An inability to make real – as a kid wasn’t particularly encouraged to overcome anything. Dreamings’ mysterious dysphoria became the subaggregate tapestry of life.
It is what forced me past Religion into Philosophy so damn MUCH I think, because as a discussion into the relish, richness, and extent, that sacred primitive relics inhabited my soul(s) – there was nowhere else to go (beyond poetry).
Dreams consumed the nature of my being. But for the most part, as up against reality – there was no contest. One was one thing, the other was the other.
Except twice. First a love that was world-shaking. The second, world-shattering. And in both cases the personality got blown away, fell into spaces beyond my ken, ultimately vanished into the beauty as a beast, a troll, hog-wild after its shocking expergefactor which means awakener – and La Boue, the mudpack, as it became: a horror.
The old filter blew, got destroyed, and SHE – the eternal she, fell out of bounds, out-the-old-way, stuck basking in horror as a reversal of beauty –
After that surely, I began counting deaths.
The First Trauma – awkward as hell, being third child and a girl, hopes & desires systematically ignored, teased, trivialized, disregarded – and preferred better without consequence so as not to annoy or disturb, which over time – can for some people tip like a sunken ship – overturn into a seal of undying purity.
Purity is, I believe, what Sartre would call type A: substitute, nothingness – nonbeing, virtue absolving itself in a high dungeon of gorgeous roaring melancholy as a reversal of being disdained, numero uno Beautiful in La Boue, because its across dark patches of loss and feeling riotously tortured, that it all up tends.
To ascend it, purity wants to ascend – to eclipse it, metamorphose it, revelational going out with the tide – heart burning after an ecstasy that executes it, of a brandishing light – plight, disgrace, a crime of passion – having to die for what it means to your life.
The skin itself premeditating in a talismanic web of royal (as to say medieval-esque/romantic) nectar that magically connects the simplicity of horror (sorrow & loss) to the outer tragic realms, whose grace is of a great sacrificial luster, a beauty equated with death, a religiously uplifting pound into the dirt.
God Help Me.
Angels, the two boys who shook my world. Angels. Angels are ferocious, they extradited something of the serious, the earnest transcendental, and then living on the image itself, awake to its magic, unearthing symmetries from skin from bread and bone, right there at gates of wilderness & sorrow – As if their beauty caromed off sorrow and desire as crazy at kilter as in my bones. Angelic acquaintances give to timeless essences, of both beauty and affliction, something of a juncture, a home.
It’s very Dantean. Dante harkening Virgil. Its substance is very old. That is – only by way of being dispossessed by journeys of a ravaging angelic dystopia – did I discover strength to pursue “my own.” I stole it. I stole from them. All things beautiful. And it killed me!
Hell is how a coyote learns, but never learns. Nothing stops a certain exilic part of my loom tomb consume, foot for the worms, from being: coyote —
Acknowledging as religious and admittedly extradited from the real, is enormously taboo. That is why, according to Bataille, it feels so (god loving) sacred, the little death stolen, harbors out in landings across the mud, across the wretched, across the cross, fulgid, like a destiny, exhumed.
This truth has been wildly heartbreaking, that at some point in the repetition of immersion into just another boy’s beauty, admiration becomes progressively transformative, preternaturally engulfed by the wonder wall, to near point of horror – bemused.
Mephitic, extensible, morbific, confiscatory, etc.
Roots of theatre. Who frckng knew?