Three Luxembirds

Analysis of Analysis, Pt. 1, Pt. 1
In his well-known essay Analysis, Pt. 1, Combine Combine rereads his own earlier texts in order to make the claim that Benoit Mandelbrot would not have touched Krzysztof Penderecki with a vibrating sea creature. This argument is reminiscent of "Wittgenstein's Poker" (a post-prandial variant on "Pascal's Wager"), but its danger is less obvious and more clearly articulated in its form. That is to say, nobody is waving a hot (s)poke(n lette)r in your (sur)face (meaning). That is to say, it is precisely in the falsely-called (lunch) "breaks" between vocabulary and lexicon that the author's list-of-words-employed lies, in this chef d'hors d'oeuvre. This much is clear.

In his book A Triple Threat, however, Harold Harold argues that Combine's analysis suffers from an excess of excess. According to Harold, no more than fifty-eight unnecessary words are necessary for the complete explication of Combine's earlier writings; the (inter)penetrable references to Giles Househam are therefore a surplus of surplus, exceeding the excess that overflows the secondary superfluous extra narrative written into the text by itself (that is, by "David"). But in that excess surplus a new and even more unnecessary meaning is necessarily born, which is why Eliza "Klondike" Caroling could escape with three tons of flax -- that is, by raising the steaks -- that is, by rogering Bacon. For what is a "house ham," if not a comedian belonging to the court, a jester in a "Manor of Speaking" -- in short, a wild card? These are dangerous games that Klondike is playing with -- but they are only the most solitairy dangers (compare Krzysztof's cry, addressed to all mankind: "Yukon do it!"), namely the dangers of the rearticulation of the reconvergence of the discontinuousness of the interpenetration of the signification of the centricity of the rearticulation of Form (known to the Indians as "maize").

Here are Harold's exact words: "No more than fifty-eight unnecessary words are necessary for the complete explication of Combine's earlier writings."

What can we make of this? The number "fifty-eight" is, as is well known among mathematicians, eight less than "sixty-six" -- as in Bob Dylan's well-beloved song, "Route Fifty-Eight." But what of the superfluous repetition of the root "necessary"? Could this refer to the lascivious repetition of musical phrases characteristic of Dylan's output? (Note that this lasciviousness was also called into re-play when Dylan was called "Judas," clearly a reference to country singer Judas Priest, by an appreciative fan at the 1932 World's Fair, held at Speakspell Manor.) Or could it be that Harold, like so many other academics in the high fifties -- an era of rampant McCartneyism -- was addicted to morpheme? Words are, as we know, called into free re-play in an instant. But a play is never without its power; could Harold have discovered the mighty "morpheme Power" spoken of by the Househams' "Home-on-the-Rangers"? This elite team of forest-watchers did in fact re-call (i.e. "call back") several items from their personal bird collection, while Miss Eliza Caroling got all the flak for it -- three tons of it, to be precise. Is this justice, is or it just ice? For this circumstance is indeed, in the words of Robert "Flash" Gordon, and if my readers will excuse the eschatological metaphor, "some cold shit."

This "silly-jism" brings us round again, and now we see why Wittgenstein became angry and refused to eat his after-dinner mints (the word "d'oevure," for example, is a clear reference to Varèse's well-cooked piece Brisquète): they were composed entirely of sur-faeces (for example, of "meaning," or of "baby mice"). There is no excess of surplus here: there is only the foul stench of baloney. Bacon, Househam, Dylan, Sir (Arnold) Loin -- all of these figures are merely representations of the true story of Combine's story: namely, the story. The stories of our wives are not our stories; they are their stories' stories. This is what is meant by "excess" or "breaks": not enough time to eat our words, and too much time to say "them." For "them" is a long word, with many inhibitions, striations and subsistencies (Speak it aloud: "ttthhheeemmm"). Its texture can only be fully controlled if one has the appropriate helpmeat. This situation -- in the sense of one's physical placemat in the world -- is distressing, and perhaps a bit nauseating. Bon appétit!

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