There is this thing which is not a thing as it is me so is not outside of my self but is my self, is the self of a particular designation which delineates the me-ness from the otherness of the universe unfolding like cloth, being sewn and tattered, fringed and creased incessantly by it’s own nimble irons, with edges ordained with a delicate filigree of doily lattice depicting the epigenetic mythology of primary tones and primary bones, yellowed on the edges but racing towards infinity like it’s going out of style, stacked neatly into piles and knolled onto the shelves of the cosmic cabinet painted in that absorptive carbon black which neither absorbs nor repells any radiant energy but just stands motionless upon it’s own impediment, sits upon itself, ass to forehead glued through a magnetic inversion beyond our comprehension but not really because it’s kinda like the doughnut hole of the magnum equinox, and it’s out there somewhere but also just right here, exactly where I’m sitting while I explain it to you. And there you are. You’re sitting there receiving these smoke signals, across the plate, on the other side of the table – the first and the last table, just imagine it standing on the idealized axis of (capital) X and (capital) Y and (capital) Z and (capital) N, but no that should be (lowercase) n because that particular glyph of the algorithm doesn’t designate a specific variable but allows for the allocation of uncertainty, it is the principality of pure uncertainty distilled into a single unit and added to our algorithm representing space and time and that expanding space between zenith and nadir so that we can remember that this ground is granulated, that the bedrock is surfing the magma lakes from which it spawned, that this house too will come down one day, we spend our whole lives walking across X/Y axis of forest corpses laid neatly into rows and mollusk graveyards cementing prehistoric life into the dormant sidewalk asphalt brutalist grid that holds all the sneaker soles and chewing gum discharges of the world. And there you are, sitting or standing on the other side of our carbon black slate table-cabinet, our tabula rasa chess board, so to speak, but then speak because I seem to be doing all the talking! No conversation can be had with one voice resonating in it’s own skull. This page, this vessel of ink and dead trees, of cuniform cum and pressed papyrus, of that same carbon black infinite nothingness – of the table which is getting all over the hands and smudging the forehead as the writing finger searches in the darkness for the stray hairs falling into the starry skied jelly pupils seeing nothing yet – this black carbon drawn upon the whiteness of imagination, or whatever other color you want to describe that goo permeating out from the mind but no it must be white because we haven’t seen anything yet not even each other and color comes rushing in from reflections and refractions and from the dying song of the sun committing it’s martyrdom of doom at the center, an eternal suicidal ballet throwing out beginnings like seeds into the desert of the real, shoots that will dart up to differentiate into every chroma even those beyond our own eyes – which we have yet to utilize -and making seeds of their own to disperse in the aetheric winds riding a little song of life conquering the lands through blantant siege, yes a war song of the living, the labor chant of cells lined up along the assembly line manufacturing metabolic juices, nucleotides of the apocalypse, stretching and flexing and holding on to each other in the formation of mitochondria, that primary animal living from whence our instinctive drive to hunt and bite and eat and shit is sourced. But we can’t give these microscopic stomachs the credit of murder, of war, of morals or of madness, no those are all distinctly human characteristics, but we’re not quite there yet. Ok, so there you are sitting over there across the way, across the table, this very black table, this table of infinite blackness that we are holding fast to not fall into, do you see it? No of course you don’t because it’s a fucking impossibly black infinitely expansive metaphor for all that which exists beyond our comprehension, so stop looking at the fucking table and look at me. Here we are, sitting here, oh yes so we are sitting didn’t I say? But not on chairs, there’s no room for chairs, because if we put some chairs in here then I have to describe the rest of the room, assuming we are in a room, and then I have to keep telling this story about how the table is in the middle and the chairs are on either side and they are positioned this way so we can observe each other while conversing, to visually validate through corporeal twitches, facial contortions mimicking primordial masks, digits counting ticks and tocks on immaterial clocks, hands waving about through the atmosphere like rulers and levels and compasses and barometers and geiger counters measuring a falsified topology, and all these other little quiverings of our meat puppets as they look at each other through these pathetic compound eyes that can only differentiate a million or so colors but really if we are honest only a couple hundred and to be even more honest there’s only like 10 fucking colors that we can identify before the whole goddamn system of chromatic radiation breaks down into an agonizing abstraction of tints and shades, dyes and pigments, mineralogy and geomancy, acetone distillates and acrylic derivatives, basically into the constraining materialism that science likes to shackle itself to like the Marque de Sade lashing the other inmates of the asylum in pure writhing ecstasy but also secretly hoping that they respond with at least equal if not greater tortures in order to derive twice pleasures and then thrice pleasures through the writing down of the experience knowing full well that the books will be banned and burned and the song of his legend will be memorized and his fecundated body will dissolve into the etheric eternal historical ghost rendering him eternal life through literature and