Selection from Jonkil Dies
Kane X. Faucher
Justice of the Academic State
are no judicial ethics…There is only a space on the pulpit
in Mozambique where a bible has been pilfered. I observe the
false freedom of the sky, feel the inveterate ridicule of time
in my bones…these bones that hum as trapped bees trapped
between two filthy panes of glass. We, institutionalized
academics, almost monarchical though as numerous as broken
clams littered by gulls, do we truly exact a revenge against
the populace with our hatred of wisdom, our empty-handed
clutching desires for power? The judge squares his ass on
every inch of the bench--he is a slow twitch fibre in the arm
of the state. They dress for power whereas we, the cloistered
in the cloisters, clothed of the cloth-capp'd, cannot decide
whether our firmly grounded academic hierarchy is archaic or
traditional. We can barely come to a decision on lunch.
Lawyers and philosophers argue. The lawyer knows finality and
its false yet practical power of ends…uses deception and
spin…The lawyer is media without the far-reaching audience,
but with the reverence all the same. The philosopher argues
interminably about the lawyer's use of rhetoric. The lawyer
loses inevitably, but his pockets jingle with the danae
of victory; the philosopher returns to preach to dust and warm
his bones in the open air.
Everyone has a philosophy. These are not philosophies. On TV:
"my philosophy for buying a car is…my philosophy for
baking a cake…"--this is not a philosophy, never was,
always thinly veiled. It is a method or a preference.
Professor Princip and Professor Gavrilo are both disaffected.
Professor Princip's course on time…
"Only the Greeks knew fidelity to the event…The rest of
us just wear the event like a hat and an ugly brooch on
trembling fat bodies."
pulls at his entire mental encyclopaedia, points to a
memorized fragment; it is dusty, worn, ink faded and blurred
where the paper and ink met in a too-fast encounter. He
tempers aesthetic error with polemic. All aesthetics is
bottom-line power, he says. I am inclined to agree if only
because he had spent the better part of two hours arranging
(perhaps torturing) the constellations of his textual examples
and arguments to alter my view of the heavens themselves. I
have no choice but to trace the points on Orion's belt the way
he has directed, to project an elaborate image upon a kludge
of seemingly disconnected dots. It is all zodiacal time. He
frowns, a clownish Cappodocian. Events register across the sky
as bugs splatter against the windshield of a moving car…just
the colourful residue remains, a tableau firework, the guts
of an event without a body.
is the body?
is (the spirit of) 1968?
missing; never mind that…Nietzsche tells us not to mourn the
retrograde reaction of post-'68…He tells us to mind the
light arc of what we are bringing (we will return to this
later, as return is Friedrich's leitmotif for being borne as
such). Nietzsche says, he says, we are cruising toward a
future that is meeting us--a fatal collision between relics
and the crushing tide of a people to come. Two cars begin
100km apart and head toward their destination…The
difference, says Princip, shuttering the analogy in a
ringleader's flair for creating demand, ending all
mathematical inquiry of the lowest stripe in favour of pure
freaks on display, is "that there is, in Nietzsche, no
tunnels are populated with our bodies, mineshafts that are a-jud
with ideas--perhaps vain, magnanimous, even ridiculous. We few
subterraneans…rustling or quick-snapping tendon-cable under
earth flesh, social body. We, the sole mole, the ones who
return, recur, re-emerge from entire zoned regions of
forgetting--we shall get our share, what we deserve…We will
find that the world will bend its knee and cock its ear in our
direction…the direction of those who have a strong stomach
for a world so fixated to its causes.
come again, and unlike Christ or Socrates or Einstein, I do
not come humbly to the table of arrogant others to ask subtle
questions that only will bring a private burgeoning wisdom to
the inquisitor (usually in the groin of soiled pants, as the
minds of my colleagues are so arrayed). I say that I have left
and disappeared like a phantom by the corridors of exile, and
come back a delinquent malefactor with triumphant voice-- or
what the Greeks would call the Hero. But it is not the matter
of tedious labours abroad that have indelibly marked me with
the black tumescence of a robust ego that seeks to vanquish
old tenders of the tombs of value--No, what directs me is what
I see through, that I find the obstacles transparent and the
future glowing on the periphery…I move toward the horizon
according to the will of my own great magnet. Time drives,
space is just the passenger.
this not just infra-verbal play?
mouths are in motion and sound lurks only in behind, I guess.
I have my own types of bibles and my own sliding degrees of
conscience. Bela Lugosi is, after all, dead-dead-undead. So is
Artaud and Burroughs, other junkies. Who, I wonder, is in
charge of their estates, and do they find spare darts of
heroin blue to be sentenced to the auctioning block like slim
hens? Ah, morphine junkies are always in their own way asking
for just a little more time. Painless and purposeless, the
numbing anaesthetical life is always a bargaining with/against
time itself. Just one more pain-free day…Just one more
liminal epoch where I cheat the Christian view that life =
suffering. Why else would any government criminalize it? A
social problem presupposes the good, value, and existence of
the social, don't it?
government goes so far as to criminalize death and yet sponsor
our way to get there, unmolested, as first class passengers on
a smooth train. Dinged at the grave, one last financial
hurrah, puff of capital steam rising off the corpse's wallet,
for we morbidders to spend lavishly on a casket. Pick the
right casket--gold, silver or lead (because the Lord doth
judge ye on your style of delivery, method and such).
You'll win the hand of death's daughter, a fair Portia, and
walk conjoined to a beyond in eternal connubial procession.
Drugs, death, and the living--we could work all day to the
buzzing lateral networks that excite our thoughts, bringing us
to the abortive orgasm of an idea.
inclined to believe that there are no ideas, only inclinations…And
I say this while I recline in this world of ideas I share with
others so selfishly, a carton of milk gone bad, pass it
around, around, a cyclone of spoiled teet buzzing around the
now crinkled aureole of dead mama. I avoid work of a
found something eldritch in the foundation, something worthy
of my--yes--philotheoparoptessism…or at least my excoriation
by the lapping blades of flame (I am a digger and an
archaeologist working the night shift in the laboratories and
beneath the monolithic spires of knowledge, with the Morlocks
and the heat of the earth's heart). To your dismay, no doubt,
I have returned safely from my discovery, yet the foundation
from which I toiled has just led me into a new series of
tunnels. Tunnel further, young man, for the West is no more
(we have no choice but to go down; space itself has become
such a yawn). The West is all just shit and cloaca and
detritus piled higher (deeper), moss and weeds hanging from
old men's sleeves. Dig a tunnel of the twelve stations of the
cross, of the, of the…