Hurts like the Dickens.
Boom boom boom. Push through pain beckoning in Jael’s heart to make it shut up.
Sublime turnaround time for story book salvation is a climber of vine like Tarzan – meets Camus?
And so they stand, Tarzan and Camus, on rock above waterfall, talking about flying through trees versus being seduced by ironic temptations and muses huffing off growling – by god thats absurd.
Jael drowned when young in Indian magic. Drowned when young in god as beauty and love. Drowned in mythos that love pertains to unity. And underneath it all, a curious alchemy dwarfed again by matricidal spells of captivity, monster patrimony –
What the hell?
Proved interesting somehow as a quiet tragedy of time, wild swings of anger and shame, all the horror on the television, a walk in the woods as a kind of loophole, vivid pangs of overgrown finitude, that sudden feeling of god is an angel of beauty and death in constant suspension.
Jael fell in love with a stranger who came through and went. Hook line and sinker.
Dreams relished him to a point of walking terror.
Riled, shocked, forlorn – at swarms of incredulous intention that would do and risk anything to get to him.
Risk turned into a a kind of stalwart bleeding chasm of funereal ecstasy.
Big word. Full of tumbling closely-held torrents, that pulling an excalibur out from its moorings, seemingly freed eternity from repentance, where virtue was both apostolic and abyssal.
Having a vividly disturbing religious bent, that restlessly ascended lemmas of love in quest of truth, meaning, virtue, extent, almost like a vandalism of beyond time to a quench of now, can blow the top off – in any direction.
His name was Victor de Loveleye.
And to Jael presented something special.
Writhe angry hopeful loopy rude funny angry menacing kind of a bum, blithe with and curiosity and contrary and cunning.
Who channeled everything – night love horror and delight with profound ease and affection. Nothing like her.
Tremors as spontaneous bursts smiling (yes yes whatever you want Ill do because you pay me to) for thirst to strike up a destiny for escape. Boredom or burdened with not being allowed, that from drudgery and boredom itself had grown so severe, it relished deferentially this conquest of his nature of her own nature, beyond herself.
Living what seemed in submissive vacuum of constant daily dread, a profusion of subtext rewound in her heart incessantly. Like an angel pouring out for life beyond her ken.
Insurgent and Jilt
Fascination with its tantrums grew passionate ardorous insurgent. Its jilt for life, day after day after day, composing a wild leap of faith, a willing treachery for escape, however might risk everything, right up to the depths of madness.
To risk its plight, be borne away borne away.
Fall Goes Squawl
Fall, the fall, her fall, into the depths of love. Fall, a holy wild card word! A sanctimony – both guardian and slayer, peremptory, critical.
Jael would find herself running fingers through its care bears hairs justifying it as a feral believing palmer of sorts. As a pilgrimizer, one whose life was about adding mission who must by rights explore the true meaning of love, love being pledged deep in her bones as a grace equivalent to holy quest.
Endless present tense suddenly like bomb blowing up in her head, gave no no relief from boredom or anger or sorrow, no realization its going forth but dealing in time with time itself and it was upstanding but oppressive, there was no play of light.
Go to Get to
The warrant to go to get – and be willing. Willing. Willing willing before you know it is a play on words and the cacophony of history risking all notions of holy category and death, for life, for what appeared before her as a horizon sublime with all things unbeknown.
A lure whose intensity was intriguing, instigative, marked by sudden taboo insight. Transports that would eventually plunge her into a darkness of a kind, both earthshaking and heartbreaking.
And unseal her tomb as if under a medieval star and death combined with something sublime was a nightmare of dizzying limbo and quandary, whose appreciation for context was not unconnected to artwork of a veiled face sarcophagus laying where dead where Beauty itself through fits and horror and love, tumults and pathos, brimfuls crawling through marked by wildly gesticulating alter laden symptomatic language and pictures of heaven and hell.
A darkness of a kind, both earthshaking and heartbreaking. An unsealing unspokeness its secret nightmare dizzying limbo and quandary, tumults and pathos, brimfuls crawling with species of heaven and hell.
“Hanging” with Thomas
Piracy is a matter of collusion and fascination. Thats where its truth really resides.
Regals the sweeper, a bottom sweeper, taboo. Searise wise, rogue belly oceanic floor mining sucker crazy out for blood –
But love as blood, blood means native. To be blood is to be connected.
Shared blood as integrating life force is bloody ancient.
Yet, as contemporary, a hidden wagering travesty, lost to its wild shoals and beautitude of souls, nostirils pinched and listening through the pinholes to bottom of history, where royal tyrants slept in sacrificial balm and pilgrimage raced against the wilderness haunted with ancient horrors, a strange and twinging vent of chaos.
Love at that crossroads thundering native with desire.
Passions are in many ways excess negative self possessions that cannot absolve themselves of their necessity for running to and from the flat out truth.
Thomas hated it too, loved and hated it, couldnt get out. Of its need to itemize. The meek shall seek.
More than ever
And yet could see its Beauty too as relish for the image, everywhere things grazed against it. And floated up to a high wire of a vivid urgency for life. It was all tied up in mystery of time, squeezing out every last drop – before a bolt would jolt her, seemingly dead again. Seemingly lost to the tide.
Got to point she had no other history any more. It’d wiped out everything.
Notes – still working on.
Got so bad, ripped my filter, filter snapped, and let whiff raging phantom core suddenly shocked into silence, nobody at home, nobody left, shocked into servant to appearances only as a way even to hang on, and other than that – a nonbeing, to thinnk of it in nothingness was to be released from time.
New phrase keeps coming up. A treason to believe!
Excitement as bizarre and drowning was a galluping madness whose freak disappearances I couldnt stop from happening. It was like liiving in a room fulll of rising bodies from the sea of little shocks of horrors I had fallen into, onto my sword, but looking back I see it as props. Because theatre beckons its dimensions with lyrical necessity.
The symptoms of a soul, taken over by what Philosophy calls The Others, whose existential quests lay between wilderness of dreams and fascination with spirit and death, with oblivion and collaboration.
Exchange of “the goods” had me by the tongue and navel, there was no turning back – as if potents of good and evil in league with Beauty’s many sided nature had come to fetch me home.
Had no language for it that wasn’t connected back to the Divine.
As if another part of me – always there but hiding behind the Wonder Wall, that wall where innocence escapes to, between hardness of fate and loves mutant forest nature, as if that part of me, labeled as taboo, neighboring on indecent, had wildly broken off – and said: damn it all, we are going that way.
But no matter how hard I tried, couldn’t get out from under sizzling fables of hell, that grew up inside of it, a verge of madness preternaturally posing my heart up against its own impotent throb, aching with its own death, in a fatal fall that was spooky and forlorn, in a way better than death.
Death became this wild obscurant breach with the present tense of living. Found myself forever begging for help to get around it, at times even to this very day –
But time as a colossal of the infinite, had overwhelmed and deserted me, both. Left me in a lucid dreaming state, fully aware but unable to respond, knocked out from present, left out of basic making sense, of connecting dots. My heart had been absconded, left struggling with a void whose exorcisms were beauty and wonder on the lamb. Could see but not connect, in presence of any desire, that was unknown – until hours later.
Screams in my heart, at recognitions afterward, made madness worse, even more driven to a host of feeble wild extenuations.
Meanwhile, below the surface, lines and diagrams and finitudes of sorrow and wonder whirled in a conflict between what could see and see through to (over time), and what could not do, which was anything unknown but ached after, desired.
Everybody else has their own monsters and sorrows to contend with too, Preacher says. No use blaming any one else for a fall into the limits and negations of Purgatory.