labyrinthine libel. Old miser Marque isn’t a sick fuck pervert he’s just the antichrist, the black hole to your sun which you insist of burning eternal you goddamn fool, the self-lacerating sage of the present of which we are all in denial, just being himself, pure and simple, which is what we should all be striving to attain, for it’s not the individual which must be normalized (What terror! What horror!) but the social body which must decentralize, de-homogenize, de-evolve all sense of biological standards, self-medicate through a healthy dose of ecstatic eccentricity to nutrify the numbness of nullifying tedium, to push in a suppository supplement of Batialle’s nonknowledge through the solar anus. Fuck, fuck it, what the fuck was I talking about? Who am I? Who are you? Where are we? Ah but it doesn’t fucking matter because we are sharing a meal – ya gotta eat! – but first we have to finish setting the table. Put down the cloth, that plain white plane of consistency, then place a single candle in the middle. It’s a fucking metaphor, roll with it. Then we can lay out the china and cutlery… what, no porcelain? The forks or knives? Of course not we’re starting from scratch so everything must be made. I’ll stay here and craft some plates. Don’t worry about what they will look like or how they will be glazed, this is the first plate we are talking about so it can only take one form, that of plate-ness defined by it’s not being cup-ness or bowl-ness or serving-tray-ness or table-ness or me-ness or you-ness. I’ll reach down and grab some clay, that earthen musculature existing somewhere between solid and liquid, and try to feel out this form locked within it’s own material limits. When it has found it’s shape, when it has discovered itself and solidified into it’s form, again, a kind of primary form of essential plate-y-ness, well then we can throw it in the fire to char out it’s being, to incinerate all those algaes and worms and mollusks and anthropodal memories squirming around in the slimy silt, to singe out the life of the thing in a ritualistic cleansing that purges the life force energy fields permeating through all that exists – which at this moment is me and you and this carbon black slate table with no legs – and instigate a becoming-of-thing-ness which is so essential for the pleasant dinner conversation we are about to engage in. We burn the clay to fire the ceramic and define the first plate: we kill the matter to reconsider it material for the crafting of objects which are deserving of their names, desiring for participation in our inaction of naming, differentiating from self – mine and yours, if there’s a difference – and from the other clay and soils and firmas and firmaments, from the blackness of the table into a prism of colors which only the luminous fire can cast upon the mineralogical miasma. Ok ok, you get it, it’s an object and we made it and we named it and we use it and that right there, right here, in this plate, embodied in this fucking first plate which is not a body but a thing, not a mirror reflecting back our image but a cerebral vessel that holds nothing except the epitome of difference, whispering always-already that there is a difference, even if only between it’s plate-ness and the you-ness calling out it’s name (with a tongue we have yet to describe. So now your turn… hmmm? What’s that? You say you don’t believe in originality, in creation mythologies, in novelty theory? Well this isn’t going to be much of a dinner party if you can’t comprehend the idea that all of this shit in the world – I mean the world out there, beyond the scope of these pages, that real fucking table that’s sitting on that real fucking floor held up by the real fucking world and all the shit-dome humans that built it all up – that all of that was made and is still being made through our use of it, by our objectifying and object-I-fying it, through the naming and the referencing and the printing of encylopedias and the servers being protected in their earthquake-proof temperature-controlled high-security bunkers (yeah ya know even the internet has a material body). So get your head out of your ass and place it gently back on the forehead so we can get on with it, yah, because I know I’m just sitting here talking to my self but that gets really fucking boring if I can’t at least imagine some other across the table to direct these words which may or may not be heard, not to mention resuscitated in response or repose. Get on with it then, that you which is not you but me but not me either more of just some other and not I: why don’t you make us some forks then? Ah yes but there’s no metal only the prima materia of carbon and the whiteness of the immaterial cloth (which we didn’t make remember but merely unfolded) and the violent violet radiations permeating out from the candle in the center, sooooooo I guess you will have to make some, make some metal that is. Find some iron, here ya go, yeah it smells like blood and that’s what it is, it’s the same stuff but now they both have been named so there’s a difference so it’s not, not the same I mean, anyways we have that iron which smells like blood and it’s solid, check, yup, so throw it on the fire and see what happens. Bubble bubble boil boil and now look and see all that shit foaming and frothing at the surface and rising up and making us light headed! That’s right, metal is a material state achieved through the precision of human distillation, which is not to say that it’s unnatural, and all those impurities which we call impurities because they can be separated from the purity of the iron, which is in fact an illusion of scale and refracted phenomenology, well they aren’t really impurities but just other materials, other ores, other potential metals to the extent that we can dream up new metal names for them and continue our oh-so-human taxonomy of states. Let’s put that impurity up on the shelf… oh, wait, yeah, we didn’t make a shelf yet, we haven’t even mentioned one before, ok well fuck it then just throw it over there for now, out of sight out of mind what? Ok