Problem is reaching for humor. How do I take myself seriously. As it happens, indulge in forthrightness as an episodic way into being serious. And yet, can barely stay serious any more for even 3 paras.
The mocking stance of the gods? Is my salvation?
In its beautiful corruption, and say that breezily – the stanch emblems of musing with truth afflict an openness that is treasure for me and borders often upon subjects (if there is a subject, can call it a character?) and subjugations to (starting to call the Antimatter) tingling and entangling with sanctuary and fervors that illicit me beyond present tense.
And w.r.t. not just the Mighty but the Almighty, and an affinity with the Lost –
Beckett’s Lost Ones
Lost is a motif, a subject for me (see Beckett’s The Lost Ones), that occurs since first snuck into magic closet, swell and fell into Alices hole and so on, a burgeoning acervation flung with momentum for interlude and escape.
Being lost relieves of fault.
When lost, one has to find ones own direction.
Pleasures and tragedy gear up, veer with high tone grace, above the plod of righteousness (stringent and hierarchical with solemn courtly reverence).
Whats more dilatory serene forbearing than being transcended – by tragical by sensual?
The sensual – where after sexual onslaught royal we slips into reflection and controversy, silence and affection. Where thought digests itself as a body does food.
Things that are infinitely dope – on a certain level of religious beauty, they (as in gods) include everything – include occlude and then preclude EVERYTHING as standing below the sacred. Gods are possessive of pure infinity.
Infinity in math is just a mechanism –
Yes, such nature also ends up alluring itself to a preponderance of art and language as an addiction —
Admittedly, first occurs with escape – into being as meaning and thought and relic and relish, and coming through the subject – dwelling upon other peoples methods, beauty and force – that takes my mind as its flood.
Spirit goes up
Used to treat meeting people as a noble quest, that deferred whole heartedly to its hunger first. Before almost anything else. Not so victimized by my angels caught like a witch in its fire.
Spirit arose in concert with drinking. Drinking as proviso to slip off the upright ship – from regulation and money and work, nose and lip upturned for curiosity’s noble venture par venue. Beyond the fucking desk.
Before horror took me for a fall and all went wretched, wildly flailing about with sot frenetic incantation – strung out on beauty like a sickness.
Old expressions, don’t so much steal, as they just occur. Tipsy with fascination. Might say – as dope along edges where suspense provokes and allures – both the serious and the hilarious – in differing ways perhaps, to consort with same loot, violent ardors – which when verging with projectors have come to call the bunny train.
Something of a travel poem. Still pretty thick. Version 2.
Angelic quandaries unsettle frenetic cloning for the moon in symptoms of doom. Make me into a bristling broom. I can’t stop doing it. Cant stop sweeping for nuggets. Death releases the temptations from their horror. Score transit against tip of sky. Its hard its hard its hard
not to deify. Suddenly get wildly confused so busy swallowing the ancient muse/fuse – Go on go off at rim of hate and reach reach for the river –
Not unjoin from temptations of fate. Water and fire thirst and churn into throwing tire mire ire, things that rhyme with air.
Escape to canal watching watching, its pleasant and calm its beautiful there, buggy and noble and green – Suds this muds wretched pud swirls against tomorrows turn of heat. Questions in a slammer riven. Welded like a rock is to a wall of skin whose trickles from hell ferry in. Calm I must be calm.
Hilltop Park. Take another slab in the dark. Something went off like a gun, there across Crosswicks Creek heading down into Abbots Marshland. Then its quiet, followed by laughter. Filled with the hilarity of closeness to death as puzzle of minimalism? An irrepressible aesthetic –
Oh fire brigade scuttles across bedlams effusometers sinfully exploding into shade, pallor of an irreptitious mermaid – Forever floating and dozy and strum. Searching for joy, tinkling with jouissance. Can’t go on, will go on.
So I hang out with words, and how was that giving up on life, in pursuit of dispelling fictions, but writing started as letters dallying in pit of time. No where else to go so nowhere else to get there and all heaped up with horror and desire – since these feeble sentences began.
