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Im having portican dreams And screaming pelican screams At the night fall and the terrifying Rise - .J. Steinberg

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Nacht Magazine Presents: The .J. Steinberg Issue

4-5 6-11 12-16 17 18-23 24-29 30-33 34-35 36 37 38

Note from the Editors Meditations on Oneiroconsciousness Dream vision #485: Fictile humanity A few guidelines from alcoholic Truth 4 Suicides ismyphysis Supertraveler Two aspects of Steinbergian sexuality Amass the tendons As for the ending Credits

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Note from the Editors

Im modest, I just refuse to admit it! Thus has .J. Steinberg been quoted; in truth, the statement gives a fair assessment of our editorial sentiments. It is with disingenuous pride and false hubris that we present you the current issue, dedicated to the output of one .J. Steinberg, whose archives we acquired last spring. For it remains the case that .J. Steinbergs identity and genesis remain somewhat shrouded in mystery, even to us. Where Im from, fear is a preposition. This is the only concrete statement issued by .J. Steinberg on the subject of his origins or whereabouts, although he is currently rumored to be ensconsed in hermetic anatomical study somewhere in the Boston area. His output comes to us via the .J. Steinberg Society: a cultic association of anonymous individuals loosely spread throughout New England, who have somehow, for some reason, taken it upon themselves to collect .J. Steinbergs outputwhich includes correspondence, sayings, sculptural diagrams, bevargist insight, poetry, and the residue of a richly narrated, sometimes violent oneiric world. It is evident that they treat Steinberg either as an eccentric outsider artist or even a gnostic seer of some kind: Steinbergs Danteesque dreams and visions of the afterlife, combined with his analytic phenomenology of lucid dreaming, suggest the outlines of a distinct visionary/theosophical standpoint. His work is far from spiritually or aesthetically disinterested, as it always reaches towards the carnal from an orientation of absolute hedonism. As Steinberg wrote to one admirer, reporting on his activities at large: I am merely catering to the brainstem such that my cortex can simmer unconsciously in the resultant juices. It is a form of hedonism unsullied by the external object or any incarnation of sensorial subsumption. I exist in a series of vacua, letting the mechanical immediacy of pedestrian mortality structure the days. Let not the glory of my soul roil this decadence, for I have achieved unbirth. (JSArchive, x20013) There is nonetheless operating throughout the Steinbergian explorations an unflinchingly dispassionate excavation of the paradoxical intersection between virtuality and viscera. A key thematic preoccupation is the dismemberment of the body in pursuit of a higher instantiation as disembodied consciousness only to be entrapped in further networks of veins, nerves, and musculature (or alternatively clay, simulacra - see Fictile Humanity, pp.12-16.)

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A related observation is that the Steinbergian will towards suicide and self-obliteration is only the corollary of an equally great will towards fecundity and self-multiplication. See Supertraveler, (pp. 30-33) and also this gem of correspondence, delivered perhaps to a former lover: Spare me the teaching and get to the preaching, I want the umbilical cord of your parents, not the placental folds of your cerebellum, for it is only through this thin strand that my fluids will clamber, where my thoughts will congeal and together well hemorrhage in the collective mind of past generations, unsought and lurking full of cities and transience, my innards will melt down your doors, build up their own locks and outsource your ass to yearn for those days when I pulsed through your cord, plundering our collective history from your stem. (JSArchive, x4053)
Caught in the gaze of the mirror, I see nothing other than .J. Steinberg

From the time .J. Steinberg files (far more than could be contained herein) landed on our desk, we engaged in a great deal of handwringing due to the deep oddity of the material. It is not for nothing that the members of the J.S.S say amongst themselves, A rolling .J. gathers no sane. But now, we have decided to disseminate a brief selection that we believe sufficiently accessible, with accompanying illustrations by house artists. So, then, there is nothing for it but to bring you the goods. As we hear .J. Steinberg was fond of saying: the verge is just around the corner. -Nacht Coffee, Editor Transcendentalus

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Meditations on Oneiroconsciousness
Oneirocosm: (-nr-- kzm) n. dream world [Gk neiros dream + Gk ksmos world]
among the many things that make the world so puzzling and precarious, the first and foremost is that, however immeasurable and massive it may be, its existence hangs nevertheless on a single thread; and this thread is the actual consciousness in which it exists. This condition, with which the existence of the world is irrevocably encumbered, marks it with the stamp of ideality, in spite of all empirical reality, and consequently with the stamp of the mere phenomenon. Thus the world must be recognized, from one aspect at least, as akin to a dream, indeed as capable of being put in the same class with a dream. For the same brain-function that conjures up during sleep a perfectly objective, perceptible and indeed palpable world must have just as large a share in the presentation of the objective world of wakefulness. Though different as regards their matter, the two worlds are nevertheless obviously molded from one form. Arthur Schopenhauer, The World as Will and Representation, (Vol. II, Ch. I)

