::::: The only gratification left in artistic creation is in an agitated and obsessive fixation on animate and inanimate objects--especially aging and liquefying food goods; anything relating to food takes priority; the peeled ovoid sphere of a boiled egg is the most significant object to Iptar-sight.
::::: Much like Salvador Dali's 'Paranoid-Critical' theory, Iptar-sight is a haunted stare from a face like a bowl of trembling bruised porridge. But Dali and the other Surrealists hoped to transform these objects into: other objects. The Iptars have no such desire. The object is supreme by way of its principle features--physical dimensions, textures of light (light absorption and reflection), and its archetypal or categorical form. The physical details of objects should eradicate subjects altogether. That is why it is impossible to see a crouching human form after contemplating the image of a hand holding an egg when fixating upon the Kalgi Iptar domain!
::::: The mental language of the Iptars is Kiontu--a manic language of ephemeral meanings. To speak Kiontu is to obliterate one's own subjectivity, for a subject must relate to a consistent, stable language of meanings. Since the object is supreme... since it is the object which transgresses the flaische and compromises its ruddy health... the object must be interpreted by the Iptar in Kiontu. In the course of this project, the principle features which designate the object will animate and inundate everything in this room and in all of the cosmos!
::::: In the Iptarian idea of utopia, everything will be a peeled boiled egg. Dali intuitively understood this, and thus is granted the honorary title of "First Iptar."
The Paradox of the Human's Use of Subjective Tongues for the Fulfillment of the Iptar Mission
::::: As may be evident to some readers, this tract is written in English, and not in Kiontu. That is as it should be. In his highest state, the Iptar shreds his subjectivity through frenzied, violent, and unpredictable jerks of the limbs and torso, unseemly contortions of the spine, repulsive and untranslatable facial affectations which change by the second and will not cease to change until a desperate agitation is achieved which possesses anyone within eye and/or earshot, sputum-clogged elegies in the vulgar Kiontu tongue, which fill both speaker and listener(s) with an unbearable orgasmic dread until the very boundaries of their meaning-wrenched minds bow out and disintegrate over the audiovisual background of jack-knifing bacteria the size of Beluga whales drenched in the dye of mango husks, accompanied by the parched rattle of a crisped rattlesnake tail, rolling around in a cardboard box in the back of a late-90s Ford Ranger cockpit...
But it is not enough to enter into Iptar-sight, or to launch oneself into an apoplexy of shrieked Kiontu. We Iptars have done that, continue to do it, and possess the knowledge and volatility of spirit necessary to do it well and indefinitely. Ultimately, however, we have to imprint this world before we are all hunted down in suburban town squares and drowned in their fountains. In our subjective, sagging, pestilential husks called bodies, we have suffered a great deal at the hands of 21st-century situational awareness. Others must suffer, too, before the Iptars are gunned down in the streets and their supine corpses disappear into a chuffing cloud of cordite.
But we also aim to disseminate a shade of manic pleasure to those susceptible to Iptar-sight, Iptar-mind. When one has reached these anti-subjective states and the misty rectilinear summits of the revels of Kiontu, he transcends the categorical templates of emotional states. he ceases to feel anything but a voracious desire to plunge a sycophantic bamboo tap into his own gut and allow a mystical black syrup to leech out onto the pummeled toes of his boots.
Then the Iptar Mission is to spread this instructional manifesto to those who would seek it out. The Iptar Mission is to espy spidery souls on grim mornings, sloughing off ice crystals and shivering in the centers of their autumn webs, and to snatch them up in our trembling, schizophrenic hands and smash all of those glistening exoskeletal segments that contain them. A subjective language focuses the frothing whirlpool of Iptar thought, which is otherwise encumbered with an eviscerating cargo of powdered glass, darts of diseased driftwood, shafts of jagged and corroded hyperdense metal, and razor-sharp egg shells (!), which would puree the initiate's neurons before they could be properly deranged.
::::: As Iptars, we revile the human form when it is in a perfect, usual, and functioning state. We long to see shattered ribs curling out of bruised, seeping abdomens. We adore the texture of flaische when it is torqued and distressed--when it is gouged and pulled and contused--yellowed, purpled, blued; spat, shat, pissed, come, bled, and rained upon.
Animate objects are fine enough, when they don't wear us out with their childish, animal desires and their contemptuous notions of acting upon the dimension of things. But the inanimate object--that sovereign clutch of momentary particles that attains its highest form in the teary, shrinking hull of a peeled and boiled egg--are the dispensers of all ecstasy and destruction. The wheezing pitch throat of outer space, hawking its phlegm of galaxies and nebulae, will undo the precious pretensions of the human race and all of his beloved and well-catalogued pets, in good enough time...
For the Iptars, this has already happened!
[Kalgi Iptar! Кальги Иптар!: All hail the Iptars, who are doomed; who weep and drool into the bare indigo beds of their nails!]