Could say something fell between is and not is when love beeswung into it, what seemed like madness came into it full of riot, disquiet, wonder, torrents, disbelief, something switched – switched over and fiction was alive with it, the desire that could not be dispelled.
But it wasn’t lived as fiction but as mystic all ganged up by the poetic insurrection, like Camus and his word: The Absurd.
Camus, he builds absurd as a mythic whose application is negation, he treats it as a conquest. Where negation is freedom from not knowing – despite it being absurd, absurd as a philosophical construct addressing being free from the pre modern focus on mythos as emblematic of eternity and absurd seeing it as what it is, and declassifying it in a way that is very french, very existential – I find it inspiring.
Chairs in theatres. Fall into order, fall into it like going to sleep where disappearance began –
Where disappearance began. Eventually called The Vanishing, as a Mystic enthrall engaged in unraveling from time.
As kid thats what I did in front of The Box – let myself be led into dreamings, as locked in, locked into time with nothing but time, bored fragile endless time became this tyrant of yearning and suicidal cabbage patches wandering around in Edgars detective disease, running across epiphanies.
At a certain date began hailing as a prison searching for beautiful warders with a pile of keys, letters devour me like nooses, strung up after trees, detailing warp and weft of a host of violent virtues ailing to be freed.
Its ferocity quickly introducing death as a state of play, with violence, horror, war, logic in mist of an indefensible folly searching for a dolly? no, death came in very early with resurrective intensity. It was a release – sleepy egg arises eye the red heart of pheonix.
Every night was pheonix, drank until spirits folded in, got trashed and like cartoon conviction of theatrically absurd dreams gear shifting, toward responsibility seeping seeping in lonely, hiding the reprehensible, fully dependable. Dependable. For what.
Wait for it
Clowns are hiding, where where are clowns hiding.
Hiding in the fountain. Like an urchin. Hiding in the fountain covered in a weeks dirt. Playing with water in the fountain. One just farted. Simper down.
Its an interesting format sz does it too. Fucked up there too. Up in the pails highest I could go, playing in the attic, thinking I like that. Juliet oh theatre theatre what’s theatre – do a woody story. Who is Woody. Who is Jael. Settle down.
Pranks. Jest. Muster. Gesture. Actions. Two new books coming.
Head in books searching for what what – epiphany, which is of course a religious word. Philosophical objects. And head case math, for shit & giggles – math epiphanies. Shit meaning. Oh shit.
Draken visibility sweet ornery jest going no purpose, its a test its a test. Tricked out by my own inhabitants. Mean sweet lost. Meaness and lostness. Thats a rift.
Turned into wingless bird all set aside to gorge out on fondling the batter in words. Let rhymers turn hopeless and mean. And door licking. Bell jar shows up where the boys are.
You dont have to, dont let them, what, fall into lost shadows your there its somehow this wild –
Nutmeg and switches and scribbling mercilessly for friends who are letters. The exchanges are never acquired. Its lonely indefensible place pounding on door of time. As it has always been.
Gonna raid the new thesaurus, gonna do a piece on theatre language, The Drama Bookstore in theatre district shut down. Booo.
The pain is a bubble of death floating around my body showing up here and there. It frightens me so.
I dont want to think of going going are you going as work but I must. Thats the only way to regularize it? Poetry is standing on head in corner with arms high around neck in a yoga triangle, and its about horror, eyes are closed hard as can searching for balance? socks socks with with umbrellas on it.
Disdain for theatre inherited from I dont know? Goes back, has to do with religious altars where slaves/pross are made into offerings for beauty and consumption, its wild old stuff, it goes to The Maniacal, cartoon maniacal as desire, stuck in a chair bored to a twist turning turning obstacles into cinematic compounds and dwelling feverishly on the mythic which is ancient and violent and digressive repeating as fast action camera though time the god awful riddle of being.
Weird. There is so much pleasure in the robbery. Media felt like a robbery, ate me for its tentacles. So I grew my own.