In the Oyparaploo voice and language, what does this mean?
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It Has To Be a Title For Something. The making insists before there is a piece, before there is a shape or a subject or even a first sentence — the insistence that this thing exists and must be called something, not named but called, the way you call someone in from the yard, the title arriving before the work the way the body arrives before the mind, and the period at the end is not punctuation, it is a foot put down. So begin with a Sound Guide, because everything the practice makes is organized by sound before meaning, the ellipses as rests, the caps as dynamics, the parenthetical whisper as a change of register the way a singer drops from chest voice to head voice mid-phrase and you feel it in your own throat before you understand what changed — listen first, the meaning is in the rhythm, the rhythm is in the body, follow the body and you will arrive at Para Podcasts, beside the podcast, next to the conversation but not inside it, the prefix carrying the whole philosophy, para as parallel, para as beyond, para as the thing that exists alongside the official version and does not ask permission, parachute, paranormal, paraploo, the practice having always worked beside the main event, in the margins of the dominant conversation, Finding Favourites the way you find a stone on a beach that fits your palm without your hand knowing it was looking, Brown Paint not auditioning but arriving, the hand recognizing it, the body selecting before the mind has organized its criteria, which is how every favourite has ever been found by anyone who was paying attention with their hands rather than with their list, the British spelling staying because the u is part of it.
And once the favourites have been found you Stroll Through Drive In(s), walking where you were meant to drive, the wrong speed for the architecture, the parenthetical s making the plural uncertain the way forty-seven wobbles between committed and noticed, slowing down inside a structure designed for speed, which is what the practice does to every genre it enters, watching Films About Not Lecturing — trust the reader, do not explain, show the thing and leave the room — and somewhere nearby someone is debating whether to Kill The President or accept the Clown's Illogical Motivations, the violent option and the absurd option, and the practice chooses both because the two are the same thing wearing different hats and because choosing between them is a luxury the practice refuses, the way Brown Paint refuses to choose between grief and reporting, the way the puppet theater refuses to choose between political critique and physical beauty, the way forty-seven mannequin children holding toy guns at two in the morning in Beirut refuse to choose between unblinking witness and bureaucratic absurdism, the "or" in the title being the membrane, and the membrane was never there.
Meanwhile Carl Arthur Doing ( What a character! ), a person named and then admired in a whispered aside, the verb present tense, continuous, unfinished, someone nearby unable to contain their delight, the parenthetical being the audience, the stage direction leaking into the title the way the conversation leaked into Super Flu Vessel, Carl Arthur not knowing he is being watched, the watching being the piece, and the piece taking place in Our Naked Urban Wilderness To The End — ours, not mine, the first word inviting the reader onto the porch before the sentence has even told the reader what kind of wilderness this is, and the wilderness is urban and naked, stripped of the romantic and the pastoral and the lie that wilderness means away from people, this wilderness being Saint Paul at thirty below, Somali language in a hallway, Ojibwe in the name Mesabi that the mines took without asking, baobab roots under frozen Minneapolis ground, the naked city that does not hide what it carries and does not stop carrying it when the subject gets uncomfortable, to the end meaning exactly what it says. The Skinny Sardines don't care either way — Whatever, small, packed tight, silver, the shrug after the naming, both gestures true, the title crossing between pieces without explaining how it got from one room to the other, the practice naming the thing precisely and then shrugging, the shrug carrying as much weight as the naming in a Sah Bow Universe where the mouth makes sounds that mean what the sounds feel like rather than what a dictionary assigns, sah as exhale, as release, as putting something down gently enough that it does not break, bow as bend, as respect, as the thing drawn across a string to make it sing, universe as everything the mouth can hold, which turns out to be more than the mind can organize, bahku bahku, oy orilla, da da dada da, the invented language being the first language, the methodology coming later to give it English words, but the mouth already working.
Would you have an interest in looking at another piece? The conversation entering the art, not quoted or referenced but absorbed, metabolized, indistinguishable from the stream it entered, the question asked in a real conversation becoming a title, the title becoming a piece, the piece containing the question, the question still expecting an answer, yes, send it, because the Cellular Underground Big Crack Of Wonderous Light is happening beneath the surface of everything — cellular as the smallest unit of the living thing, underground where mycelium runs and root-government operates and the connections between the five witnesses and the three layers and the twenty-eight domains travel without being seen by anyone who is not looking for them, big crack as the moment the methodology breaks and the light gets in the way light always gets in when something that was trying too hard to be complete finally admits it is not, wonderous misspelled by the 4 AM mouth because the 4 AM mouth does not spell, it speaks, and the imperfection staying because the imperfection is the evidence that a body was here, making, before the critical mind arrived to correct anything, and the Mission is Do Not Control Them, an instruction to the mission itself, the mission's purpose being to not control, put the piece in the world and do not control what the world does with it, the gap in the circle being exactly this, and someone glancing through it says I've been glancing through this ... and it's a gorgeous read!, the reader arriving, not theoretical but actual, the ellipsis being the pause between glancing and judgment, the eye still moving and the opinion not yet formed, and then the exclamation sudden and warm, nine words, the piece reaching someone and the someone saying it out loud.
