Muto and Telos

This page is a constellation of personalities. Some radical. Some horribly subtle. We don’t know exactly what to do with them. We’ve tried to arrange them in a pleasing manner—in reciprocal conversation, an M and a T—and sometimes we don’t fail at this task. What we are interested in is mutability. We are terribly goal-orientated, truth-seeking. Grotesquely disorganized and doomed to an obscure fate. Give us anything and we’ll destroy it in an honest effort to do good. Everything is interesting. Those thoughts malleable enough will be struck into shape. (What a German once called doing philosophy with a hammer). Trace the path of variation through what doesn’t vary (good luck); break everything thought you’ve ever had and put the pieces on display. Some people call this art. Most call it Mutos and aren’t entirely wrong when they do. A constellation of personalities, surging, speaking ‘bless the cup that wants to overflow!’ We wear our influences on our sleeves. Telos. Great dialecticians with a playful evil in their eyes, waiting to be found out, to disappear back into the crabgrass. There are only personalities and words (but not always in that order). Tangled ropes of cable impossible and dizzying to follow with the eye. We’ve heard a story. It considers a young heretic with the life nearly run out of her. Held against her will, shackled to the floor of a filthy cell, too weak to stand; her crime was the assassination of a Holy Papal Figure, and so her jailers and warden were none other than his Anointed Majesty and 12 venerable monkeys. On the morning she was to be executed they found her cell empty and shinning with a subtle brilliance. Her name had been etched into the wall, twelve feet high, with bloodied fingernails. Somewhere on the outside a ploughman removed his cap and sighed; from between two clouds she could be seen floating, slowly ascending, knees bent and face shinning.