Camus is glorious
is all it is what it is why it is, meanwhile back on the farm:
Out to see if he can explain what he thinks and why. Book of his just read is in essay format. Principally about how and what developed for his theory of the absurd.
And how it can be made to work as a principled existence.
Absurd is for him an advancement, detaches gods folly from gods despair, and from gates of hell tomorrow. Tomorrow is bound to be just as inadequate. Beauty resides in presence of mind. Hope to do a a paper on this.
Slurpie chowing down on other peoples stuff.
As a way back into an existence that is startled by its own insistence, submerged submerged in a racket of forms.
I wish I wrote pretty
Like Camus? Who lets beauty in. Touches everything with it, best he can.
My beauty got all turned around, started to call them great reversals, its opposite as much as itself becomes defiant.
Lunacy and hideosity as an aesthetic invaded with scandal, and cross burning, like I was drugged.
There is freedom and there is emptiness.
Puppies and slurpies. To all. Madness oblivion complicity, purple sky.
Pictures pop in with terminal occupation. Line the walls.
Hunger repels them –
Disquiet is sly in a grotesque way with thunder chirping. Grogs through the day, going back for refills.
As a situational metaphor.
Longing. Belonging. Ding donging.
Overtakes objects subjects character scenery. Any name for anything.
And yet its brave, love is brave, a brave adoration.
Anoints the soul as a slave is to fugitive sorrow and migrations a burning ecstasy.
What isn’t in fact – but what is at heart of the matter dissolves inquiring after modes and antipodes of Janus the door keeper.
Rides beauty as a hemmorhaging heart.
Doesnt matter how hard try “screw the cap” back on.
Hopefulness is a vulnerable creature and like a fountain of formula that works is apt to mount registers, fly.
Edith Piaf storms in says love is infallible.
To let it exist – and the first word to mind is: annihilation.
Something about unwillingness to maneuver for outcomes I cant see, abstraction sets in.
All is holy astonishment really.
How beautiful those abstractions are. A void opens up with burning emptiness.
Present tense gets very stern because its slippery.
Shock at tyranny of it, beauty is overwhelmed with silent menaces. Panic is a repetition that always ends in a vanishing, explodes with disappearance.
Self becomes this moral nightmare. Daunting, inescapable, boundless – no boundaries.
What is tweaked.
Writing to you has helped me release this body from violent edges of a mess of tonic and stormy petrol. Much of it – based on religious hell raising? Though there are other implications.
Like Camus, lets me through into his explanations.
Face cracks open. Cheeks fill out with blood. Caps feather.
Rooted in dreary even weary distances that shock and bolster. Distance brings up the remains, bodies float up, bicycles are dredged.
Get dashed into chords of fill in rebellion. Fascinations door finder wobbles and breaches to campaign.
All of which, is astonishing to me.
Do a few that dust off through the categories? Thats Edgar. My Edgar talks endlessly in categories.
What riles the skin, I let them in. Heads roll to a stop. Menacingly, as if to tease me into engaging with their nonexistence, where beauty haunts – with obscene grace and relish.
Means nothing, means everything.
Walls where flowers are daily pocked into cracks to heal the dead. Screams laugh, drive by.
Nonexistence as a motif has many forms. Premise for book — on forms. Claudette says oo lala.
To dwell on all of them is an affair with destiny.
Dreams are bone rich their chalky marrow never defuses. Anything from everywhere fed the kernel a burden of virtues. Hammer gods.
Hammer and void returns to its dreadnought in search of archeology of joy, to burn the farm???
Nought gates to Hate City. Green rooms, red rooms. Green for suicidals, red for fury. Orange for High Sierra fields of spring wild flower.
Conceding to the natural. Blue is for Victor.
Name your out house.
Dream and scheme for a joy division.
Engendered through the depths.
Vaunt insides coincide with epiphanies that immure with dualities’ (many) separate existences.
Climb all over Hamlet’s ghosts locked inside the theatre, screaming for attention.
So I buy books.
I dont want books I want to feel the curtain. No thats wrong I do want the books.
Jael having a dream on floor of theatre. Getting ready to think and speak in character but whose character, what play. Immediately stumped. Decides to go mechanical. Working lights. No thats not right. Jael has to fulfill a character. What character. She hates them all?@?
Susceptibility to being highjacked, abandoned to it, that concedes no bounds, used to shock the virtual shit out of me.
And its excrement as a catalyst abounds.
Just think of as being caught in a religious nightmare.
As in greetings from the cavalry.
Cartoon horror.Whenever think of the jar. Whose size is always changing, and its rag tag – a plus 1, and more.
No fault thoughts gaoled off with Indistincts in sci fi mystery time. Guards compile pictures. Porn is a delicacy. Not on my watch. Leaves me sitting on edge counting wings of fireflies.
What emptiness, the hard empty –
What feels as if forced down my throat by the bomb squad?
Paste roots of sorrow on trend boards romantic comb Edgar criss crossed bone rose to plaint of surface.
Winds up in dense swamp, Southern camp. Screaming from rooftops. Stuff it. Marigold.
In good health with walking dead.
Oblivion + 1
Math has hats.
One is a holy number for infinity, but to enable n+1, which is symbol for infinite –
Was off the charts.
Lucent colorless vacuum as imp of impossibility. The word imp sums from its impossibility?
Is that a whore for love?
Something of love to be sure.
Point of resistance is that its charmed, however futile.
Squinting at language. Cross charmed with the crack you get hacked.
Bombed by crazy indefensible brinks. Strangely defiant schizophrenic links.
Screaming No Way Out into the kitchen sink.
Dreaming oblivions free of science.
Horror as a delicacy, a source of wind. A vast naming procedure.
Collapsing in on itself – violently.
Some discoveries are like square roots of -1? Appear a first a blasphemy but then works beyond your wildest.