12.21.19 Dont always realize what my mash imparts beyond these (rather) reclusive confines. Parallax it is called. Spoken of as distance between one and others perception of juncture and extent. My “shrine” aligns morbid rafters, christ with spiritual heists, where fly the bats — And that it is food for the beauty, and the curse of it too.
Unruly, unbroken! a counterintuitive form of love. Whose clucking and looting supports/cavorts chars from way back when — who were capture, and unduly have a beauty of their own that still enchants me. However a cage, of near glorious near rabid defiance, but what of that matters “most” to Hester, Lucy, Victor, Dirty, Nasty, Lulu, Haute… etc
New ones arrive all the time. Chars are dreamers and thieves. Who for me, steal brill, per force even its wager for skill, that kills for a spill, that windmill round the nil — None can let go somehow the raw useless rebellion of their birth in counterculture, hostile, aggressive, inclement — well, at least not entirely.
Yet pursues good things at times too. Its those chars that in fact came to engage with “the other” as impetus and bull work. As crisis of their birth, however mired and conspired in plethora (and cupidity) of death.
Am I worried about Forum? Index is up to date. Talk is of complicity with what inspires others and simplicity of language and yet, and yet —
Humor is where defiance defers now, lately calling serious pastiche, will somehow have to be acknowledged as a big chew-chew on Nick Cave’s rabbit’s foot (and Zizek’s too)( and of course Shane who can be ribald and indecent even is charmed that gift of Chaucer and makes me laugh) because humor (theirs helps) saves me, because it must (or else!) due to maniacal moles that big dig for tunnels of madness and love — A rash child-like madness was (and still is) anxiously perceived (sometimes) as the only “way out.”
That the absurdist punter struggles with haywire. Launching on delicious horse meat (gurgitating spirit and beef of deaths they meet).
Share the partaken, rake in catalog.
Because the night
The good thing goes South when sickness intercedes, lets itself devour/be devoured, shimmy in a rinse off, gusting through as (sublimate in) medium.
If an entry — let it shine! or beastly growl! Or what? reduce to cabbage patch kids?
Be it cat or a mouse, light in doorway or sun of god. Rising to the ugly, its cleft to pluck, to loop in the soup and scale it up.
Every butterfly buzzes bayou is light and death. Lives for it. Conceptious conceits (a la shakespeare). And what hunger for that does — when risen to a leap, the mystery of its powers ailing quailing over me. Is riveting.
As are acquaintances who parlay — feast of the parallax — always astonishing, that then quite often finds me lacking —
However the sickness intercedes, still roundly appreciate (and cherish) reach (and permeate) of parallax — for what it is — and what it does, for Testy also hermit the suffering solipsist.
Gimme gimme solids — to go forth (out for limb) on.
Then BB Becks bursts out, “she itches with it all over. Its a Sanctuary of flees.” St Agness retorts, “Violets and Buttercups pursue different bees.”
Shakespeare says: however well known or not (respectable lives otherwise), one works for it, that is all. Knocks on my head hello hello. Says: eek lovely, eek angel, and “loyal royal” conversion to serious pastiche. Sword suitcase sail of log.
Cat curls up in cup with sin of itchy skin. The peregrinity of ferly and gliffs. Qui cache, shiny bin.