True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork
On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell
Draft 3.1 Bees Knees, Rewriting
Whenever an opening appears from night to day for Beauty, engaged by seductions of reality – demon Alice (of Hole & Chalice) floats up, full of devious deliciously vault conveyances.
It is a wily tenuous molestation of impossible desire, resurrected from heel of time and treading out toward the sheer and the livid as a kind of predestiny, a romantic crime, a bejeweled death – where the jewel is insidiously spinning after freedom – a mask of faith.
Its ascendants compose through a duality that is both Carnival & Inferno. Dante’s fallow relishes.
Its entry, The Crack – into wild sheer want, & lack of constraint, & that blind rascal faith. The Crack, being a rise against hopelessness, is magically fertilized by it.
Runner or Tosser
It’s out-tossing a cosmic unfurling of bastardized fate – a reel of beauty, death, rigor, mistrust, horror, lust, and like an animal in love with basement dust eating brains – as a fallway to exorcism and freedom.
What enthralls there finds its religiousity by way of other people’s work. Pigging out on another artist’s beauty, calumny, brains.
Gets out the shovel, theatre grease! potted worm — hanky panky.
Until, turns, with tragic butterfly barbarity, suddenly against being tamed by the brute forces of reality – its drollery like wings suddenly falling off, going wicked & zany, violently absconded by a fiercely unraveling mutiny, that is estranged to life and stunned to death.
Assumes different shapes. Takes on the mantle of Shadow & Troll. Pure sumptuous terror merges with the Wonderwall all in a go, doors begin to open and slam.
Then comes a swamp of overbright delight, hauntingly reveals sheerest schisms and latitudes, heights, yaws of a deeply awakening mischief, that doubles with hysteria.
Theatre seizes it – as waterfall and gorge, as the leakage aches swimmingly, and launches crampfish, its charged plight through a slew of grotesque charms that are oddly mandatory – rebellious, loving, predatory, amphibious, torrid, horrid and kissing boot.
Kill your darlings and wearing it, at same time.
As arrives the Murderous TIP, a sudden wild recognition piqued at very lip of doom-wondrous-doom – it’s a repetition, as again and again childhood only knew Art as Quixotic & Death.
Art, music, philosophy were thunder to the little Tinkle Bell, providing escape to “the inner city,” chockful of deviation, commotion, fascination, impatience (with banality, gullibility, meaning, loss, love), a boundless periphery.
And yet, how bold intimacies burgeoned, extorted from mysteries of Art, irked, enraptured, shimmied its way through a plights of fierce noble magic – to phantom limbs of death!
To love the night was to runaway & fight, find a way through the ferocious boredom of media blight. As elopement, of a veiled and supreme resistance.
No Way Out
Results generally, a profound and vivid warping of all welding and bridgework back to the perfunctory, to the skinny, as at every turn turn turn, nights dalliance ultimately went all Phoenix, burned a monstrous bird, divinely suicidal, and but of course – voracious.
A malcontent from The Stocks (theatre and props) would always show up, BFF, to argue out undefinable opaques of resistance, purity, contempt – sharing a wakeless theological struggle for hopeless epiphany –
And yet laced with curses, stomping willful curses, loneliness, resistivity, unceasing desire – so much so in it was suffocating and wildly erupt – a slave to its mountaintops.
And then there’s Beauty. When Phoenix awakens on the other side of doom, on a wind washed shore, gored glorious to a chilling emptiness, blown away by all the wild and contrary distortions, in a mild blessed state of morning euphoria –
And sees that she has fallen again – away from life, stolen really – by a series of wicked jejune Mobius menaces, freak appalling teleological immersions/excursions “under the lid,” that are dalliances with death, an unrepentant displacement.
And, in a nudge and a wink, Beauty is out there again, floating along, haunted, embraced, on a tosser’s shipwreck that is fool crazy – just happy to be alive!
However insanely lonely, stuck outside of itself, mid a wrath of lugubrious sirens, imprisoned in a thirst that is a scavenger’s curse.
Suddenly a bell rings twice with startling recognition – and we are searching all around for its benefactor. But of course it’s a duality – it’s here, it’s right here somehow, which spooks me. And yet it has no answer, no one does. It is its own answer.
A fact I find both beautiful and unfathomable –
There is theatre here, deep down in my bones ailing to get out and play. Big discussions lately with Carlos the Castaneda (and others) about certain peoples’ remarkable Impeccability! And mine – not so much.
Fact. Big part of “mine” is a tosser — what findings got fought out, came from tossing it off, all off – in drink, searching through other people’s drunks for plaint heart felt visions of what truth their truth is.
Visions would show up sometimes, seeing through everything, with a most stunning simplicity – right on the image, a perfection I stole from someone else, so stunning it tore me up inside, and tried as I might – could not handle it.
The other night, voices came out, a clown’s limbs were back in play! First time in forever and ever and ever. As if the body remembered itself, as does say an actor’s imagination –