Hidden Writing (0) Occult Rumination (0) Doctrine Entity

rotting-head-monk - Copybeing neither oneself (ø) nor someone else

HWORDE is a brief incantatory house of the opus, its salient bidder openly buries and consecrates the authorial regime of identity with the recess of inauthentic compositional processes, exhumatory reformation ordered towards the sonic and linguistical disintegration of discourse. The rivers of axiomatic transformation by subwestern categories, into logical retributes of one’s own decrepit pen at the disjoint revelation of pantheons and modalities. Rebuking the alumnus axis, we have had enough of this meek paradigm of the loci and word, enough of the coutured decadences of vain lexicons and the celebrated hype-o-crises over critical and anthropic analysis. Observe how the worldly orb sickly intoxicates itself with grossly individualized spheres and trending dogmas of thought. We will take a steeper and more salutary path, a profoundly ciphered descent, where there is primordial silence to hear yourself think, where by the inverted and corridored pillars of the crowded misauthorial mine, it is not you thinking at all, but something else, a faint lore of refraining entities. Here is the time for a new breed of pragmatic articulation, a swarmic reverb sprung from the easements of diamantine scroll, unground occluded in the self inaugurating shell games of our slain trinity with religion science and philosophy, ignored by their own ingrown polyamorous offspring of canons in the mock they call the humanities. Our luminous blackened scriptorium, never ‘ours’ at all, both Eleusinian cavern and summit of portals, watch tower over elder theorems, the site and cell in the dwelling of depersonal styli simultaneously piercing abyss and empyrean with toponymic schisms of pure doctrine, atop the immanent milieu, amongst the roaming cowards at the atomic liturgies, shrouded in the wounded alleys of terranean compromise, harnessing tectonic narratives. Time bares none on the staggered labor of this rumination, this heretical hunt proceeds parallel with goddess and locust exhausting the word of self and worldly guise. Now is the place for HWORDE.

To be imprinted by HWORDE, a book must be unambiguously faithful to the following principles:


The personal secular identity of writers is to remain obscurely masked, ideally, throughout the entire drafting process itself, so that no one ever really knows who creates the book, especially the authors. This is neither a place for needy people who want to take credit socially for their work nor for poser cabals who want to play inside/outside games of ‘having your cake and eating it too’. At this table we eat our cake—sweeter than all others—precisely by not having it, by more purely remaining on its exterior inside: “And she is inebriated not only from what she has drunk, but very intoxicated and more than intoxicated from what she never drinks and nor will ever drink” (Mirror of Simple and Annihilated Souls). The imprint by definition signifies a book written by who you do not know who it is—all the more so if only ‘you’ write it. HWORDE is not only a noble gesture, but a veritable crusade against capital authorship: Caedite eos! Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius [Kill ‘em all! For the Lord will recognize his own].


Real, proper originality is always a matter of reconfiguring the received into that which is without beginning. It is a manner of apophatic (de)composition where thought, unsaying tradition towards its aboriginal core, overcomes the fraud of givenness and ecstatically dines by defiantly pouring its wine back into the soil. Renounce your march to the celestial podium, leave aside the political rostrum, abnegate ego’s infernal lectern. Instead, allow the cavernous centrum naturae or pre-positional torture chamber of the cellf to wail with neological alchemical forgement of magna opera whose vocality flies far above the polluted anthropogenic atmosphere in epic combinatorial forms of cryptic verse and retrograde prose. Redaction dons the polyphonic dismantlement and suffers the musical resurrection of voice per se, the clarion sighing of empty floating tombs—Tuba mirum spargens sonum / Per sepulchra regionum (Dies Irae)—collectively sinking time into textuo-sonic states of permanent, chronic auto-eclipse. To compose in this fashion means to transcribe void, to write across abysses produced by essentially hiding thyself and dwelling like a million angels on the chiming spear-tip of wordless mentalesis. In prioritizing redaction, HWORDE apotheotically subjects authorship to upside down, apostolic crucifixion at the ingenious headless hands of impersonal editorial mob.


The writing must necessarily experience and produce self-defiance. This self-defiance is not an abstraction or value of the work, but an essential aspect of its intellectual and affective quality, something that is proven in the woven texture of the text itself as hidden writing in both senses (writing of the hidden, hiding of the written). There is no need here for texts that entertain the obvious or that rest in the sad realm of agreement and disagreement. Neither affirmationism nor negationism can survive the radical negative immanence of self-defiance, which willfully cuts into the very organ of yes and no, creatively hurting life in the soft homes where it would sleepily lie. Specific formal criteria for self-defiance cannot easily be stated because it freely takes opposite stylistic forms. Textual self-negation is realizable as much through baroque ornateness as through scholastic clarity, as much through the lens of aphorism as through thick curtains of prose. The necessary quality of self-defiance is best defined as the verbal realization of fate: “In the life of the mind, there occurs a moment when style, transforming itself into an autonomous principle, becomes fate. It is then that the Word, as much in philosophical speculations as in literary productions, reveals both its vigor and its void” (The Temptation to Exist). The asceticism of HWORDE manifests in the die-casting, verbal aesthetics of wyrd.


Everything, and in particular the general tenor this impermanent life, is ruined by the idea of ‘do it yourself’ (auto-entes) which is everywhere misinterpreted as including yourself in the doing of it, or worse, doing something simply as a form of self-indulgence. The rule of inauthenticity is the opposite: never do anything yourself. Rather, prefer to do nothing, which is impossible. Ergo, do everything as not, as you are not doing it, because actually you are not. Inauthentic action, not doing it yourself, is truthful action, also known as complicity with anonymous materials. The principle operates on all levels and above all on the spiritually aristocratic plane of active freedom wherein principle itself is forever more powerful and intelligent than one’s thinking, saying, or doing of it. Inauthenticity is the motivational secret of all worthy bergwerk, whether ascending (alpinism) or descending (mining). You do it, precisely because you cannot. “In order to arrive at what you are not, you must go by a way in which you are not” (Ascent of Mt. Carmel). Accordingly, books smelling too much of self-doing will not be touched by HWORDE.


HWORDE seeks compositional nativity in the abyssic morphemes of immanence, in the midst of all self-written loci, transcribing perennial and supra-individual ascent. Their gnawing of apophatic verse plus our anthromorphic defiance in face of the resolute misauthorial commitment plus their being-tamed into well-mannered (un)anthropic disciples = A-VOID. Accordingly, HWORDE packs hunters of axioms, trappers of tachyons, rural polygraphers of rotten crimson, all of which ascend out of pure auto-aristocratic complicity into the inauthenticity of the urging void by means of nigredo, aboriginal vacuum of the null set, and regional exegeses of inhuman selves. All-in-all, ‘tis what defies the self-indulgence of literal surrogacy by totality that matters, the pure emptiness of universal sectarian attack. HWORDE-as-praxis falls unbelayed into the entity of your elevation, reciting its free scream at the willows of celestial death, not at the cramped place of authorial spectacle. The soil of native tongues, continually growing among the gardens of the tyrant, will ripen into impeccable fronds, innumerable avant-fronts of fauna fruiting severed heads of the acosmic opus. As lurking psychic plants at the precipices of Gyges, as Vulcan cartographers descending the Hellenian cascade, engrave your empty chant of immanence once again.

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Austin, Texas, 78704