True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork

On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell

Barnacle Babe

Yesterday morning I couldnt find my sponge. And it turned into a sign, from mayhem to love. 

Barnacle babe. Its a reference to Joyce’s wife. Whose name was Nora Barnacle. Joyce had a thing about onomancy. Divination by name. Mine’s more logomancy. Words sinking into enchantment, when lost to the wondrous crawling vagaries of oceanic hell.

Had a Thing Very Bad about ancient Irish myth Sweeney Astray that led me up the World Tree, shaking and wild with treachery, an espionage I now refer to as The Unbeing, in excess of present tense, which when incalculable, is like a wall that is falling – and suddenly everything goes full Coyote button. With irredeemable terror.

I’d “of” never hit those numbers – she is sighing now, cooing even – god only knows where I’d be without you.

Reading Finnegans Wake like its the I Ching, opening to any page, any day of week for its “visionary thinking.”

Joyce’s boney Spirit shows up Picking His Nose or Tipping His Hat. Only one person I ever met that I told that too – nodded his head, looked at me as he thought about it, his face leaking a smile. Fell in love on the spot, and we drank at local dive where poet Robert Creeley drank. God only knows where I’d be without you. College days.

His beauty ovewhelmed me. Fucked that up too. . .

Surging merging lately are “radical new ideas” about tragedy and the pastiche. Beckett with straw in mouth, of course of course, shooting spitballs that fall at my feet so I look down like Chinese fortune cookie go-round go-round, and he says: slime rhymes with the sublime! Fate and late, with Spirit Vertebrate.

Lovely day for a duck. Why “my heart” irrupts into cartoon scrambles with torrid factions steering me over the Falls for that “wicked” breach – 

Going “in” after the breach? more jesus on a stick? than bunny down a hole? 

Something could not have calculated, other than trying to avoid at all costs! At all costs! Fucking Egyptian Furies “one day in every way” ye old gods, overtook my bone-drenched Spirit Space like Hawks Hungry for a Kill, Priests who Own slave girls, they would stop at nothing. They would stone to death as love that is criminal!

The emergence of heart-bleeding heart-scaling Bountiful dread that has no name can affix for it that stays affixed, except maybe Death by Rotting Righteousnessz.

But its not good enough. For therein also resides oracles of la chambre noire, Gloom Bloom & Doom that ring like Royal Romances, who Bataille & Joyce helped quell down off of Tragic Miracle Mining after the Lustrous (needy gullible unscrupulous) Moon?

French Revolution incendiary, has my name my number at Bridge of Signs a wicked French witch la Forage – hurt so hatefully by what is life, she knits “death” into progress – 

A girl whose fascination lingers over death as a magnifier since 7 yrs old.

New character “she-bop” that falls out, falls out out out of my heart. Lies (very near Desperation) – lies beyond me, she-bop falls through ravenous thresholds of rangy irrepressible incantation – a shocking porn of logomancy.

But it is categorically a be-witching, a Tragic Hold, a Capital sin. Dogs surround it seething at falling bodies, waves of naughty bird hell.

How can we get in at it, the Mystery tingles – it is forbidden.

There is a cult circle and they all smoke pipes, leaning heavily over knees. Mackereled in cordoroy and tweed.

One suggests, pull at whelms of meaning and seduce up the mourning peat like its yeast, another: finger the details as though a rapturous corruption of miracle Beauty, all mine nod at all theirs – Proust walks in, in a Masked Ball costume, carrying a Red Pail, posing as Audrey Hepburn as a Museum washer woman.

Colette (who goes on in her book about “freedom” of washer women as compared to her Tragic Mum), sick in bed with “the death of it,” eyes glistening with Mona Lisa love, that angelic smirk of knowing she’s toast but what the hell, its so extraordinary, gotta love him –  

One of my first, my very first was a dreary cherished vesicatory fascination with words the Falls – obviously goes way back.

But Names – Cartoon Names always come up as zippety-do-dah, as cartoon head cases – Its a protection racket? “Rhonda who dreams in Suicide screaming for satisfaction” – 

Making cartoon traces into a “Pipe: this is not” as if to protect  from the audacity of “my sins” with a name that sings itself into consideration, then furrows into a beating the bounds search for heavenly category –  

Veiled in ruins, the tragedy burns through something that is of the real (as opposed to in the real – in philosophy it turns out, that makes a difference – between “god types”) – even the real is a fixative, somebody cackles luridly while stirring carrots into a meat stew – 

Head burrowed down in between jeans diving in at skin level whose evil purr is oddly cureless. Fitfuls of the implacability that is treasure of sorrow wading ferociously through whatever the crash, the appliance, whatever the indifference –

Paradoxically equivalent to a resilience that somehow finds the “conviction” to turn Mummy Walking into fish head and hook!