Unlike reality, oneiroconsciousnessconsciousness in dreamsexhibits a variety of distinct states, all of which can be gauged by their relationship to the pivotal phenomenological component, lucidity. Lucidity, just like, say, a color, is difficult to describe, yet everyone knows what it is. In a large part, lucidity corresponds to how cognizant one is of oneself and ones surroundings, though it also is related with how clearheaded, sane, and self-possessed one is. Oneiroconsciousness can be broadly classified into five states based on degree of lucidity operating: minimum, nominal, partial, maximum, and hyperlucid. Below, I have attempted to document how these states related, primarily through correlations between the major phenomenological components. A graph summarizing my assessment accompanies the classification. As far as I can tell, the degree of lucidity is the only phenomenological component of oneiroconsciousness subject to the governance of the dreamer (there exist plenty of accounts of how to achieve greater lucidity; I will not add to this wealth here). What I will point out is that as it varies, one can observe the other major phenomenological componentsagency, solipsism, dream prepotence, and distinctness of self from environsdevelop in the manner set out in the following graphic [Editors note: see pp. 8-9].
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nacht 7 Minimum Lucidity Most dreaming occurs with minimum lucidity. One is minimally aware of oneself and ones surroundings and is neither thinking nor acting with cogency. Full dreaming, another name for this state, is a state of pure immediacy, i.e. without reflection upon the past nor the future, place nor self. It is as if the dream is casting a spell upon the whole oneirocosm, ones self and thoughts included. People, places, and objects may change at the dreams whim, and these will elude consideration because of the hex. Thus, the dream is actively felt to be and indeed is controlling the entire milieu, a factor I term dream prepotence, hence the maximum magnitude of this component exhibited in minimum lucidity as reflected in the graph. The converse of dream prepotence is dreamer agency, i.e. the degree to which the dreamer has control over herselfher thoughts, actions, and movements and her environment. This is closely correlated with, though not causally related to the degree to which she feels and understands her presencein-the-world, a quality which I deem solipsism, for reasons that will become yet more apparent in subsequent states to be discussed (consider for now that if one feels oneself to be present everywhere in the world, one is a total solipsist!). In minimal lucidity, one doesnt give much of the limited awareness one brings to bear to ones presence-in-the world; hence the low magnitude of both solipsism in this state. The degree to which one believes and feels one is distinct from ones surroundings seems and is (except, as you will see, in hyper lucidity) the converse of solipsism. To summarize the relations established thus far, lucidity is positively correlated with agency and solipsism, and negatively correlated with dream prepotence and distinctness of self, the first two of whichagency and solipsismare themselves correlated, while the latter two are not, though they are both converses of the first two, respectively and separately, i.e. agency is opposed by dream prepotence and solipsism by distinctness of self. The subsequent stages of lucidity reveal why. Nominal Lucidity Nominal lucidity is distinguished from minimal lucidity by the dreamers understanding that he is dreaming. While the complete dominance of the dream prepotence is thus lost and one correspondingly gains greater understanding of ones self, limits and surrounds, i.e. gains in agency and solipsism, the dreams influence is nonetheless still quite strong insofar as one still is neither entirely cogent nor clearheaded, and still liable to act in the illogical manner dictated by dream reasoning, i.e. unreflective reasoning. However, as this is a transition state to partial lucidity, we see all the phenomenological components undergoing great change. As one gains lucidity, thereby understanding that one is in a dream, one understands that ones surrounds are in fact products of ones own mind, and thus the world is an extension of oneself. Correspondingly, solipsismones presence in the worldrises significantly. Correlatively, distinctness-of-self wanes. The relative values between components in this stage as outlined in the graph
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nacht 10 are averages, and need not necessarily co-relate in this way in any given dream. They can vary greatly depending on the nature of the state. For instance, one may be very cogent and thereby have much agency, but little understanding that one is in a dream, and therefore distinctness of self will remain relatively high and solipsism quite low. Alternatively, the converse may be true: the dreamer may have great understanding that he is in a dream, but no ability to act upon it, merely continuing as he had been prior to the increase in lucidity (the will could be paralyzed by fear, anxiety, reverence for the oneirocosm, etc.). Thus, while any of the named components can remain at the same magnitude as found in minimum lucidity, the pivotal factor that distinguishes nominal lucidity from its lesser form is the sheer understanding that one is in a dream. Partial Lucidity Partial lucidity is much more clear-cut stage than either nominal or minimum lucidity. It is defined by total understanding that one is a dream and total clarity of mind. In partial lucidity, one is essentially as lucid as in reality, only ones surroundings are not real, for they are, as one knows, dream. Given ones clarity of mind and grasp of the situation, one can master the world, gaining agency above and beyond what is available in reality. One can fly, one can lift mountains with ones mind, shoot flames from ones hands, one can cause others, animate and inanimate alike, to do ones whim. The only limits are the limits of ones imagination, literally. Solipsism in partial lucidity is complete, shown as going to infinity on the graph. Indeed, the concept that defines solipsismthe belief that oneself is the only existent and all existence only an extension of itis the very one that defines partial lucidity. Correspondingly, distinctness of self is at a logical minimum: there is nothing but oneself, therefore there, in general, there is nothing from which to be distinct. However, this is not entirely the case: Ones agency can extend to any given feature of the world, but the world still remains separate in all perceptual capacities. It is not as if one is actively experiencing what it is like to be oneself and the ground which one stands on and the air one is breathing and the trees one is seeing, etc. This is may be a possible state to achieve, but is not in the general scope of what I am calling partial lucidity. The corollary of this limit to oneness is that while one is indeed capable of doing anything, one is not fully the author of ones experiencethe dream continues to provide ones surroundings. Thus, in partial lucidity, dream prepotence is not zero, but very low, as the dream provides rather than governs the cosmos. Maximum Lucidity This state is indistinguishable from reality. When entering it, one doesnt feel as though dreaming any more and has come into a new world Unlike, in partial lucidity where the surroundings were obviously the oneirocosm, the world in maximum lucidity is just as lucid as in reality. As it is just like reality, all the components are at the same magnitude they are in reality (Note that solipsisms
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nacht 11 normal magnitude in reality is zero and therefore depicted at zero rather than at the dashed orange line indicating normal magnitude in reality). Of course, some people may be solipsists in reality, but for our purposes this can be defined as the zero state. Depending on the circumstances this stage can be wonderful or terrifying, but in any case it is always unnerving, as one cannot be sure of what is happening. Often, one will wonder if he has died and this is the afterlife. In any case, this stage has a fairly limited duration, usually lasting no more than what is felt to be a few to several minutes. Hyper Lucidity Hyperlucidity is a difficult, rare state, one I have only experienced four times. In this state, it is not that one is conscious of more, but that the magnitude of the reality in experience is itself stronger. Ones consciousness does not span a greater breadth as in becoming aware of further contents, such as when awakening, for throughout the process of waking, except for at the very onset, the magnitude of consciousness remains the constant, i.e. its amplitude is stable, while the range of frequencies increases, i.e. the amount of content waxes. Which is to say, that when one is waking, what one is conscious of may only involve one or two things, e.g. ones body, the feeling of the bed, the level of light in the environment, but one is as conscious of those percepts just as one ever is because the magnitude of consciousness given to those percepts is the same. In hyperlucidity on the other hand, the volume or amplitude of experience is dramatically up from that in waking lifeit is realer than life. When I first experienced hyperlucidity, I thought I had stumbled upon the next world. Each time, .J. Steinberg is in a brilliant white atrium, standing at the bottom of a staircase that climbed the curving walls and gazing down upon the vanishing point of an infinite hallway. .J. Steinberg is paralyzed with the magnitude of everything, for experience itself is deafening. Reverse solipsism occurs. In this state, the difference in nature of solipsism and distinctness of self is most apparent, and thereby why they are not opposites. The graph above shows the line corresponding to dream prepotence ending before hyperlucidity. This is because, given that nothing happens, I do not know of which physics the fabric of this world obey, nor do I know from whence the surrounds originate. Alternatively, I might have chosen to depict dream prepotence could have as rising off the chart, given the experiences amplitude outstrips and overrides any endogenous activity. Were hyper lucidity not in the picture, one might have been able to draw conclusions about the correlations of the various phenomenological components as follows: that solipsism is a function of agency, distinction a function of solipsism, and lucidity the linear independent variable upon which all the others depend. But that singular, fragile, reclusive species of oneiroconsciousness singes those relations down to shadowy threads of thoughts, unable to withstand the strain of that experience.

