1.3.18 Woo Hoo
Just decided: change names Stinky and Pinky to Sketch and Fetch. For a bit. Gonna work them over. To add dimension. I dont want to limit those two – things deflect into notes on violence, especially gun violence, as an image feed. Gun violence very big politics here. I want to use Sketch and Fetch as symptoms of Stinky & Pinky and vice a veer, as crash/scratch test dummies. I mean out in the farm-ecology of fiction. Wondering if I have the chops.
Early spindrifts are oft bleeding self conscious, calling them all triggerfish, and the crap that comes up like doody want to tremor in mist of Penny Dreadful and shake and jiggle instruments under red sheet of Chinese Dragon, drawing monsters turbid love mischief thwart and crane, fortuitous murderers, without staunch boundary too decided between mythic yens so it can bubble up with dew. In different keys or something.
New entry for tru con, falls into discussion about madness again, admission about madness, that it became a goal, that I actually believed was true as a door to understanding! As a tricksters apprentice. First time I’ve made that admission. Its pretty dense. And self serving. I love when the trickster and the psychos start squaring off like its physics.
New piece body of h8, is more fiction-y, fluid, its image jumps sluice a bit more ducks in a row I wanna say for some reason, less defensive, more poetic piece. That said both are on the “Madness” Beat somehow 4 Tinkle Report this week. Who knew.
Going through some post New Years crash. Typical. Having coffee this morning with Lowell. Brother Lowell. In dining hall at Yado. Discussion turns to beauty of falling into chaos, what draws us there, that feeling of being out of constraints and a mind slipping into havoc, how at outset is a dalliance with weightlessness.
Got my first gig translating from French to English, a short piece by François Regnault for Lacan Ink – We’ll see if they accept it?!
Zizek is one of Lacan’s protoges. Lacan was married to Georges Bataille’s ex-wife the actress Sylvie Maklès. Sylvie had a daughter with Bataille. Later she also had a daughter with Lacan. Judith Lacan. Who recently passed. The piece was about her. Colette was Georges Bataille’s paramour after Sylvie moved on to Lacan. La Philosophe en Viva La France un petit milieu.
Its late afternoon. They are starting up outside. Theatre district me. When the show starts its gonna get very loud.
Meanwhile I am listening to Shane MacGowan and his partner Victoria on the radio. Its a recording of a radio show from Ireland called Sunday with Miriam. I found it on Shane’s site.
It makes me slow down to listen to it. Listen to the articulation in his thoughts that proceed with dilatory candor, a kind of dragging it out again, dogged unshrinkable delicacy of unsinkable ministration.
Personally, I have to let go of the wooly bully wooly bully to swim out to where he is talking and breathe, just breathe, breathe evenly, say it outloud, breathe. Take the backspin down, be considerate, scrupulous even, at the refrain. This takes a conscious effort on my part.
Frankenstein pops up, rubs his gifts against a wall. Arms flat out. Frankenstein is a perfume. A breakwall from my past. I smile. And munch on crackers that are made with corn flour and powdered beats. We are opening a bottle tonight that Sunil the Wonderful gave me. Toasting all our survivals. Right round right round.
Added poem by Wallace Stevens called Thunder by the Musician to Fabalot.
Discipline between two freedoms. Isnt that lovely!!
Last night had a dream – moving van took everybody home to meet my room. The room itself was cloaked in a white sheet, draped down from ceiling like a circus canopy. And full of fish. Long-finned swimming in place fishes, iridescent, silvery, dappled in rainbow. Vibratile finns, funneling like wings, all floating in place.
Woke thinking “sweet” mornings little grace. My ferociously fond fish bowl of hungry rarefied ghosts who by treasure and pleasure and measure, beauty & intensity of their raw & the cooked, draw me out like Captain Hook, for blood in heaven.
Lovely dream for the approaching New Year. SO grateful to Elizabeth – am busy next semester. Four classes, First one online. Setting up for Screenflow app.
I wish I had more character, that I was a stronger person in the present tense. Not so killed by beauty’s madness lost in rocks, mmmm rock repelling, where theatre crosses into time, not so anxious and beguiled (and stinky) with excavation methods.
Thats my new years resolution. Thnk UUU. Please forgive. Heading into Round 2 this site – tons of shit on my lists.
Thinking through Stinky and Pinky as well in Tru Con – suddenly Pinky & Stinky are showing up everywhere. Dreams are finding familiarity as reveal a brute beautiful architecture. Piece so far called Quantum of Wantum. Phrase stolen from Beckett on Proust.
Frankenstein & Whippoorwills. Stinky & Pinky, 2 clowns who are angels in love, & mad at heaven. Its all on the image – Angels come alive on The Image.
