the extraordinary circumstances of my mechanical expressions. It's true: I have my own path. Where is yours? Is it in your theorization of the very approach that apprehends thee? Without having ever met Don Q., his very acephalia demonstrates the fundamental irrelevance of the writing subject in the manufacture of the epistolary product. The involvement of the author in any of these lustful ejaculations, either yours or mine, have rendered the production of communication between us discretionary. Have we never interrogated the process through which this contact came about? Is its end (by which I mean its goal, rather than its closer) never to be confused with an explicatory origin? Or are we predisposed to continually plucking ourselves from an unplugged motherboard tube, virtually vestigual, defecatorily defective? It's funny how somethings remain - but it isn't true that things don't change. Don't banish the ghost if she isn't sad!

You almost fulfill my satiric fantasies of improving my speculative knowledge. However, you are correct: I have no care for memory. Even less care for garments. You, a man of binaries, should understand that even a genius from the most classical of classical academies occassionaly places his mind on autopilot in order to follow a remote-controlled navigation-system of mechanical procedures. The clothing you mention in metaphor require just such a stitch. We form the establishing shot between the close of one scene and the beginning of another, but only in the interest of involuntary constraints into which we invest our spirit energies on the false promise of compound interest.

I must free myself from this trap and can only do so by carrying on with Mr. Mesmer. We have been working with scenes from my past. Automatic writing always turns to drawing. I started out creating postmortem imagine of Sancho Plasm - as you describe him, he seems a man learning how to fall - but quickly turned to pondering the hedges and bushes and mountains of Denmark. I scribbled a poem:

the body of the holy mountain speaks to closed eyes
sees lips fly open

mouths and bullet teeth impinge
on assholes primed to bleed

I no longer recall what my drawings refer to - repressed events randomly, arbitrarily choses from a recombinant image dictionary whose axioms constitute a mathematical repertoire of starved recapitulations.

I sometimes dream that you have departed from the rational criteria of the coherent sentence and visited me here in Denmark. Together we commit syntax errors and function perfectly despite the absence of any poetic agency. We can joke and smoke and finally admit that all theoreticians are thoroughly demented. Including ourselves.

In these dreams I am always speaking to you through the hose of a grammophone. Based upon reflex, spitting symbols into the horn. You yodel a dialogue with me from the spinning black disc wobbling on the tray, a resultant document owing your existence to a microchip. The magic mountain sings with grace outside the window, and as I bend to switch off the machine you have already anticipated the surreal ironies of my scientific experiment. You telepath, you skew, you never leave. The conversation never ends, and as I wake, I know the snows of the holy mountains are at war with my electrons, despite the fact that my neurons remains with you.

Yours,

HamletMachine