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dream vision

#485:

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nacht 13 part 1 open scene A psych ward with views to a walled-in, grassy hill on which patients may take reprieve from the yellow light and musky air that hugs the tiled, white walls inside. .J. Steinberg stands before a large, iron-barred window, looking upon a slightly disheveled young woman puttering around a crche of striking human clay figures. This bevy of mud mutes comprises her world, for she is their mother, having formed them as God did Adam. Occasionally, one sees her mouthing conversations as she spoons them the remains of her rations. How this food goes in and disappears is not clear; she is quite secretive in this act. Hands on the sill, .J. Steinbergs jaw slackens, cracked lips parting a bitthe clay figures appear to chew. Determined to prove himself delusional, he makes his way to the hill. His intrusion upon the womans feeding ceremony

startles both. Her hand drops from the spoon, which remains lodged in the sealed face of the clay. Eyes rolling, she leans into her companions ear, mumbling something inaudible into its muddy canal. .J. Steinberg stands dumb as she runs off, leaving him before this congress of stolid earth. Knowing not what happened, if it even did happen, .J. Steinberg approaches them, bare feet grabbing at the grass. The spoon falls silently to the ground, cushioned by the

fictile humanity

green.

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Halting, .J. Steinbergs blood pools into his feet, leaving little for his lungs. A figurine to his left lurches, teeters forward, grasping out, clutching wildly, hand snagging .J. Steinbergs gown. The whole mass of clay around him begins reeling, bits of bodies flaking off as they pitch awkwardly towards .J. Steinberg. Mouths agape, revealing rectal depths, they bellow out. Stripped of his gown, naked before the vivified earth, he gives himself unto his delusions. The effigial mob surrounds, screaming out for answers, asking, why have they been evoked, brought to this inhuman state, alive without living? What is this that they are? At each violent, questioning gesticulation, they crumble a bit. Why have they been damned to such ephemerality?

