True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork
On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell
ALMOST DONE. Whenever there is an opening, Alice (of Hole & Chalice) suddenly shows up and uses it as door to Carnival / Dante’s Inferno. The Crack is fertilized by it. Out tosses a cosmic unfurling – a reel of beauty, death, rigor, mistrust, horror, lust, and eating brains – as a fall way to freedom.
Enthrall is finding the religious in other people’s work. Pigging out on another artist’s beauty, calumny, brains. Gets out the shovel, theatre grease! potted worm — hanky panky.
And it works, it helps, it’s great. Until, turns suddenly against reality – something falls off, goes zany, is violently absconded by a fiercely unraveling mutiny of mischief and death.
It’s starting to assume different shapes. The shapesssssifter takes on the mantle of Shadow & the Troll. It’s pure terror. Merges with the wonderwall all in a go, doors begin to open and slam. Then a swamp, of overbright delight, hauntingly reveals sheerest, plug ugly yaws, of a deeply awakening mischief, that doubles over with sumptuous hysteria.
Theatre seizes it – as waterfall and gorge, as the leakage aches swimmingly, and launches crampfish, its charged midnight wakes, through a slew of grotesque schisms, that are oddly mandatory, rebellious, loving, predatory, amphibious, torrid, horrid and kissing boot.
McGuffin to kill? (And I am wearing it!) 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 my little tinkle bell, providing escape to “the inner city,” chockfull of deviation, commotion, fascination, impatience (with banality, gullibility, meaning, loss, love), a boundless periphery.
And yet, how bold intimacies burgeoned, extorted from the mysteries of Art irked, enraptured and shimmied its way through a plight of fierce noble magic – to the phantom limbs of death! To love the night was to runaway & fight, find a way through the ferocious blight. The elopement of a veiled and supreme resistance.
Resulting (generally) in a profound warping of all welding and bridgework back to the perfunctory, the skinny, banality, at every turn turn turn, nights dalliance ultimately went 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 – torturously laced with the stomping willful curses of 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 excommunication from the cageling of time –
And then, 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 –