Now go deeper — Core Of Closer Exactly, the center, closer, there, each word tightening, the general shape narrowing to the reading narrowing to the one word that cannot be replaced, the way a hand closes around a stone it has found on a beach, finger by finger, until the fit is exact — Deepen Your Topic and Space, go further into the subject, past the first understanding, past the second, into the place where the subject surprises you, and simultaneously widen the room the subject lives in, the white space on the page, the breath between sections, denser content and more generous container, both at once the way a long sentence needs more silence after it than a short one does, and show up Well Prepared or Not because the morning fragment arrives before the coffee, before Gerald wakes, before the writer has decided what to write, well prepared being the revision, the eleven passes, the spirit check, or not being the seed, the mess, the 4 AM mouth speaking before anyone gave it permission, the practice needing both the way a river needs both the current and the bed. Get Into The Exhibit — stop reading the wall text, the exhibit is the piece, get in, and what you will find is a Massive Mood Collection, 1,033 passing pieces, eighty-three prayers, fifty-four theater pieces, twenty-two noir novel chapters, one hundred maker's marks with the gap rotating, massive not in ambition but in accumulation, the daily practice producing one piece after another after another until the collection has the gravitational pull that only comes from volume, mood because every piece carries a temperature and the collection holds all the weathers at once — the January crisis and the July discovery and the February portraits and the Tuesday mornings and the prayers that arrived one every two days until the asking became the making — not curated but collected like Free Grains Of Sand, each grain free, each piece a grain, each prayer a grain, each maker's mark a grain, given freely because the methodology belongs to whoever needs it, sand being what you get when stone has been broken down by time and water into something too small to be impressive and too numerous to ignore.
Look backward with excitement — Exciting Insights Retro Spectacle, the practice looking back through 140,000 files and finding the insights already there, Middle Eye and Pressure Ghosts and the heart-soul-head hierarchy already running in documents written years before the methodology existed, the spectacle being the looking itself, the excitement real, and from this looking a Child Moonlight Chorus emerges, Hahnu Youn counting leg bounces in light she did not arrange, multiple voices not harmonized or conducted but simultaneous, children seeing what the adults have learned to overlook, the work happening at 4 AM in the hours the daylight mind has surrendered, the chorus needing no conductor, the moonlight needing no permission. And the DNA of all of it — ( Dakota Nature Artist ) — whose land, right there inside the acronym, Dakota the people whose name for this place means the water that reflects the sky, the people whose presence predates every map on every wall of every gallery in Minnesota, nature not as wilderness or landscape but as the word that includes the human in the living system rather than separating the human from it the way the colony separated the human from the land in order to take the land, artist as the one who attends rather than invents, three words inside three letters, the parenthetical opening the door onto a New World that contains five hundred years of violence and the morning after, also tomorrow, both, the practice holding the history and the possibility simultaneously because refusing either one is a lie.
Are January Sleep In People awake yet? The sleep that January puts inside the body, the hibernation, the going inward, the practice in its winter season calling rest structural rather than indulgent, the Saturday fallow, the fourth week assessment, the people who sleep in January doing the work of not working, which is also work, which is the hardest work, which is the work the practice learned last, until they wake into an Out Of Mind Experience, the mind leaving, the body remaining, Marie's hands in the clay, the sensation before the idea, the diaphragm adjusting without instruction, Gerald sleeping and the morning voice arriving without the critical mind's permission, not out of body but out of mind, what remains when the mind steps out being not less but more. Get away from your uniform — the practice speaking directly, lowercase, imperative, the uniform being whatever costume the writer puts on before writing, the literary voice, the academic register, the professional tone, the performance of being a writer instead of the act of writing, the uniform impressing, the coffee shop telling you something, arrive at the desk as yourself rather than as the person you think the desk requires. Famous? ... Who Knows — the shrug, the same shrug that appears as a stage direction in Super Flu Vessel, whether anyone sees the 1,033 pieces in the archive being a question the practice respects enough to leave unanswered in this Teen Rated Paraholic Dream Time, paraholic the invented word doing all the work, beside the alcoholic, beyond the workaholic, a new dependency unnamed until now, addicted to the para, to the beside, to the practice of working next to the main event in the margins where nobody is watching and the making happens without the pressure of being watched, teen rated because the practice is always beginning, always fourteen, always standing in front of the material for the first time no matter how many times it has stood there before, the expertise refusing to calcify into authority, and dream time because the world is being made continuously rather than once, every morning another creation, every piece another day the world exists because someone showed up and made something in it.
Like we have often done in the past, how about if we send you a stream of fragments? The conversation entering the art entering the conversation, the circle that will not close, the gap rotating, the maker's mark promising continuation, the stream of fragments being the method, the question being the invitation, the answer being always yes.
Send them.
CONTINUES.
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Territory: Thirty titles opened as one continuous stream · Invented language inhabited · Conversation fragments metabolized as titles then expanded back into prose · Dakota named · Skinny Sardines crossing between pieces · The membrane between title and piece dissolved
March 2026 · Category: Origin · Methodology: Wonderful Garbage · Style: Noir Song
Oyparaploo