Thrashing out in the throes of awakening goleminity, they tear at .J. Steinberg, searching in his flesh for the answers to their inhumanity.

close curtain

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nacht 15 awaken to a new world and a new self. I and all around is earthen. Depopulated of humans, the streets now teem with a populace of animated clay. Davids, Venus de Milos, Adonises mingle with eroding, gangrenous humanoid forms. I reel until I remember our history. In the beginning, we knew only to disintegrate at every action, the movements of life our very death. Our skin cracked open, oozing black, odiferous silt. Limbs, digits, sides fracturing off, shattering upon the ground. Some, fearing this disgusting deterioration, chose to remain statues. And in their rigidity, they contemplated their substance, only to realize that we are indeed clay and hence infinitely formable. Soon, we all adopted the practice of resculpting one half of our bodies until it was new, letting the other decay meanwhile. Through such regeneration, we achieve immortality, for nothing else can end us; we are dirt. Only this process leaves us physically bipolar. From one profile we are the Gods.

From the other, we are a palate of ill health, deep gouges bleeding putrid mud, joints flaking, skin splitting like the baked desert floor. To walk around is to be awed and revulsed, continuously vacillating between weeping and retching.

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All has been well until now The skies crack, a blaze of fire reaches down, scorching us. We are fired, hardened, ossified. We move and our bodies splinter, cracks running through our divine halves, fissures erupting upon the others. Our earthen innards spill out. Desperately, we try to reform ourselves, but alas, we are no longer clay. The display is gruesome. Dying en masse, our bodies crumble as all fictile humanity writhes in the pain of petrifaction.

fin.

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a few guidelines from alcoholic Truth by .J. Steinberg

When at business, order Glenlivet, neat or with a single rock. When in need of class, order Bombay Sapphire on the rocks. When needing to impress an older women: a Gibson. When needing to impress an older sir: a Rob Roy or a Bourbon Manhattan, perfect. When needing to impress a homosexual: a Martini with a slice of cucumber. When needing to seduce a younger lady: Chambord drizzled over strong, preferably thick, vanilla ice cream. When in need of a drink after dessert: a Brandy Alexander. When at the beach: a Long Island Iced Tea. When getting ripped with ones mates: Alabama Slammers. When getting ripped alone: a Depth Charge at first, followed by Boiler Makers. Finally, When getting obliterated with or without, in or out, up or down, through to the next birth: Mongolian MotherFUckers to the last.
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suic
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ides
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Im feeling artsy at the moment. I will gather 150 feet of sturdy rope, another 150 feet of wire as thin as piano wire, but also several tubes of very strong superglue, and a ten by ten canvas sheet. Then I will find a ten-story building, preferably with white sides. I will make my way to the roof of the building and find some fixture on the top, which is sturdy enough to withstand a significant pull. I scout the sidewalk that is directly below the most direct line from the fixture to the side of the building. I will lay the canvas down on said patch, claiming it must be there for construction or some odd reason. I will then proceed back to the roof and secure the rope and the wire to the fixture, making sure both are excessively secure. I will then measure eighty feet of rope, and tie the remaining length to my feet, not unlike a bungee cord, I may even use a bungee cord attachment. I will measure seventy feet of the wire, and tie the remaining length around my neck in a noose. I will wait until midday, when there is much traffic below on the sidewalk. At said time, I will strip, go sit on the edge, open my several tubes of glue. Ill first glue my eyelids open. Ill then use one hand to cover the other with glue, and then quickly stick it onto my skull such that the crook of my thumb and forefinger surround my ear, and my elbow points up. Ill then use my mouth to apply several other tubes to the second hand and do the same thing on the other side of my head. Ill open my eyes wide and hop off the edge. Ill quickly gain speed, reaching near terminal velocity at sixty feet. At seventy the wire goes taut and I am decapitated, but my head remains in place due to inertia and my hands holding it there. At eighty the rope goes taut, I come to a sudden stop, though my blood doesnt and it sprays the white canvassed sidewalk. Meanwhile my body has slammed, ventral side, into the building, my bare back exposed to the public, but because my head has been secured to my hands it now faces down and out, stump of a neck downish, eyes glazed, open, staring down on the freshly painted canvas.

