Third Draft. Lots here. Needs more work. Still high on the hog, racing and unapologetic. Some sections need cutting, some need breathing space. Some language needs to be worked through. And other spots still feels like dancing on Tip of Iceburg. As usual talks about how and where things from other authors show up as characters to inform it.
Everything and nothing. Those two words merging together in a way where become same thing. In a luster tracking after peaks where balance is maintainable.
I dont know why I think of it as stolen. None of it none of it mine. its the resistance of the resistance. Dr. No from movies goes on endlessly tuning. phosphorous was discovered condensing urine to a paste searching for gold. Worth it yes. both the tuning and the condensing. thats the killer part.
Precious evil, meaning clandestine matriculation of epiphanies searching for consensus.
Its patterns veered out from hell of innocence as lies, chalking out what evil must veil. wild expulsions from time whispering about the divine.
Raptures sacred solemn devout edge of death, where – fondled, mysterious torrents of death, engulfed in waves of desire, whose shocking cyclic resilience still resounds – burns through this.
in “reality” a choke martyrdom cookbook for panic to delusory play dead, a vast runaway prison section — of loves allures, from when the mystic ran rampant.
Char Sets rising, their flames blew the whole thing apart, whose roots were lost in space hopping on one foot hoping for a grace, but imploded with tragic sorrow, a delirious sorrow, a death march whose violence filled folds with rioting shivers of the hysterically absurd — And those familiar with it.
Slithering anxious hopeless silt, runny bunny drummy loony spoony and moon to try and get to it – ?! Intricate atrocious wild mordant extents. Thick as peas.
My woopy Char Sets.
Absurd sylphic diffusion of hopelessness livid launched galloping galore. Pick up sticks. Media oozing syrup of rocket jaw, plush sexy fucking perennials, rushing over desires open wounds.
Sorrow becoming its own benighted killer flattened by loose ends, string theory – filed and sandwiched between houses of horror,
But still exhibiting usual characteristics for finding Joy!
Odds, the odds. Attacks are at odds, magnified to a stunning rave consciousness.
Based on mountain ranges, hard wilderness, majestic forlorn peaks, absurdly enamored with restlessness of it, with its desire, showing up under conditions of questioning assaults by all good victims of Blooms holy Shakespeare, the two Walts plussed out on books of dead, and pails and pails of ravaging the dredge.
In pants of it. Finding through desire liquid molten that squirms into sky and raids the absolutes – pelts it really with beautician cycles. Paws pick with Heloise at cloisterly mud muttering after precious pen.
Rhymes being graven mortuary raven things that attack at odds — translated? bodies of dead that change into birds under attack.
magnified always into an escape barely there in a vanishing space,
wildly locked in.
Cant get in cant get out. in and out and in and out and in and out. Train robbery –
Genet shows up. Talking in whispers. Everything and nothing. And thumps on head. But rest assured a buddy? Buddy systems.
Dead pie. Turns into Ed ped pie. Zizek has paragraphs on it.
Game boy term, I love by thousands, where once unfiltered searching for something hungry in tombs dusty old sweet volumes –
what does plague hungry mean, sacrificial trauma drama whose running from life is running from death, Groundhogs breaks failed over and over and over.
Scared sacred godspeed rushing onward. Language like a church on fire – slit into envelopes. Then the discussion turns to surface. And eventually degrees of freedom.
Everything and nothing.
And step by step, take it step by step, thinking of as occurring, one-on-one correspondence. Matchy matchy.
Fingers infinite with forgotten soda fountain faiths called garden of sweets. Much better transposed now – than lost in gamble to exploding torrents piling up from attacks of thunder, the deadly.
Consequence as everything and nothing – becoming same thing. Relieves burden of transference forever pending. Merely its own blessed crushing indecency. Running with fire engines.
Screamers demand gesture to be shared with Wilde’s Ernest – Clarice talks about that, so it undoes the resistance and gets call to work.
Tricked out evil sister, that poor drenched thing.
let her in.
cant it becomes a cant. chant cant circling ferocious rules – along a woodsy pathway with Nash –
its here we both bow, its here somewhere.
grizzle is bear
char playing sets turning up grizzle, is not pure vengeance. its muddy and trippy. just something fall into. and then unaware doing anything wrong because its the condition of the curse, explodes in beautiful char sets .
And let it fall out because – it is not is. Pal Jo/e/y.
Is not is – is a char set. Which then when it gets down to something dirty the maid shows up with dustpan at fire escape, alook Milly, heres a bleeder, more bleeder than leader
there is something that is so disavowed to its own existence falls into cracks of despair and yearns through it via la saut, leaps at everything and nothing.
in char playing sets that overrun bases. but its also flirtatious enchanted drunk and beholden.