Geth-Tek-sight and the Conglomerate Beast of Surface
::::: Oh what a marvel: the a priori foolishness in which the subjective mind has no choice but to simmer. We often amuse ourselves with ready-made, store-bought concepts of micro- and macrocosms. We inherently know that each cell in our bodies is a universe unto itself. Yet, in spite of the grace of this self-evident fact, the subjective mind regards its order of magnitude as sacred, solely due to the fact that "I" must cling to it in his soulful malaise in order to persevere as a subject. Most people can feel their genitals squealing when confronted with thoughts of the electron microscope, that unforgiving reminder of the desolate gulfs expanding between vast sub-atomic bodies.
There is a race of beings that live one order of magnitude below us: the Geth-Tek. This is a group of entities that finds itself in a constant state of degradation, and delirious filmic circumspection. The Geth-Tek inhabit every molecule and every atom on this planet (and elsewhere). These are the masters of Iptar-sight, Iptar-mind. It was from the dribbling stewed-canary lips of the Geth-Tek that we heard the diabolical and panicked syntax of Kiontu for the very first time. It is from the order of spoons, hands, and genitals that the Iptars apprehend their aesthetic directive. Here is a dispatch from The Cerulean Void which expands on the mechanism which drives the Geth-Tek:
"The excess debris of a radical sickness lounge in the emptying lobbies of alveoli, recounting the atrocities they have committed in their youth. Under an electron microscope, these beings would look something like transparent cigars, needle-nosing in instantaneous jerks through the medium in which they multiply. But here, in this spherical pocket inflating like a hickory-smoked grocery bag, they are men with yellow faces carved from attic wax.
They have removed from their flaische tailored suits, made from a fiber resembling liquid spiderwebs, and have piled them in the center of the chamber. There, the individual articles of clothing begin to lose their definition, their cut, and melt into one another. On top of this coagulated mass, hardening like a mound of unattended epoxy, there are ragged yellow spheres sagging into indentations...
...[These men] are standing in a row, hip-to-hip, laughing and swaying together with their flamingo charm in this lung's cabaret... A closeup of their faces reveals pairs of hasty excavations where, according to human anatomy, eyes should be. They hold silver implements that look like ice cream scoops, but are really 'ri'ilkuf.' For the next few moments, we can translate this as 'ceremonial spoons' or 'ejectors'.
They are tapping their respective ri'ilkuf together with their arms limp at their sides. The camera zooms in and scans across the row of spoons, hands, and genitals:
Spoons: bowl edge caked with flaische of these yellow men. In the most interior region of the bowl are shallow etchings depicting scenes of brutal, romantic auto-copulations. One Geth-Tek mates only with itself, its detachable organs lodged into its eye sockets. It embraces itself about the hips--the skin of its forearms begins to fuse to its abdomen.
Hands: Already, the fingers have lost their shape. They run together, wrapped around the handle of the spoon, yellow flaische dripping off in a pearlescent mustard curtain--glimpses caught of the skeletal structure beneath; it is invisible, but the melted skin settles into bone joints, spreads over segments of carpal, meta-carpal, phalanx, scathu, au'kti-u. Indentations in the flowing liquid skin, which is melted American cheese, reveals more etchings set down in their very skeletons. This is the secret history of the race of the Geth-Tek. The camera does not possess the capabilities of resolution necessary to discern these glyphs. Neither does the human eye. The eye of Iptar-sight can read the secret history of the Geth-Tek, but then can only express it verbally or scripturally in Kiontu.
Genitals: similar to the forked tongue of the Gila Monster. This is the only part of their bodies that is not yellow. It is black with an artificial matte texture to its exterior. At its base, it is apparent that this appendage is fitted to the groin via a mechanically installed socket. The genital apparatus, which is referred to in Kiontu as 'Tas-Tek,' is inserted into the socket and rotated, then locked into place for several millennia until the time of self-mating comes about. At the extreme forked tips of the Tas-Tek, if one looks very closely and successfully manages to evade the mind-erasing properties that this fixture exerts, it is clear that there are two intricate mechanisms that compose it--one which nourishes and operates the other. First, you will observe that there is a sub-microscopic ring of what could be compared to camera lenses, packed tightly together in the formation of arachnid eyes. These lenses encircle a thin membrane which is stretched over the rounded mouth of a hollow chamber. At the end of this tube-like chamber, which functions like a urethra, is an unstable nucleus, which, during auto-copulation, emits pulses of electrons, which then blast the aforementioned lens ring and create a continuum of electric agitation between the two mechanisms. At this point, images (which again can only be described in Kiontu) are projected onto the membrane at the top of the Tas-Tek. This membrane is effectively a movie screen..."
::::: And so each atom constitutes a luminary body, the totality of which composes the Geth-Tek Planetary Confederation. That is: the matter composing all surface, all objects, and all of those most curious roving coat racks, that obsess themselves with delusions of their own vitality.
::::: We are afraid to inform you that there is a ravenous beast. The Conglomerate Beast of Surface. It consumes every unthinking glance. Its warping teeth of contour, texture, absorbed and reflected light are sinking into the loamy whites of your eyes. We are the zealots and acolytes of this everyday beast. If you can't bring yourselves to see our beloved boiled egg, then know that you are staring down the dense molars of our beast every second.