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Im feeling sadistic at the moment. I will find a small apartment, preferably with no windows, in a crowded building. I will then slowly move many bags of concrete and sand for cement, several sheets of plywood, several steel sheets larger then that of the door by a foot or so on all sides, except the bottom, that is a minimum of of an inch thick, a gallon of bleach and a gallon of household cleaner, several foot long pipes about an inch in diameter, lots of rebar, and a four foot rod about .2 inches in diameter into said apartment. I will drill many small half inch holes into one of the steel sheets and drill corresponding holes in the actual door, but not all the way through, just deep enough such that the a good whack with a hammer and an appropriately sized rod will go all the way through. I will then place this sheet up against the door such that the holes all align and place the remaining sheets up against the walls. I will proceed to construct a mold for the cement such that it forms a barricade against the door and all the surrounding walls using the plywood and rebar, but I will make sure to insert the tubes through the mold in the spots that correspond to the holes in the steel sheet. I will make and pour the cement in. If there are windows I will similarly barricade them. As I am doing all this, which should take a couple months, I will be eating excessively, trying to put on as much fat as I can. When all the concrete is set, I will pour the household cleaner into a large bucket and then secure a pull off cap on bleach, one strong enough to hold in the bleach if the bottle is placed on its side, such that it is positioned to pour into the cleaner if the cap is pulled by the string that is attached to it. This string is attached to the door through one of the holes, and I secure the slack such that if anyone opens the door the bleach will pour in. I then use the rod to bust through the holes in the door such that there are many tiny passages between the room and the hallway, though the door is thoroughly barricaded. I turn up the heat as hot as it goes, and leave the shower or bath running on hot. I then inject myself with several shots of adrenaline, take a hunting knife and disembowel myself all over the floor. Soon I am dead, and in the rank, moist heat I with all my excess fat will quickly begin to putrefy. The fumes of my festering body soon invade the hall, making it unlivable. People will complain and when maintenance comes to open the door, the string will be pulled, releasing the bleach, which mixes with the cleaner to release copious amounts of chlorine gas, which will drive off anyone at the door. Meanwhile, maintenance whas opened the door only to find a solid sheet of steel behind it, which is beginning to seep chlorine gas. Busting through the door and surrounding walls proves arduous at least for several days during which I further decay and my stench becomes more ungodly, mixing with the chlorine to produce an air so noxious, no one will even be able to approach my body when they make it through the barricades.
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Im feeling dramatic a the moment. I will find some shrill, easily frightened, blood-fearing young women and take her to Hamlet along with a very sharp pocketknife, and a needled syringe loaded with anesthetic. She will be in a long dress (I will insist), and I in a suit, all white, maybe beige, and together we will be seated in the center of the orchestra section. During intermission I will abscond to the bathroom to inject my neck full of anesthetic, being sure to avoid the major vessels and nerves which I will have studied beforehand. I will return, the entry pricks of the needle covered by the collar of my shirt and tie. The play will proceed. In the moments before Hamlet dies, I will lean forward, take several deep breaths to fully oxygenate my blood and brain, stab my neck deeply with the knife, and slit open my throat in as wide a slash as I can make. I will remain silent and hunched over till just as Hamlet says, The rest is silence, and then throw my self back with much force, tossing my head back with such force that the blood will shoot up, my wound will smile wide and catch the eye of my date, who will turn, and in that deathly moment screech a horrid, blood curdling screech. The audience will turn, gape, and that will be drama.

I am feeling spectacular at the moment. I will find a large dome building like the capital or the many of the state houses or even something like Columbias Low Library. I will get several thousand feet of thin, spooled cooper wire, a few feet of some stronger, more heat resistant wire, a powerful amateur rocket, and what ever tools I need to access the top of that dome, whether they be a lock pick, bolt cutters, etc. I will then notify many people via a flash mob like mechanism to coalesce at the base of this domed building during the next giant lightening storm in the middle of the night. I will climb to the top of this dome with said materials. I will have attached one end of the heavier wire to the bottom of the rocket, the other to one end of the spool. The spool will be upon placed on my head as a crown with the other end in my mouth, down my throat. I will be nude, standing in the posture of da Vincis Vitruvian Man. Then via a prepared text message, I will inform everyone to look up at the top of the dome and get their cameras ready (they wont be able to see me due to the darkness. I will then launch the rocket, which will shoot up into the clouds trailing the copper wire which will attract the electrical charge of the storm, which will shoot down the conduit as a bolt of lightening, straight to the spool, straight to my heart, and in this flash of power, I will be struck dead.
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ismyphysis

ont dare evoke the name of thine Lord Creator without acknowledging thy knowing His Unknowingness is unknowledgeable of all that is knowable and therefore known but undisclosed to the eye of thine Lord, who is thus damned to be unknowing of his creation, and that thereby this goddamn son of God is the everknowingly known son of the unknown, unknowing Ismyphysis, unwitting creator of all.

-.j. steinberg

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At first there was an array of transmaterial Beings, created by roving gusts of Will and stray Passions. Their genesis had instilled in these Beings the secret of Creating. Visions would come, and these stirred up Passions within them. Passions bubbling through a Vision would give rise to a powerful gust of Will, and this Will brought the contents of the Vision into Existence. Soon They learned to direct gusts of Will back upon themselves, in order to self-determine what Visions they would have. Eventually, They attained total control over the Creation process.

Such was Their boundless Freedom that they never bothered to interact with one another. They spun dynamic milieus populated with endlessly complex objects, cosmic tapestries of unimaginable sensations.

Their boundless Freedom was such that they also never bothered to create anything as static as a world. Everything they produced was in constant flux.

So went the First Eternity.

