Automatic Scissors Flow of Consciousness

More about Automatic Scissors Flow of Consciousness

All right. Now look at that image.

You think it’s a figure laid out in some ceremonial geometry. You think it’s a mask, a body, a shrine. But it’s already a cut-up.

See the radial shards behind the figure? Those are strips. Each wedge a sentence. Each texture a paragraph torn from a different book of the earth — stone, grass, water, metal, seed. The body is not drawn. It is assembled.

That green ribbed suit — that’s repetition. A phrase looping. A pattern you thought was organic but is actually mechanical. Language does that. It lays lines over flesh until the flesh looks like lines.

And the face — glossy, grinning, almost panicked — that’s what happens when fragments are forced into coherence. A mask trying to pretend it was born whole.

Look at the bowls, the seeds, the crescent blade, the gravel, the planetary sliver in the corner. None of them belong to the same narrative. But placed together, they begin to whisper. Not a story — a signal.

This is the cut-up made visible.

Instead of slicing newspaper columns, you slice geology. Instead of rearranging headlines, you rearrange ecosystems. You cut forest against quarry. Ocean against bark. Machine against moss.

The radial composition is important. It denies linear time. Everything converges at the center — the body as receiver. Past, future, mineral, vegetal, industrial. All simultaneous.

The cut-up does this to language.

It collapses chronology into collision.

In that collage, meaning isn’t explained. It radiates. It pulses outward from the assembled body. You feel there is ritual, violence, archaeology, biology — but none of it resolves.

That is correct.

Resolution is control.

The cut-up exposes the artificial seams of narrative the way this collage exposes the seams of reality. You can see the edges. You can see where one fragment ends and another begins. The glue is visible. The joins are unapologetic.

That’s the point.

The mind wants to smooth the edges, invent a myth: “This is a god,” “This is an alchemical figure,” “This is ecological commentary.” But the cut-up refuses to settle.

It says:

Here are the pieces.
Here is the body built from debris.
Here is the planet spliced through a skull.

Now feel the hum.

The collage is not illustrating a concept.

It is a machine made of fragments.

And you, looking at it, are the final splice.