Theory Of Nothing

or Just Theory

What’s so secret?

It amuses me that at this present moment, my tag cloud (which I have, I must admit, rather pretentiously, and worse still, very obviously pretentiously, called Theory Cloud) has SECRET as the largest tag, thereby shouting out to the world that I have a secret. This is of course because I have, in the very few number of posts I have so far managed to get up here, made the most number of posts secret by labelling them as such and slotting them into that said category.

Obviously though, these posts are not secret. They are here on this blog, posted and published on the internet for the world to read. (Certainly they are not password-locked as are some other blogs, or some other entries on some other blogs. Indeed what is the point of password-locking a blog or its entries on the internet? But that is another question, though still what’s so secret, to be considered another time.) Yet they are secret because, as I have said, I have created a category called Secret, then labelled and categorized them into that category of Secret.

If they are secret because they belong to the category of secret, then they are secret only because I say they are secret, because I label and categorize them as secret, proclaiming them secret. Indeed, everytime I post and publish the post as a secret in the category of secret, I’m proclaiming and telling the world here on the internet, in the most staged whisper, that not only do I have a secret, this very post here, is the secret. In fact, everytime I post and publish a post as a secret in the category of secret, the secret literally swells in the theory cloud of this blog, growing bigger and bigger, heavier and heavier, pregnant with itself the secret, ready to deliver anytime, to proclaim, tell and whisper what has yet to be proclaimed, told and whispered, in the secret of itself that is the secret to come.

So is it that which is stamped Secret, in imitation of the TOP SECRET pressed on envelopes issued from the highest orders, inviting prying clicking hands and searching reading eyes, in expectation of revelation? Or that which has not yet been proclaimed, told or whispered, even in that which is stamped Secret? Or rather, that which cannot be proclaimed, told or whispered, not even in the most conspiratorial of all whispers, staged, only staged, in the theoretical space of this blog?

Then there can only be no secret here. Absolutely Nothing Secret.

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Tuesday, 10 July 2007 Posted by | Secret | Leave a comment

It’s been a long time

maybe I’ll actually post some poems next.

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Friday, 6 July 2007 Posted by | Secret | Comments Off on It’s been a long time

Shitty dreams

What does it signify when one has recurrent dreams of being trapped in a toilet?

Not just any toilet.

And definitely not one of those luxurious toilets with bidets and automated taps so that you never get your hands dirty. Those that come with fluffy towels which you drop into wicker baskets placed conveniently at the side, and branded bottles of lotions enticing you to dab your hands with. Sometimes, they even come with maybe a lounge chair or two for you to recline on while inhaling the heady aromatherpay wafting in the air from the scented candles peeking from fragile glass dishes and pots of essential oils warmed up by flickering tealight candles tucked snugly into every little corner casting lovely dancing shadows here and there. So that sometimes you forget you’re in the unique space of excrement.

And then you can’t leave. You need to be here, to do what you have to do, because this is the place where you do what cannot be done elsewhere, elsewhere it is abhorrent, this is the space of excrement. There’s no lack of it. Shit pee blood. It’s everywhere. On the walls, on the toilets, on the floors. It’s everywhere. You wipe and wipe. Because this is the place you do what cannot be done elsehwere, because elsewhere it is abhorrent. This is the space of excrement. Excrement. But it seeps through the paper. It touches your skin. And outside, outside people are waiting. Strangers, family, friends. They are all waiting. Waiting. And it’s everywhere. It’s everywhere. Because this is the space of excrement. The space of excrement. So this is the space of excrement.

Then you wake up.

And it’s really only been a dream which you’re writing about in this blog, or maybe which you’ve already really written about in your dissertation. Or maybe maybe it’s just a dream just a dream or just Bataille just Bataille. Nothing nothing. Theories of nothing.

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Friday, 6 July 2007 Posted by | Prose, Secret | Leave a comment