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During this, it was vaguely known to the Beings that there was one in their midst who differed. This deviant Visionary had a penchant for envisioning Creations outside the limits of Existence Proper. While most Created topologies, sensescapes, untold empyrean fabrics to enshroud their psyches, this anchoritic Being cloistered himself into a narrow, distant pocket of Existence to contemplate beyond the influence of others. There, one day, meditating upon the nature of being of the Beings, he ruminated upon the possibility of a Being fully endowed with the ability to Create, but who was totally ignorant both of this ability and what he Created. Deliberating so hard upon this potential being, our recluse unwittingly Envisioned him into a parallel Existence. And thus, fully formed, entirely incognizant, Ismyphysis came to Be. Due to the improbable nature of his conception, Ismyphysis was not innately privy to the method of Creating. He did not understand how Passions bubbled up through Visions to release gusts of Will, and so He was unable to harness the process. Yet in His essence, He was still undeniably a Creator. Having the trifecta of Vision, Passion and Will, he had agency, but unlike His fellow Gods, he was unable to inhabit his Creations. His relationship to his Creation was one of a dreamer to his dream in which he plays no role, watching semiconscious from the distance of demiomniscence, the drama shimmering in, then out of cognizance, never disposing itself to a stable thought. Only as available to Him as a penumbral thought, His Creation was as distant from Him in another Existence as was Ismyphysis from His Creator in the First.

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In the bangs of Ismyphysiss nativity, suspended in the Vacuity for the Solitarian had not given any thought, let alone Vision to the surroundingsthere was Nothing. Ismyphysis existed, but thought, word, and sentiment were not to be found. Statuesque, with nothing to rouse or inspirit Him, He was a frozen singularity, catatonic through and through, more an idol of a God than a God himself. So went the Second Eternity. But in a final passing thought, as the idea of Ismyphysis slipped from the Anchorites Vision, he Envisioned Him afloat in a misty spherical lake. Startled from His lacunal nascence, Ismyphysis began to range His sphere. He swam and swam, but there being no horizon, for the mist and water merely mingled with distance, and no way to mark where He had been, the only end was ennui. And when the ennui came, Ismyphysis lay back upon the waters, staring into the gossamer white of the mists, and closed His eyes. He began to have Visions, but knowing only His watery sphere, only endless, bottomless seas filled Him. As they did, a parallel Existence began to form, filled only with such waters. Ismyphysis was unwittingly Creating. And so the first seas arose. Ismyphysis drifted in the water for thousands of years, closing His eyes only to see more water. The mist seeped in, and He eventually went blind. One day, He began to feel His face more closely. He realized that in some places it had hard contours and jagged edges.

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nacht 28 Being blind, He tried to imagine these features, thus Envisioning themand so the first land arose. Groping other places, He Envisioned the soft matted feel of vegetation under His palmsand so the forests and grasslands arose. The top of His head, away from the warmth of His core, was crisp and frozenand the antipodes arose. He ran His fingers over His entire body and caressed the dry, gritty deserts, pitted caverns, and steamy jungles. He stirred a hand in the water surrounding Him, and Saw that it was the ocean, and where His body touched the water was the shore. And so the world came into Existence. But just as dreams wax, they wane, and His Visions of our world receded in accordance with the original ruminations upon Ismyphysiss epistemic limitations. Fearing the fleeting of His Vision, His heart thundered within as it had never before. Not knowing of His innards, Ismyphysis became delusional: Visions surged back up, full of unknown, unimaginable beasts ripping at Him, turning His viscera into liquid dread that seeped into His limbs. And so animate life roamed our landscape and filled our seas. Glimpses of horrid creatures roving His volatile Visions of Himself began to destabilize His psyche. Parts of it would fade, lose focus, grow dim. He was terrified that it might entirely dissipate, leaving Him with nothing. Yet, when it came, He quaked before the horror that it had become. It was cyclical: distinct creatures and eons coming into existence for set amounts of time, then decaying out of His Sight. The steady throbbing of this existential rhythm slowly lulled Ismyphysis into a profound psychosis, one so deep it resembled his nativity in its quietus.

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Now, deaf and numb to our world, Ismyphysis floats, wishing to regress, yearning for the time before days when there was only the waters and the mists.

And so goes

the

Third

Eternity.

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#45 THE SUPERTRAVELER

Part One
In the days of the day, in the time before times, there came to prominence a certain individual called the Super-Traveler. Travel was his business, hobby, talent, and fatehe bounced from one cosmic entity to another with no discernible aim other than the continuation of his roving ways. Due to relativistic effects he lived a long while indeed. Late in his career he chanced upon a planet that gave him pause, an unusual thing for him to be given, under any circumstances. This planet was a vast desert, without any living beings except wiry, greenish-brown plants strewn about. When the Super-Traveler surveyed the landscape, he itched with an uncanniness that he couldnt place. At the intersection of the planets equator and number line there rose a Great Dune, which could not but attract the Super Traveler. During a crepuscular lull in the planets terrible heat the Super Traveler endeavored to climb said Dune. The air quickly began to thinfor the Dune rose up into the upper reaches of the planets atmosphere. At the very top of the Dune, there sprouted a plant of the same species that covered the rest of the world, except particularly well-formed and psychologically suggestive. When the Supertraveler reached with this plant, his attraction to it was so great that his consciousness began merged with its Being. A genetic fusion occurred between their organisms, a deep form of symbiosis akin to symbiogenesis, the ancient process that connects mitochondria and humans. Together, the high desert plant and the SuperTraveler achieved a transcendent fused state, which surpassed the concept of existence.