And at this chilled rope-bridge of linked concepts, which we will cross during an ice-encrusted dusk of regrettably meaningful, logical, syntactical, and subjective written communication, it is our Iptarian task to inform you all of how you are eaten when you eat; how you are colonized by lipids and proteins at every meal. You are merely a by-way for the royal procession of vegetable matter, striated muscle meat softened in a bursting lake of olive oil, pithy flows of mulched spit-suffused wheat, and telescoping strands of mozzarella, muenster, provolone, gouda, and parmesan. You are a factory of hog shit and, quite frankly, should be clubbed into a damp bony rubble by the pestle of an enormous basalt boot-heel, plummeting unheralded from a sky that is pissing on you with carbonic sprays, spurting in high-pressure jets from widening cracks spreading themselves in the porcelain ash-tray clouds.
Surface gnarls your flaische. Harsh glares from chrome and piles of shattered glass simmer the pressurized gel in your eyes seeding the birth of new cataracts. The browned casing of a left-off apple, having sat on a windowsill in your kitchen for sixty-two days, sinks its blunt fangs into your throat, causing an ache so overwhelming that you hang yourself from the rail in your foyer closet just to get loose of them.
Do not be so proud! You cannot earn a place in this world as a subjective consciousness, who says "yes" and "no"--who tries to save his hide, save his seat, and save the date!
Instead, we say revel in the god of things. Regard the plump lips of your lover with the same stiffening of joints and... ehrm... Tas-Tek as you would an inexplicable rain-soaked constellation of dogfood pellets, wreathed around a defunct fire hydrant in the sidewalk. It's you that is for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, hogs that you are.
Concluding Maxims
::::: Chicago is the elected enclave of the Iptars--a crumbling fetid tumor with shaggy lawns shrouded by vile brick monoliths--an oasis of drowsing tortures--the kind of place where a wino in an iridescent windbreaker will smash your browflaische open with a whistling steel pipe as a measure of cursed poetic consanguinity, but will leave your manifesto unmolested in your breast pocket. We revere this fuming utopia. To the great screeching Winded City, we cry, our fragile voices dissipating over the abyss of Lake Michigan: "Scotland Yard!"
::::: The patron predators and предатели of our Iptar sect include, but are not limited to: Le Comte de Lautreamont (who gave us the concept of morose cruelty), Le Marquis de Sade (who gave us Sadism), Artur Rimbaud (who gave us a hankering for gutter-mess), Epicurus (who went the furthest in establishing the supremacy of the object over subjectivity), William S. Burroughs and Hassan i Sabbah (the former having given us the concept of orgasmic self-destruction; the latter--through the former--having given us those great apocalyptic words of dissolution: "nothing is true, everything is permitted"), Yuri Olesha (who, in his novella "Зависть," filled our lung-black brains with thoughts of Soviet kitchens overflowing with jam, and who invented the first truly threatening literary death machine), Daniil Kharms (who tore that red-headed man to tatters [all we really want is an egg-and-hashbrown platter], and showed us a встреча), J.G. Ballard (who led us through smouldering mid-day culverts, dragged us over dusty airport tarmacs, battered us bodily in the shadows of underpasses, and told us the secret history of WWIII), Filippo Tommaso Marinetti (who perfected the genre with his Futurist manifestos, impaled African soldiers on seaside crags, and produced the ingenious concept of Tactilism in his later explorations), Friedrich Nietzsche (who would have been an exemplary Iptar if he hadn't been so German), and David Cronenberg (who showed us how petty and in need of uncanny disposal the human body really is--"Long live the New Flesh!")
::::: The Iptars will always be hunted, persecuted, and executed by those who cannot accept the oblivious might of Iptar-sight, Iptar-mind. These inflexible mobs will consist of subjectives who will be offended by our very presence. They will rebuke us in the course of their flimsy back-room conferences. They will attempt to impose their senile, subjective, dishonest (yet somehow affected as "universal") morality upon us, telling us what we can, can't, should, and shouldn't do. Let these shrieking habitless priests (shriekpriests) feast on the shit of laconic turtles in municipal meadows. Come! Come to us with polished bullets and blow us to wigwam ruins! You'll be serving the Iptars well! But I guess you will have to buy guns first. Now can you countenance that?
::::: One lone peeled boiled egg poised on a silicone dais in the satin cloakroom of deep space is worth a million human young.
::::: "Charles Ybdis"--the closest thing to an author, apropos this Iptarian manifesto--is an eradicating wasp cloud of decentralized images and alienating quasi-concepts that are soon to be condensed into a series of artificial arrangements of literature, visualities, and post-musical sound weapons; "Charles Ybdis" inhabits a human corpus and uses it to feed the Beast of Conglomerate Surface, to please the petty and absurd whims of the Geth-Tek, and to coerce all who are worthy into a state of Iptar-sight, Iptar-mind; "Charles Ybdis" deserves to be ground into a pink paste against a segment of stripped asphalt in the midst of a nameless construction site at 9:53 p.m., somewhere on Blue Island Ave., Chicago, IL, but also hopefully somewhere in the vicinity of a dislocated standing patch of chain-link fence that avoided demolition in the year 1982.
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