I’m flinging it into Obscurity! I sent my thesis in to the Printer’s today. I thought I’d post it, just for posterity. If you don’t have time to read it, just note two features of it: 1. it’s long 2. it’s badass good, perhaps the most brilliant thing anyone’s ever written. Well, the first three chapters are. The last chapter about Vineland is really just an inconsequential ramble; it doesn’t offer much. Acutally, don’t even read it; it kind of takes away from the punch of the whole thing.

TTL, I’llgive away the surprise: don’t start reading it on the screen, cause I made you your very own copy. I figured, since you read GR at my bidding, and since you gave me Deleuze, you ought to have a hard copy on your bookshelf. Also, that way: no rush at all to read it.

But I really owe a lot to the whole Pinko’s crowd for the thinking in here. and for the diversion and procrastination that helped me write it.

It’s called Paranoid Organs, Schizoid Regimes: Capitalism and Pynchon

But it used to be called: Rising from the Ruggle

 http://www.jedicist.org/Thesis.html 

http://www.jedicist.org/Files/THESIS%20final.doc

(that’s a word doc, so you know. do you want a .pdf?)

A peacebone got found in the dinosaur wing. I’ve been jumping all over but my views are slowly shrinking. I was a jugular vein in a juggler’s girl. I was supposedly leaking the most interesting colors. While half of my fingers are dipped in the sand. You progress in letters but you’re used to cooking broccoli. The other side of take out is mildew on rice and an obsession with the past is like a dead fly. And just a few things are related to the ‘old times.’ And then we did believe in magic and we did die. It’s not my words that you should follow it’s your insides. You’re just an inside. Adjust your insides. You’re just an inside.

http://www.myspace.com/animalcollectivetheband — “Peacebone”

(cf. http://www.myspace.com/yeasayer — “2080.” “Sunrise” is also good.)

And From a Bus

I am going to Hangleton. The cathedral stops outside. In the stained glass, a bowed head takes communion. A monk’s head. He is in heaven already, here and hereafter, a monk in his renunciation has gone to heaven.

I am back in the centre. It is an affront to be returned here. I am going to Hangleton, having just been to Hollingbury. I am fleeing the familiar centre, familiarity itself.

The way is along George Street. Is this Dublin or Hove. Admittedly Hove, a cause preceding the effect, patria before colony. The similarity exacted, precise and terrible. There are more women in shawls here. Fashion only progresses in the patria.

The day is too greying. Were I a monk, I would not be affected. A monk removed of covering can heat the temperature of his skin by sheer impulse of the will. A monk wears one robe of one color. A monk belongs to no legion, bears no coat of arms in emblem of no nation.

Because it is autumn, leaves. Yellow one-acts piled at the divide along. Strollers rustle over underneath. Around the cathedral, the shedding oaks. The lawn raked and pruned. The monk grins at a fallen pile, cutting out a letter.

—-

Look at that! Look there! A fresh litter at the bottom of the square. A centurion, a hundred ovaline leaves dragging a spiral downward. The willing casualties carried off by morbid enjoyment to their next home in the earth. Why, it is the coronation of a queen! It is the messenger arrived at Marathon! It is the recurrent maiden in the blossom of fairest youth, treasure of Phoenicia and muse to rhapsody’s song– and she events herself unnoticed, whisked through blindly in the commotion of this cursory, modern city.

Hey guys,

I have fiction on Thieves Jargon and poetry on Juked (9/27/07). Read it if yaz have time and tell me what you think. I will post my latest opus soon. It is depressing.

-Juan