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Part Two
As a transcendent half-botanical being, our hero gave birth, presumably asexually, to a lineage of offspring that descended millions of years into the future. These later creatures all had the shared features of a Super Traveler and a wiry desert plant of supreme breeding, but the ontological transcendence was lost to these successive generations. Then there came one descendant who was filled with a burning urge to uncover its origins. A discerning detective and archaeologist, it was able to discover the existence of his Patriarch, the Super Traveler, and, following a system of arcane cosmic signs, it was able to retrace his steps. At last it came upon the desert world. There is another element here that needs to be reckoned with. The lineage of halfplant creatures was not the only one to count the Supertraveler as the fount of its pedigree. He spawned yet another line: before he merged with the desert plant, he had impregnated vast numbers of women on different planets through the universe. His genes overpowered theirs, leading to a race of pure, if lesser supertravelers. Due to poorly understood properties of biodynamics, these entities were whittled and pared down as they traversed the stars and years in pure traveling mode, until, millennia later, they had evolved into pure manifestations of travel: pairs of disembodied legs in constant locomotion. It just so happened that a particularly intrepid pair-o-legs alit on the desert world at the exact same time that the half-plant being was arriving. When the two creatures laid eyes on each, other a flash of profound understanding overtook both of them, and the full meaning of their mutual origin became immediately clear. When they saw the Dune, the shared revelation nearly bowled them over. They knew they would have to climb it together, and at the top, join somehow, to achieve a state beyond contemplation that would have deep implications for both their kinds. They set out into the thinning air And the peripatetic omniscient consciousness that first inhabited the Super Traveler, then the half-plant descendant, and finally the intrepid pairolegs, at last spoke, and then it said: All hail the dreams of my progenys progeny. Let their phali echo to the ends of literature and their minds condense upon the nodes that will be mankind. And the warriors of grim determination to rest those machinations that drive our time beyond its present angst said AMEN.

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Two Aspects of Steinbergian Sexuality

Crone Fuck
I am in some part hotel part caf room drinking coffee from some very nice porcelain cups. I am sitting in the back and across from me out of the bathroom shower, still dripping wet though covered in a towel, emerges a woman clearly past her prime. She is partly, gross being cartoonish and old, but oddly attractive in her skinny, skinny curves and jutting edges. She is bone, sinews and breasts under tanned leather. We are dating. I like dating her because she is older and there are no frills. This is sex, coffee, talkno love. We fuck. She tells me to lick her cunt, which is shaved, hard and worn in, but still wet and sexed with drive. I mount her lordosed frame. We begin to sweat. We are discussing something absently, staring at the television. On the screen a supine man commits an ambiguous sexual act; the shot is from the hips up. Surrounding him are his father, mother and wife, from whose fingers extend giant blades with which they prod him, beseeching him to stop, only he wont. They push the blades in to his abdomen, all in an arc, such that his waist becomes an axel, the blades the spokes. Staring furiously ahead, he still wont stop the act. They thrust deeper, piercing him all the way through to the spine. Still, he resists. They begin twisting and kneading their hands, carving up his organs and skin, leaving only a thin sliver of umbilical tissue bridging the chest and hips. They continue mincing his midsection until finally, out of agony, the thin strip of flesh to the hips snaps, releasing him from his tormenters and the act simultaneously. The women and I discuss it, commenting, still fucking.

Father of the Mind of God

The Bride of Steinberg (BRISE) and I marry and have children, and our union plays an essential role in the fundamental stability of the world and Man in it. Someone begins to mumble the story Then all goes black. Out of this blackness I start walking into a crowded early twentieth century street where I am being yelled at by several black men to carry heavy boxes into a row of cars. I start loading mine into a very nice yellow cab that a very muscular and fat bearded old man is driving. He is yelling at me to grab all these different boxes and shove them in. Some of them I realize are mine, but others are not. As the cab fills up a beautiful young girl not unlike BRISE gets into the cab next to me. The doors close and the driver hands us both a sheet with the various fares to the top of the mountain; the fares depend on the quality of the road and the time it takes to get up. All are around $70 except one, which is $20: it is labeled The Highway to the Skyway. We, the girl and I, agree that that sounds good and well take that one. So our driver starts off towards the mountain in front of us and then slams on the gas. Were going well over 100mph up this mountain, and