The Image. Its a line of magical thinking that falls across all extensions. I follow follow, as an adherent, has its own plottings according to Theme not Character, per se.
Clarice Lispector does this and turns the void into joy that fills the negative with essences plunder. I am exploring that possibility in several pieces.
Do it in Machine Dreams too – though it incurs/occurs 4 a character: Vanna Guta. Who is a video editor, rendering ghosts in the machine, fondly sometimes hysterically in pursuit thereof.
The plot is truly secondary to The License.
Started new Tinkle Review on book called Mythology, Madness & Laughter. About 1/4 done. First draft coming out much better than what really was my first ever Tinkle Review: Philosophy of No. That review splits into two voices. That never quite merge. This seems more to know what its looking for.
Its not a book review. So much as a discussion of terms, moreas what Literary Criticism does – philosophy of literature. Its about the topics. Though how the writing accomplishes what its seeking to do in structural terms remains a bold curiousity. Not so much as a book reviewer critiques.
Literary Crit but of course reading Philosophy books. Well that would just figure. To find my feet, just where they are planted, one works and hopes.
Started new piece of fiction, very early working title Machine Madness. That wont be its final title. It is pretty good thru half of it. Then another aspect of the voice intrudes, starts taking over. Though not entirely. When character baiting refracts into two. Fah. As first draft though really not bad.
Added a fave book am re-reading to Fab a Lot, Clarice Lispector’s Água Viva. After having given a copy to Brendan McCarthy, director of Systems & Materiality over in SOF, at Parsons Newschool. Lovely when I give away a book, I get to see it from another deft perspicuity which enriches its reading anew.
Plan on building a new page called Mad Love: Takes and Shorts. Started a new poem about Moods and Changing Hair Color, not up yet. Dreaming doing a Take of myuglymug reciting, then running that through AE filters, as colors of love. Plan initially is to start out doing kind-of-you-know humorous.obnoxious.artsy shorts.
FACT: 4 was yr when Pure Demure alias The Hide Away aka Boat launched out of Marina – when many of Stinky’s cousins first grew horns thorns, submarine castaway, a hopeless flirt was born – Certain things theatrical, certain scope mechanics – how they live inside this beam now as two prong, as a devils fork collective, in cahoots with beauty and her beasts, like a fourth wall, unsettling along the river for an ocean floor hungry as fish is a dogs mouth mushroom hunting or a whale just below that window of sound spewing gratitude – & all is a sea in song.
Tru Con is growing: Foot & Mouth, The Sorrow of God – that is still dense as blood pudding but has tons of stuff to develop. & Pop Goes Fey –
Whirly Tool is “settling down” off of what was (for me) a really big push to put this site up – Only page still need redesign is Comments. And School for next semester. And new page Mad Love etc.
Behind the actual there’s a gesture. That is its own beauty.
Poem: Ensalivé has pushed through 1) the throw down 2) the sing song 3) first pare back. And now gone through a 2nd Full Write. & she has started another one: My Country is a Slave to Death 2nd draft.
Poetry is complicit, an interloping that meddles with me, a muddle a scuttle wrestle & terror of beauty, lust, fuss, disruption, thwart! work work work.
Cover of new version LAURE wd be smoky she is dreaming in shades of grey. Something “in here/out there” as an effort to “see thru it/see it thru” is taking on new shape –
Translating. I look up while translating and think about Baudelaire and his Mum. Baudelaire was in love with Edgar Allen Poe. Bauedelaire’s mum knew a little English, and they translated Edgar Allen Poe together. Laure – I love her. Dreaming up variations of her cosmology in a way I find has much acceptance and relief. Her deep edgy mournful chowder lays near dauntless childhood traumas of mine, always in pursuit of their own. I find fresh candor in her descriptions that eerily reflects the double of death and sex, of holiness and sex, of sorrow and sex, the manner into which I was born. To lay with a mind of a girl who traverses through the wreckage of her youth, grave, intent, yearning. A girl whose figure hides behind flower and shrub – secretly watching boys yank off. She is a perfect monster of sorrow and love. Stubbornness magnified, impotent with grief, and yet like Rimbaud over the top admissions that descend out of the holy replete and surge into questions of dour tragic winsome belief. There is beauty about her I find morbid yet its humor provides shocking ruesome relief.
Started translating Laure by Colette Peignot. Fabulous. Falling into somebody elses beautiful muses that are tragic destructive mournful, privileged, sexually embarked upon, captivated by images, starts right off – coming through The Religion.
Cervantes is a new piece, still in excavation mode, its about his trunk, in the play The Man of la Mancha, his theatrical trunk, is thrown in Prison right along with him by The Inquisition. And me in turn now finding it – as play inside the play – as a state of temptation. (And Prison remorse?)