Boatmans call. First line of song into my arms. Dont believe in intervening god.
Wish at times I was more easily intervened — cud lit tings go — or go at with free will — had to fight with old gods to free my brain — because they terrorize my skin — Ends me up in the middle somewhere —
The Angelic Function. Oh, déranger in French means rearrange or disturb arrangement — but not it appears that thing hording dementia — As holy causes generating thru with wild lyrical appropriation of meaning, of death, horror, heartbreak and nothingness —
Entry into sweeneys garden great escape to la lang bang? trees of green turning into a holy cow —
Madness runs through Sweeney Astray, its the first semimodern coda re the mad thing (other than dionysian) predates shakespeare.
Forced by life into becoming conventional — broke every bone in my heart — Now its a massive relief just to “hang in there” — ?
Twas “this” a change up proceeding from interventional wisdom — yuh — up from well of time in time (not genealogy of time out of time) —Index is part of the thank you part.
In Pronoun ShiftersWorking Title fiction am editing at moment — find myself stealing “permission” to pursue limpid (clear and bright) phrasing from Nick Cave — especially when trying to clarify the counterintuitive — where neutralizes absurd and remedies beauty — as find so often “subprocessed” in The Red Hand Files —
Albiet my story incorporates sense v nonsense — as a narrative fig, you know Lewis Carroll and Jorge Luis Borges — tho with an American strangeness almost makes me think a bit of Hitchcock (even tho he was a Brit) —
Anyhow, suddenly some broader truth steals in on what am looking into and find myself efforting to “nick” it, to capture it in a way that reads clear but also luminous.
Once let be drawn — to what peers out from side! the run off generally runs for me into something of a looming wild eyed plunger-with-an-abyss, of horror and of love — which found both ludicrous and shocking.
And once baited & hooked, dreams then screams — stupid teams to unravel where “collects” — strange babble kind of holy rite, to work through, as warthog through mysterious bramble.
What time there finds (and night raids) — also maniac for beauty — compoundedly gets sucked into rhyme, beat beat beats after — all can do to avoid is nothing! but flick a fingah at the “void.”
And Nick Cave’s advice: Stop fighting it!
Let feed on blooming nutgrass and pinweed — not be afraid to work at it, to let it compound.
Quotes from File 003 found especially helpful:
“desperate over-egged metaphors and lunatic, pencil-snapping, last-ditch attempts at something, my God, anything – “
“hard-won experience that within this pile of words something mysterious is going on… takes its own sweet time… “
“guy who turns up to hold the pencil – and that suddenly, without warning… have taken one line of no consequence and attached it to another line of no consequence and a kind of reverberation begins between the two lines, a throbbing – or as I like to call it, a shimmering –“
And of others where fortune favors brave — this ruc hides a-ride alongside. To steady waves. Particularly where share tender effascination for catching —
“lines [that] pulsate… collect significance impossibly… load up with meaning…”
“…desperate over-egged metaphors and lunatic, pencil-snapping, last-ditch attempts at something, my God, anything – you have learned to hold fast Stealing triggers something metamorphic —
He said, describing the Creative Process.
Surfaces like discovery sudden pile on treasure isle.
Whats behind or under, what feelie wheelie reveals up from the muse -ic, and yet its a prick with a strange noble kick to it — its blatantly informative, challenging, it compels.
Stealing for me means that something in my humanity has gotten caught there, dares out of these hidden spells — the shell of unknowing — doesnt just hear it but sees it coming out of itself in me.
Beats slip into counts and the reboants are hungery devouts in bouts, still neednt be so destructive because its sharing in feast of expression and what that means to the work — becomes a wild thing, a smoky heap.
Where sifts grifts uplifts, where deaths brutal sacrificial porn itself hangs out to dry, on peg by the negs, bounteous treachurous negs.
Yes they still fascinate like spies digging for plants.
The Submits. Sublits. The Regenerates. AKA: Chummies and slaveys, Joyces words.
Stealing is love, its meeting up with the goon show to caboose loose truce sway stray lay on swing on porch and poach the instrument. Theres so much I dont know somehow.
Not just distortion but a raving ghostly blindness that inhabits the flux — which is from Newton.
Receiving fluxes from Newton — picturesque up comes char — calling her Did Eye On — there she goes caught by fumes Newtons super meta physical ferocious gloom, Newton was a nut crackers suite — in his way — Did Eye On pulls up to beach in sports car —
Lays down in the sun under brellie, and watching the ocean move about reads — mathematically inquisitive histories about discoveries of Newton — because the numbers for emptiness pulled her in, over by the Submits?! searching for flimsies where again and again fantasy Adams would say livery broke into Poe pump kins —
Tragic wings, 13th hour solutions. As if numbers would protect her from scoping downwind — Its tied to love where inhabits the mystery of “vous”.
Their impossible and ghostly hands … draw us back … unimaginably changed.”
HI — find death runs through like an obstacle course. Moments it brings on — stun and shock into an awareness that hears and sees things that are and are not there (comes from philosophy — the there/not there). Feels more ancient than accident, a sudden sound of flapping birds, visionary bleeds thru in ruptures — where needs must grieve, for acceptance, realignment, mourn the slain.
Personally (and professionally) am again and again unimaginably changed by deaths that could not foresee nor escape. And yet right at edge of it lies an awareness that is pivotal — like the courage and heartbreak of love, despite all else —