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Cut Me Up by Brion Gysin

Cut Me Up by Brion Gysin

CUT ME UP * BRION GYSIN * CUT ME UP * BRION GYSIN * CUT ME UP * BRION GYSIN * CUT ME IN *

Nothing here was written “under marijuana” or “under” anything else. Billie Holiday and Baudelaire have borne witness that nothing was ever written or sung better under any drug. Hachichi I am and I bow respectfully and gratefully to my Principal as any Client should (not _must_). My Principal is no Monkey— no Machine. My Principal is called Out. I am a poor Singer but I can write out all of the Song I know in two ways and on both sides of this paper. Who runs may read. Learn to read by improving your running. Dig deep what Burroughs has to say against junk. Mektoub— It Was Written. Dig the difference between all the Junks acting on numerical proliferation and pot, art or whatnot acting outside of number. Outside of number is the only way out. The only way out to space. If you dont want out you don’t want space and the less you get until you have none at all. The Ins want space for themselves because they never but never get enough of it to be comfortable. THEY CAN’T. They way out is Here and it CAN BE WRITTEN. You can start writing it now by cutting up this whole book. Add what you like and make a new book of it. We have called

IN * BRION GYSIN * CUT ME IN * BRION GYSIN * CUT ME IN * BRION GYSIN * CUT ME IN * BRION GYSIN *

this method the CUT-UPS EVER SINCE WE FIRST STARTED ON THEM and the name is as good as any. They are not a new Discovery. Tristan Tzara, the Man from Nowhere, divined Dada out of a dictionary with a knife, pulled words out of a hat and might well have burned the Louvre if he hadn’t diverted into the Communist Panic by the Art Wing of the Freudian Conspiracy calling itself Surrealism under Andre Breton. We don’t want to see it happen again. Above all I don’t— I the Man from Nowhere negotiated like a Tangier Space Draft on a Swiss bank.

There is no game without two players. In other words, it could. But this is the Open Bank— these monkeys hear a lot and see a lot and talk almost all they know. Anyhow, here is the gimmick. Cut up everything in sight. Make your whole life a poem. You can’t lose, man. You can’t lose because you’ve got nothing to lose but that worthless junk you’re sitting on. Get out of that blue frigidaire and Live. You’ll know everything. You’ll hear everything. And you’ll see everything that’s going on. Really make the entire scene. Not many chicks will. Say they know plenty already. They do. Try it. Be a Poet. Be a Man. Never forget that Grandaddy Burroughs invented the adding machine when the more efficient abacus had been used for thousands of years in Asia. Yesterday a thousand years ago, Hassan Sabbah, a Persian by birth and school-chum of Omar Khayyam, walked by accident (as if there were any accidents) into the studios of Radio Cairo to find all the cats bombed. He realized like a flash that _he_ could SEND, TOO. He took the mike to an unheathed pent-house called Alamut near the Caspian. Called the Aga Khan today, his original station nearly a thousand years ago could broadcast from Alamut to Paris with Charlemagne on the house phone and as far as Xanadu East. Today the same lines have been proliferating machine-wise and a stray wire into the room I am in… Well, you figure it out. Try it yourself. Here is how you do it: Let’s see, now. No, I’m not stalling. Common sense tells you that words are meant to mislead. Especially in these areas. It’s about like this: Just talk to yourself for a minute. You hear that little voice? Well, now argue with yourself: take two sides of a question. Dig? That’s already a line. Do it like a phone call. Broadcast something. I hesitate to advise, because I know only for me, that something pretty saucy will often get you a sharp answer. Realize that it is an answer when you hear it and not just you. You first party or any party may be hard to identify but just go on listening. Soon plenty of voices will come in and soon you will be able to call out. Don’t put this down. Lots of people want this, need it and are damned well getting it by themselves. This ain’t no monopoly, lady. Shove off, you! Well, as I was saying before I was so brashly interrupted… Stop and Listen. The state called reverie just before sleep is a good place to start. You may find the head-shrinkers putting this down, they will. If you work on some mechanical job this should be a snap for you.