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nacht 35 there is a steep bend with no guardrail and as we zoom around it we careen off the edge into the dead space above the cliff bottom far below. But instead of falling, our intense momentum keeps us in a near perpendicular path to the road and our driver is gunning the engine more than ever now. And right as we begin to fall the cab hits as it were an invisible road, and we launch up the mountain on the foggy air that blankets its sides. Were flying past everyone below who is traversing the mountainside while we go straight up, no turns. I see us pass the lights on the towers at the very top of the mountain, yet we keep on going up into the clouds. Suddenly out of the mists an old mansion appears. The girl and I get out and there I am taken into what I find out is a school for very special minds. I am rooming with the girls boyfriend, who is slated to be one of the best, the one who was destined to come there and be taught by a very special old instructor. It was said that someday someone who was a descendant of Spinoza or some important historical figure would room in the room we were staying in and far exceed the bounds of the schools curriculum. So I accompany this heralded roommate of mine up to see the revered old man. We walk up this spiral staircase to an elaborate study where the Professor seems to mistake me for my roommate and takes me under his wing, totally ignoring my new companion. He explains that there are three levels of understanding that one goes through at his school. There is the first layer, which encompasses all the understanding of the rest of humanity. Then there is a second layer, which consists of insight into the fundamental nature (or epistemic conditions) of the first layer , and which is only attained at this school. Finally there is the non-layer, which allows one to see beyond all of this, and why it is all wrong. This has not been achieved in several centuries. I, he says, will somehow immediately pass into the nonlayer. None of this I understand. Then Time elapses. My roommate has become intensely bitter both because I was mistaken for him and that I am consequently now intimate with the BRISE-like girl. I am advancing in my studies, but I dont feel any sort of breakthrough. Then time resumes its normal speed, and I am being called out to the perimeter of the school; something terrible has happened to BRISE. There against the wall of a walkway she is encased in a transparent membranous sheath, skin degrading, covered in a thin mucoid film. Someone says that lizards have gotten to her. But I look up and there are tens of thousands of her in similar sheaths strewn around the vicinity; I begin seeing not just through the sheathes, but through these poisoned copies skin into their uteri, where I see my seed growing with them as strange life forms, more glowing holographs of minds than physical life forms. Then the material world begins to dissolve, sparing only these luminescent singularities of mind and myself in the doorway, surrounded by void. I leave my body and understand myself as the axle connecting this spherical network of pure consciousness enveloping the void, which at its center I know to be the totality of all other existence. I am the father of the Mind of God.
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Amass the tendons

a poem Amass the tendons stewed, some brewed stretched into a thicket over lilac and white bones. leathered in their tangle swept beyond sinews weaved into a full hide of marigold and molars. tightened over the vacant drum curved for the gloss of lye and lily. dried into a lack of friction whittled into the comfort by orchids and incisors of a thick, thick cloak. On the market place them amidst hearts, tongues ears and other vivisected clovers. mounds of the most domestic tender spliced with the thin air smother palatial tabletops in the celestial bazaar that lurks gravely in the heights above ground dismissed. When the witnessing flowers wilt and all is dry as sarcophagi come the winnowed willowing wails whispering, blowing, the rasps effervesce coldly amidst asphodels and pansies the tall grasses bend, bow, beg the raising chorus gathers swift and the sound approaching, encroaching, echoing on the market. corpsed melodies rattle the stands cries reach out, haggle buying parts limbs, digits, organs parched drawls seek throats crowds of creaks raid ground joints hisses finger stretched cords as violets gaze ruefully For ages petals, buds, stems, and thorns beheld this over and under selling of vitalitys artifacts watched fair prices for unfair trade exchange in a currency of exhumed voices They stood back as powdered arteries chafe trying to throb petrified muscles crack contracting around moans nerves found afferent to stale silence cured skins crumble against howls carved bones splinter under whimpers. They know there is no blood for bruises. As onlookers the leaves cannot tear. Only pale colors seep, only sand sifts. But once in a thousand years the asters awe the geraniums gasp the scarlet larkspurs lurch even the Great White Trillium widens for one long last wretched weep lingers amidst the hallow tables and racks. It meticulously wades through the vacuity of processed bodily rubble because under black, abysmal pearl eyes behind grey, crumbled diamond nails past jaundiced, bricked gold liver is the warmth of a tendon cloak.

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As for the ending...its, its, its goodbadwierdawkwardsmarttoomuchaletdownconfusingtoolittleanticlimacticjustrightnotenoughofftotheleftacuteobliquenotwhatiwasexpectingoffthebeatenpathclichedasegrfdfinmcbiencinebignennneingbuennfbiwknlieuuthunkit. Really, Im not sure what youre trying to accomplish by it. Im shaking my head as I speculate on being young, only not. Im thinking of that line, Can you ever really finish being seventeen? I, I just cannot think it, mull it, chew it, do it, fuck it.

Lend me you ear, Offer me your hand, Because I, .J. Steinberg, Will eat them both...

--

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credits writing provided by the j. steinberg society Illustrated by eric chang (pelican dreams; ismyphysis; fictile humanity, the supetraveler) julia karpati (four suicides) Compiled and Designed by Eric Chang Eli Epstein-Deutsch Mary Prager Anthony Saufley nacht magazine .j. steinberg issue spring 2011 swarthmore college, PA online at www.nachtmagazine.org

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the .J. Steinberg Issue