so next we scrape off a little bit of carbon from the ol’ infinitely black slab sitting here – it’s carbon remember? – and we toss that into the bubbling mass and voila there’s a spark and there’s some new colors and there’s a material which didn’t exist before or at least we don’t recognize it so let’s give it a new name. We can call it steal since we just fucking stole it from the universe with our human ingenuity, and I dedicate it to you in support of your theory of un-originality, which is not to say that I believe it or even entertain it for a second, but what would a dinner party be without a little intoxicated rivalry eh eh eh? Ok so we have this new material and we made it or we stole it – whatever – and we are gonna make a fork out of it and we know just how to do that already because there’s an essential fork-ness in everything but it wasn’t until we made this new stolen steal that we were able to realize the becoming-being of the forking fork-ness, so go ahead and make it, pull it out of there, reach in and grab it and hold on and keep rubbing it and turning it over and wiping away the fuzz until that fork is there in your hand. “Realize” it, so to speak. What is that which we spoke? What is that saying you are saying, what are we saying, that we realize a form? Comprehend a material, a material system of relations? That can’t be right, but it is of course, that the mind and material are not really and/or but is, that is to say was/will be (can’t we just use them synonymously?), that mind is material and matter makes mind so these thoughts could be said to be realizing themselves in an infinite jest, the same as the plate coming cuming came from plate-ness came from clay came from primary solids, the same as the steal stolen from the iron which is and is not blood which is certainly an ore which is to say a tincture a mixture a condensation of impurities which can never really become pure but always-already diluted and mixed with other substances which may or may not be primary in form or content. Everyone is talking about alchemy, alchemy as a metaphor or an allegory or a syllogism or just something that sounds like fucking wizards and magic which is to say a power which has been sucked out of the world by some terrorizing rationality or astronomical mechanism, and that’s exactly what it is, but not in the way they mean it, not the way they use it is, not as something which is less-than-real or proto-science or outside of our senses or forgotten by the amnesia of the human psyche immemorial. Alchemy is a word designating a process of transmutation – an inherently hyperbolic contradiction of object-process – not just of and between materials (though it is that too, just very insignificantly), but of the transmogrification and reification of matter into mind and back again, of the physical object-ness which we project onto the undifferentiated amniotic fluids of the cosmos in order to describe an internal flux of mucilage, phlegm, bile, and blood, which is to say calcium, carbon, sulphur, and iron which is not like blood but is, being-becoming was/will be, always-already, apriori apperception of material proprioception, which is to say that speaking the difference between them, the iron and the blood, the ore and the other, is only useful in delineating the you-ness from the me-ness, which is to say not useful at all and so we should consider it more impediment than firmament. This table, this plate, this ore-refined fork, fuck even the candle and the cloth, holy shit even me and you, all these things which are things and not things and certainly not all she wrote, they are fingers reaching out to touch themselves, cycles cycles cycles spirals trials in denial reticulations of repeating lines, a system of autopoiesis – self-making-mechanisms, whether as cellular automata or nuclear fission of the astral bodies or the alchemical transmutation of diffuse material states. The table is here but I didn’t place it, we found it and stole it as model of our mind so that we can place things upon it – to make it useful, to give it a place and a purposive purposelessness and a name with a sound and a signifier resonating out through the diaphanous chromos. What I’m describing to you is a tactile theory of color, of palpable proprioception, of the eyes as feelers of the material, of an attention to the line which is drawn between the object being observed and the observer doing the object-ing, the rock which is peopling, the tone which is bone which is smelted cone of carbon flattening out into a perceptible space upon which we might place this consilient conference without conclusions. I love to make models, to see them and handle them, but more than the making I love the loving, the application of the semiotic and the magic of observing it’s instantaneous transmutation, the love of pure love compartmentalized into a series of forms which I can only describe through flicker and flux, by reaching out into the morphogenic probability cloud to isolate a single electron rotating around an uncertain nucleus and give it a name, me, or you, or any other moniker which let’s us keep loving the flow passing between, like swapping spit with the slobbering mandibles of the fucking universe that’s so eager to fuck you back. That’s the solar anus, remember? The point is… well the point is me, the point is the self, the self is an infinitely white hot dot on this finite carbon table, to the extent that we can continue to conduct this conference which never actually took place because I’ve been sitting here talking to diffuse and diffusing self this whole fucking time, and it’s only here for the duration of your attention, which as I look at you now I can see is quickly fading so I’ll stop as abruptly as I began to let you do define it for yourself, as you must, as we will. When you’re done give it a name, call it table, test it out, put something on it and see if it holds, but you have to make something because we all need something to hold on to and what fun would this dinner party be if we all agreed to just let it all go?