Igor Satanovsky
I read Murat Nemet-Nejat’s Animals of Dawn four years ago, and it impressed me immensely. I’ve been revisiting it often, rereading random pages and consulting it as I would consult The Book of Answers or I Ching. I see Animals of Dawn as an Eastern magic carpet woven in English by a Tal-mudist genie. To mythologize it is to do justice. Invisible structures appear and disappear over its surface with a blink of an eye, poetic trap boxes turn into doors leading to escape rooms & treasure caves with gems scattered all over. To talk about this book is to comment on it, to play the author’s game, but the book already functions in the state of reflecting on itself, so I limited myself to maximum verbatim, allowing the magic carpet to fly me where it would.
An illumination, a
Conversation among unreals is what idea is, a
Riff of thought, a speculative argument, a parallel alternative text
Out of focus of the linearity of the main action(:)
Spinal violins in haunted homes,
The unlit fire of the moon’s sadness, (for)
Images (facts) hide into themselves(:)
Cut-Outs (recuts and cut-ups) in
Each throw of the die(:)
Not a moment of understanding, but bee-ing, (where buzzing)
Time is forgetfulness (consciousness?) in Hamlet.
Out of control(:)
Fragments in things, real or unreal,
Objects, living or un-living are instant ideograms, (born to)
Radical erasure — (therefore) the experiment connected to death, a
Magnifier to look at the pictures, (to watch) the
Unreals hold hands and dance around a fireless fire. A
Rose is a rose a rose is,
A dream within a dream,
Two triangles intersecting (the undoing of a triad).
No is. The sculpture of the night— dream--
Erodes in the morning (but gains staying power as an image—by losing a dream).
Music imprisons the angel of chaos in its bars (itself a zombie), non–
Existing (god-like)
To make Hamlet, to dis appear. (Yet) there are
-
No bars in the music of time.
Existence is a very rare event. Ergo, things are unreal, untethered, (but) facts (images) are
Jailed into themselves, in what consciousness,
A.k.a. time, is.
The garden (of us): Infinite possibility, within finality.
I read Murat Nemet-Nejat’s Animals of Dawn four years ago, and it impressed me immensely. I’ve been revisiting it often, rereading random pages and consulting it as I would consult The Book of Answers or I Ching. I see Animals of Dawn as an Eastern magic carpet woven in English by a Tal-mudist genie. To mythologize it is to do justice. Invisible structures appear and disappear over its surface with a blink of an eye, poetic trap boxes turn into doors leading to escape rooms & treasure caves with gems scattered all over. To talk about this book is to comment on it, to play the author’s game, but the book already functions in the state of reflecting on itself, so I limited myself to maximum verbatim, allowing the magic carpet to fly me where it would.
An illumination, a
Conversation among unreals is what idea is, a
Riff of thought, a speculative argument, a parallel alternative text
Out of focus of the linearity of the main action(:)
Spinal violins in haunted homes,
The unlit fire of the moon’s sadness, (for)
Images (facts) hide into themselves(:)
Cut-Outs (recuts and cut-ups) in
Each throw of the die(:)
Not a moment of understanding, but bee-ing, (where buzzing)
Time is forgetfulness (consciousness?) in Hamlet.
Out of control(:)
Fragments in things, real or unreal,
Objects, living or un-living are instant ideograms, (born to)
Radical erasure — (therefore) the experiment connected to death, a
Magnifier to look at the pictures, (to watch) the
Unreals hold hands and dance around a fireless fire. A
Rose is a rose a rose is,
A dream within a dream,
Two triangles intersecting (the undoing of a triad).
No is. The sculpture of the night— dream--
Erodes in the morning (but gains staying power as an image—by losing a dream).
Music imprisons the angel of chaos in its bars (itself a zombie), non–
Existing (god-like)
To make Hamlet, to dis appear. (Yet) there are
-
No bars in the music of time.
Existence is a very rare event. Ergo, things are unreal, untethered, (but) facts (images) are
Jailed into themselves, in what consciousness,
A.k.a. time, is.
The garden (of us): Infinite possibility, within finality.