Artists and intellectuals BEST learn a method best called LOOK AWAY. You will find that you are broadcasting at all hours without knowing it. How else do you think ideas “get around”, man. Well, call me any time you want and just identify yourself when you call. Name and address, please. I’ll be glad to talk to you about this or anything else you have in mind. Crazy, man, crazy. We need this. We have to have this or, frankly, fellow pale-faces, we are SCREWED. I’m not putting that down, either, but I think I know what it means. Do you? Every non-paleface is on the line FREE OF CHARGE. Pale-face have the CHARGE but the line is not free for him. The TOLL has, historically, be enormous. THERE IS NO NEED TO HEAR THAT NOISE AGAIN. We went through the Ice Age in the Cave and came out to hunt sickly-pale like Lazarus or any Haitian zombie with a Reactive mind built in by our women who sent us. Women-set Motherlovers, to a man. It must have been great in that Cave— or that’s the way they put it. Me, myself, now… All anybody was ever supposed to want to do was to get back IN. Well, if you to get IN instead of OUT then SPACE is not for you and you are going to get less and less of it until you don’t have any at all. The INs always say MINE. I put that down. It’s EVERYBODY’S space and there’s plenty of it. A point in space is an argument place says Wittgenstein. “No two anythings can occupy the same spacetime position,” mutters Burroughs. Go on. Who says Time? It is the power of every hand to destroy us and are beholden to every one we meet, he doth not kill us. BUT The river hath more need of the fountain than the fountain of the river… the swarming sting of the sun has ceased over the endless lakes of lilac light burning away to a fiery rose on the dunes running like molten orange-gold. The day-tortured eye can no longer support. Before it died behind the clenched lids the sun wrenched itself from the sky and fell sickeningly over the edge of the world. Blues deepen like vertigo into permanganate purples. An icy chill weeps the very length of darkness after sun, cracking the desert rocks like a rattle of fire across the Sahara. Step into a Grain of Sand. It is Everybody’s Earthly Kingdom bathed in the white light. You can get the light with prayer, mescaline, fasting, sex and know where to find it again when you want it. Praktice makes perfect. Neither prayer nor mescaline nor anything else makes it happen. The light is there. Myself, I think that our troubles have only started and now that we have cut you in on this you are in on it whether you like it or not. You are on our side now that you have read this far and you are sitting pretty. This has taken you out of the area of words. If they throw words at youcutthemup and throw them back. If you want to disappear… come around for private lessons. Free. Painters have it made. Dangerous ground. Picasso can make a rainbow frame his new house and Cezanne’s mountain behind it. See LOOK. He ate the entire Imaginary Museum, shat on a canvas and sold it for a rainbow. Who can say ? We don’t need to burn the Louvre now. The Equanimity of Complete Despair. The Shining Air. Sensitive Desert. Puddles of Light. One Pace from Nowhere. Clouds on a Wall. Erasmus to Durer. It is like being against the weather. Into the Space Ship on the IN Programme must go: A Scientist, A Colonel and A Magician. To live in a capsule of Earth atmosphere out there and propagate virus-wise there must be a Woman. A Tin-Hunan of Outer Space that she wants to make into IN-space for her. Tin-Hunan veiled the Touareg men and dyed them blue. The Space Queen hopes to step into the ship and throw off the horrid disguise. Stripping off her gimmicks and tossing them to the boys she raises aloft a vial of sperm and proclaims herself to be the sole Scientific and Magical Colonel of Space. “Back to Earth you Drones,” she snarls to Men. “And keep humping.” From having been artisans, painters have become alchemists and now to this. Wurra, wurra  ! The great painters burn up the subjects they touch— all the fine flesh, roses, guitars and most of that merely visible world has been burned down for good. Now here’s the picture: One eye strikes deeper into it than the other eye. This throws the Intellect or even the Reactive Mind or whatever right off balance for long enough for You to _see_ that other dimension. Painters are bucking for space like Cezanne bucked for the museum. Painters and Prophets speak in ecstatic tongues which even they “know” only in the act of speaking them. Look Away.

from Minutes to Go, Sinclair Beiles, William Burroughs, Gregory Corso, Brion Gysin. Beach Books, Texts & Documents, 1968.

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