![satoriD-e16974.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmST3jsCWDH3iDfD9AT7F5cCNTXsGnueXcBGp7nfvzVhbc/satoriD-e16974.jpg)

<center>"When you cut into the present, the future leaks out"
-William S. Burroughs</center>

When I was 18, I got introduced to the Beat Writers and I read everything I could get my hands on. When I read about Burroughs and his process of using the Cut-Up method, I quickly started to use that as a creative tool to conjure up the muse. 

Last night, I was going through an old notebook and notice this little note I made *p. 112 - Reality Hunger* and I knew this reference some book. But for the life of me, I couldn't remember the book. It seemed vaguely familiar. But I also know I didn't own this book, for I stare at my bookshelf all day. 

I puzzled over this note, was it a pdf that I had? I did a quick search on my computer, no. Then I went to search for this book. I thought, oh my I must have read this but for some reason it's content is not being accessed for some strange reason. So I went on a deep search of the text of this mysterious footnote I made years ago. 

I often have this experience, that something just seems to pull me toward it, not fully realizing why. It took me years to learn to lean into this strange attraction.

I pulled an all-nighter and I am better off for chasing down this lead. Now I want to share these little of nuggets of wisdom that is a part of my being, method, and process for whatever SatoriD is:

I consider myself a remix artist. I came to age on Napster and Rip! The World Philosophy. I am quite content to go down to posterity as a cut-up method shaman.

If you grow up not with toys bought in the shop but things that are found at the swap meet, you do things in a sort of DIY/Punk ethics way. Bits of broken things here, tape/glue, a dash of imagination there. Making all sorts of things, like a web of misfit things. And then you sit there, like the spider on The Net of Indra. 

The urge to connect bits that don't seem to belong together has always fascinated me, but really it turned into something else when I ate my first 8th of shrooms.

![SG4.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmaig1R93pyp5Aa6w8zgL9VE5FcRb5DsNGYNZDPFPXWwsg/SG4.png)  

Collage is a demonstration of the way becoming the one, with the one never fully resolved because of the many that continue to impinge upon it.

While we tend to conceive of the operations of the mind as unified and transparent, they're actually chaotic and opaque. There's no invisible boss in the brain, no central meaner, no unitary self in command of our activities and utterances. There's no internal spectator of a Cartesian theater in our head to applaud the march of consciousness across its stage.

The point is there is no point, only the felt experience, an evolution beyond words and narrative.

A poetic mosaic, made out of broken pieces of lines, minds, and visions, makes no attempt to hide the fact that it's made out of broken consciousness, in fact, flaunts it. 

Morphic-genetic in nature, a progressive buildup of unconscious resonances, layer upon layers of what has come before and the platform to which will unfold next. 

The shapely swirl of energy holding shattered fragments of mind and dreams in place, but only just. The moment falls into place by divine grace.

The Logos pushing and pulling my perception in and out of space/time, peeling back the skin of my dreams, unleashing reality.

You don't make art, you find it. It finds and makes you.

Singular obsessions endlessly looped and modified. Creating the beat-tapes of our lives. 

Poem as a form of thinking, consciousness, wisdom-seeking.

The act of editing may be the key postmodern artistic instrument. Everything in the digital landscape is up for grabs, to sample, remix and cut up to a million little pieces.  

The transformation, through framing and transfiguring the figure and the ground, of outtakes and raw moments of truth into totems.

In collage, writing is stripped of the pretense of originality and appears as a practice of divination, of casting the tea leaves and going in fear and trembling on your knees to the Oracle to peak at the eternal beauty that we all will return to.  

There is no pure originality, all minds quote, everything is a remix. Every atom that constructs your being, has always been here and will always be here, only to be remix again and again to sing the songs of eternity.  

Who owns the words?!!? Who owns the music and the rest of our culture? We do-all of us-though not all of us know it yet. Reality cannot be copyrighted.

My Method: Dive into the uncollapsed potentiality, bring back raw data, then either clean it up, edit, remix, muse on it, trip out on it, meditate, free association, confess, rant and rave, then decide to save it, burn it, or release it back to the source, or present to the tribe of humanity. 
Eternal Beauty <-> Me <-> The Tribe.

When a self can (through language, memory, research, and intention) projects itself everywhere, and can empathize with anyone or anything, what exactly is a self?

![LadyTransformation.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmUx4Hhpguf4ZNqjGVJ2A5RjMiLC3W734XJxjvqxKXenVp/LadyTransformation.png)