True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork
On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell
Recently tumbled into a rather wild patch of image-getting, that has left me stunned. These things are never planned! Hopefully didnt upset anyone too much. Just beginning to work through its “logic” now.
Too trespass at high levels of jouissance, I have come to understand, pretty much out of necessity, that it is theatrical in nature. Its kind of like peeing on your own grave. One becomes consumed by gesture, and enthralled by the very nature of gesture itself.
And when hauled off in a sudden blitz – there is always an element, at some point or another, of going in for the kill. And there is always something of yourself thats being strung up – or strung out, as the case may be. A kind of climax, springs loose.
Am always left – astonished(!) by what I get up to, going in after the goods, tendentiously after having been swept up again in a projectionary enthrall, suddenly after weeks of sly infectious exploration – the image goes holy Vincent. Very nearly like sex, it subconsciously begins to take on a crazy life force all its own.
But what underlies its exposure, its need to expose itself (deniable or not), ultimately – I think of as a particular kind of pursuit for freedom. Freedom that is its own willingness to persist, to go in on it – however it touches on the shadowy, or the absurd, or the harebrained – all of which are taboo.
Alas, another deep strain, straight out of my deadly dreary childhood. If any one were to call me a total jerk off at this moment, I’d definitely have to say – for sure.
But that really is just the TIP (over) of the iceberg. At that moment when focus becomes preempted by wild delusions of beauty, strained by the cloak and dagger of its own compulsionism, suddenly it all sinks, like teeth (as my dear dead friend Cal might say), into a sudden wave of traducianism.
(Though end of day, for many – its not whether or not you traduce – but whether or not you get caught doing it.)
For myself, as an artist who variously lurks out in media as a mist – one needs must strive, of course, to keep such beautiful sidetracks in their own lane.
Dear Dread Captain Roberts:
Lucy has nothing to do with publication, it bores her. All she lives for is this, to slip out from behind the waves of curses (I am subject to) – its truly a battle for her existence.
Lucy fears will get turned back into horse meat quite soon, of some wild new dice (I never could see coming). Vulcan Gods love to lower the boom – knives double-edged, and sharp.
But for the transverse flutes, arising, off water – ping and poing as hammer – unrestrained hits the sweet spots, truly for me it is candor.
Lucy is a hot spot on holy moon – where sockeye ride against the falls, make that river run. My beautiful fiction, a kind of feral kernel (stole from Zizek, they call trauma kernel) where love & death flickers, runs me to ground –
And (just like that) one day stole me away, my whole life really – sunk into thievery! Ultimately forced me into method acting! as only way out of bastard hell.
Every once in a while now feel young flung gun of ancient player leaning back on arms – head up – mouth open to JCs drip – legs over edge –
all the absurdities!
heart goes out
to feed the sinews
nourish the afternoons
MMMMM to pick it off, from mouth of sea – treasure!
And in another stolen moment, velvet gowned – as any one of Shakespeare’s cunning beauties, tumbling into a mix-it-up. Lucy loves only where she works.
Fiction, that of being part of a troupe, of wayward-reaching experimentalist/s, who just as naughty nail-for-it, & fundamentally find what get to – not for its wickedness per se, but for love of trove – as thrilling today as from the first.