Aw Hell

12.18.19 Occasionally writing is glorious for me, I find that astonishing. And intriguing where it goes and how it muses its way there. Speed reading Beckett in French, new affection for Beckett again! in a way thats right on top of what I am doing, with giggling Proustian fits.

That are tinged naughty disturbed scathing morbid sentimental a lease on horror starting to call Serious Pastiche, that allows as a perog its seduction as “vampire” who sucks my blood, as wonder bread dipped in it, and vice versa. Lucky, the vampire is, like all Vampires, a befallen angel a garrulous implant and in part keeper of the clowns. 

Through other peoples sidereal charms — I get infected, and writing turns lately infectious for me am glad. Like head has FINALLY popped out of hell (thank you GeeSuss) and looking around first thing says is: aw hell. 

Was always immersed rancid with it roped and swinging veiled in precious stupid too hallowed by the night to figure a way out of its vibrant violent hell, that bled with it too —

And yet, was also respectable?!? Urge to stay inside “guidelines” of respectability is noose and delight in nappies, innocence of the child, my body itself was somewhere behind a fence beyond the grace of innocence charged in religious horror with loadstones of desire and born of the little sparge of death. Mahood Mahood.

I must send out holiday letters. I have to. WE MADE A PROMISE when this last hit didn’t kill me. I can do New Years. Promises pissed into a holey bucket searching for “aspects” of love. Nothing indicts like waves of righteous foist purlieus for love.

Meanwhile writing a list for online.

New Years must get up at least one page for each book.I have tons of stuff.

Admit that online books – not yet followed through on, everything everything even Forum is still WIP. The writing is a schmear on the Forum am obsessing over placement, tonsellitis, mandolin.

But redesign is done for now.

Need whole days to edit, 8-12 hour spread, to edit a piece. SOLID 8-3, food, then pick at till 7:30. Then try to rest, read. Watch something that puts me to sleep.

Also during break: artwork print page. Masonry type MIX — or somethinig like that, of fashionista pretty and also — pastiche both loveable and contaminated. Have opportunity to do small collection print accessories in my name. Will I go through with it? Do I “go through” with anything?

Aw cuts. Cut my way there —

Also want to redo top picture for Read Hand Files Forum. Let it be a bit Over The Top. Has to be about what I am responding to in writiing — not just who I am by vexatious ruthlessness of fate obliged to be acquainted with, in their work, as a necessity of dedication, medication, best of all — haunt insinuating defiance.

Which is hap so lute-ly intriguing.

What imagery? start with combo Eek Angel new thing: Serious Pastiche. Its not about deference, its about treasure and tribalism. Lit Shit wise do (lovingly) give into tribal economies.

Once healthy enuff by next week should be able to put in some full days. Lulu pops up: it kills me, I die every time. St. Agness says of course of course. Lets hold hands and sing. Victor growls and cackles till chokes on it, downs a half quart of water.

Its a PISSER splurging on Lexicon, fabulous, speed reading Becks in French, a blast trying to blast through foreign language for everything I dont get, and letting go letting go of need to understand in english.

Sly off of Camus to chew rabbits foot with density. What else something density recently. Where was that? Beckett, in the french. PouLouLala.

Speed read through fave parts Z’s Less Than Nothing — listening to my dead parrots flap about roombound, taking notes. Give that a glorious feast day at least!

Titles to Zizek books I think of IN PART as picking up on pastiche. Serious pastiche. Serious pastiche – makes the horror terminable. Gives it terms that are dripping with death and the liquid in language that billows and sheds, fragrant and doomed with labile emptiness.

I wonder if would let me do artwork with the Sickness Intercedes piece. So far its flowers. Drippies supersaturated and vous savez, torn type. Never know when start, what will end up with. Drawing as much as writing.

Minimalism. As a clean Trend? 

In part all my writing is god awful and relentless to boot. All apologies. Yet Shelly shows up — and though dour, swishes in the flower as it reeks of something bitter and groomed.

Get out rhyme crime comb and willow wallow through weeds — hands feel beamed down on by a deadly sun, left to burn with ferment a tittly drizzle and womb tomb loom, and goggle and giggle and gag, and pray for the thing, break open flicker inburst. 

If keep at it — something about it becomes incursive, incurs its own rummaging latencies, shell expels, the furnished closet, with faux wrap retinue that is also true enuff to believe — good enuff?

Writing is kind of flat right now, no cuts, no beautiful belligerents making me greedy, miss cuts like animal food, but Burroughs is dead and I fucked up. Body even you see — does me in. Plus ca change, plus la saignée.

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