Right great expectations mom shows up in my head – stern as forecast hard work is heavy labor.
Pip would rather be held by it in truancy – not so overly endowed by threats of disbelief, waves of inimical terror whose speechlessness is wild and free falling.
its shimmer and gloat, Thomas Mann adds. Yes and murdering canvas with Beckett. Which means nothing. There’s a stranger-ness in Beckett “up top” I find emptying. Has a Nirvana quality to him. What?
Fascinations bloomed piratical, that gets taken away in chains to hell. And when gets there, its empty.
chunks of sanity once seen floating off — sea fishing in alaska. Virginia talks about doing scales. She is under the table. Burroughs repeats — you have reached sea fishing in alaska.
bad girls giggle in corner looking at your face
veils is a v word, veils arrived so early. veils are about speaking the unspeakable. and what that did.
dispersed. people would immediately disperse.
thats when the char set I refer to as Nash, first showed up. with Doug.
reckonings slithering mockery and defeatism? no that wasnt it at all.
no, absurdities strange clutch at truth beyond niceties or the grotesque. there is no disqualification for it — admonishes marcel. cannons surround me pointy and blast like Genet’s penal code.
exchanging rove glances with woke feeds my elephant who always follows back.
better to have that bit that bit of it that is real. and acknowledge V is who she is for you. and I am something else. again and again and again.
could never be trusted, about who was going to show up. kicked in my head, and out came disarranging disobliging char sets. and would fall through their failing integrity as crumble bunny of all aspects. running around plugging holes.
but love the banter. and have learned that the banter helps with diffusing religions sacred clown/crown elements
mythic auto memories that marcel is talked about. those elements are brutal.
and where severity and cleanliness meet in a brutal system of hostage, Faulkner shows up from beyond the outhouse.
teams are playing volleyball on the beach.
looks out at grace of sea.
precious evils dig in after slivers Virginia says its in the wine and thats not a beautiful crime.
but holy suicide is.
that one somehow leads to other.
its this dream that never comes true where one lets the breathless out to breathe, in a way that is intimate and kind.
with no fear of density – which is skittish, frightened, all turns after the clairvoyant, lurching for absolutes bounding at sky – can overtake every mechanism.
Jane is also a sleeping sickness.
shine is meant to be unpent and get spent, its shared goods its voracious plenitude. and of course has a spot of frankenstein in it sleep walking into murderous sounds.
lunch, lunch. do lunch.
With J. Is a flee for it pea.
both other and not un genuine. its that middle vague spot between is and not is. middle thirds middle thirds. go there, leave here – on my own. go there. every clam is a daddy.
caught as a clam is being constantly assailed by want of nonresistance, dalliance free to loam, its some kind of leap element –
but also – make action, as a distraction, another charge through the arches with Teddy, an archers manipulation for virtues living off that wavering desire.
life of its own
Pessoa is showing up as well, in allowances section. elusive trickles, combustions, bottles that seize after the small. loves after skin and spine but gets mixed up by the sorcery. and disintegrates into angels.
admit relativity sometimes drowned in veils of religious screams, whose mufflers shiver at night. and in some languid persistent way lay there half enchanted by half way home from hell.
because thats what school was but wasnt. hated swimming lessons. gave me nothing but life. and I disowned it. my own life somehow got disowned from me.
where nothing as a land of urgent disbelief would live itself.
then see something in somebody else that changes everything and nothing again.
all that was known about visionary splendors stuck in vivd death cycles since small, very small.
yet another estranged mournful osmosis, began to play itself out into a comedy of errors –
most shocking of all its continuing grace, its diligence, fate as a dance with what life could be and also never would be –
but Hobbit is a hollow, and Hollows are also a puritan gone mad. barnacle babes in full flight gear. Filled with itemizations, of the obscene.
from there to everywhere. absurdity became so tyrannically weighed down by fiendish resistance
worrying itself into knots in trees. scaling trunks for moments brutal imminences that shadowed skeletons dancing divine, day of dead celebratory muscle.
its not a crown its a jewel thief. is jew relief. and everything falls into universal grievances. What does that mean.
that heart disappeared into a life of flames, and wurthered through – in rancid lovely isolation that couldnt understand the evil which subsumed it, as mephitic grace –
Emily mixing potents to fend it off, the horror that occurs somewhere simultaneously every moment whose evil is telling. Because it never stopped. And because it never stopped, led to too many places.
It had to be made serious. Had to be exported, into something that was serious about itself, that understood the impact –
This is Lulu serious enough about work to search for support for what it is, as is.
Genet whispers – what it was as is, Joy on killer sprees —
Bataille shows up at edge where Burroughs too makes the wretched thing beautiful.
And the rug flies off from there.