Making the Cut

Drowning — drowning in Beckett. Its lovely its something I do.

Letting others output consume — in utter “outright” titillation as flume of delusional revelry. Swim in swamp loner pudding where Beckett scrapes, combs, scrutinizes, intermediates…

He is a hunter too — he basks in it, too.

How there is also a little Winnie the Pooh in Murphy. A bear and his honey. Oh bother. 

Samuel Beckett’s working manuscript for Murphy – in pictures at The Guardian

Lit, Just For A Bit

Had a bit of “I got lit.”

Sure its annoying but also stubborn, driven, curious. The play in doorway, call Wanda Wills A Woody — is self sabotaging, especially at certain points where undulates with lovely relay — then explodes with delight — and falls into dismay.

That song — I will always love you, as in — to the death — is like a light beckoning with sweet symptomatic disease for being alive and hungry and emboldened with recklessness. As well as anguish and tension of chase, overbearing brightness of escalating butterfly effects.

But its also heartbreaking. There’s always that moment as well, where feels as if could actually work for once — se fait “the cut.” And get right into it — what’s at very heart in substance of what’s the matter.

I no longer see it PURELY as singular! Have by way of things that come and go (simultaneously) found gear enough here to build courage — beyond what Beckett calls “disintegrating into pleasure.”

Thats a good thing!

Wanda lives for the work. Dreams of working on something, book or article or artwork, with Victor. Bad very bad.

Thing rises as bee in bonnet, and in sudden mutiny of the catch, we give into it 100 percent — smacks sacred with mustering gusts of tidal.

Swoons to See Inside The Monster

Murphy The Book, is mocking and tender and resisting, irritated, smolders up at gap, wedged right up against it, as waves form — of humor, obscenity, the ludibrious curse, historico metaphysicial patois, etc.

He knew how to play chess. I do not.

Celias clinging love. Murply hated it. That he loved her and now suddenly-susan had to go to work in order to take care of her.

Thus he was gone. Along with his chair.

Fail Better

Fail and fail again. Fail better?

Force of failure comes up as sudden explosion of desires that are uncontainable. And to the ludicrous tasty of my heart, feels windblown, stemmy, tossed aground —

Alert to mischief — and the signs of sound.

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