Several issues deep already in this, but still there is much to be excavated–
Cervantes – thrown down a portcullis lowered ramp into the dungeon by The Inquisition – along with a trunk full of costume. And after a sudden terrifying scuffle with prisoners attempting to grab & steal everything out of his precious trunk – it begins.
He, Cervantes, finger in the air, shall put on a play for his captive audience of outcasts & thieves. So shall he take them, into the impossible dream –
Caught in a swoon of fiction unfurling stark and beautiful and wild – like a play writing itself inside the play that is a prisoner of love as a sacred-icity of meaning put to the test of purity, vulgarity, beauty, debauchery, death.
Almost like A Mad Bug, caught inside a light – as a ray of theatrical torrent passes through a body of darkness – its absorption of holy performance like a hologram in union with desire and tyranny, devout promise and treachery of belief –
A bug caught in the night, inside the sublime suggestible darkness of a Night Jar screwed on way too tight. The problema of a religious uprbringing. And YET modern, cast as a Cervantes cast away, and the trunk itself – the trunk itself! Every calendar costume of sexy Inquisitor. Horny, thorny, scorny, forlorn-y – medieval religious porny, punishment as an equivalence in excess with sex and death –
The Inquisitor (how the religious secretly love horror porn), as flog box in self denial, like skin in game mysteriously bound by the chasing after of its holy mysterious sacrifice –
The seminal inquisition’l – all desire for wisdom seems to swim up the draft of my nose like a buggery of semen. As noose & scavenger, as puritan & pilgrim, as dragster and drogue parachute, as nun & murderess, as sidewinder & holy man.
The strange crossdressing mephitic lust of a lush terrorizing sensitivity to potents of theatrical paradigm, as self-opposing Over-The-Fn-Top impossible conquests – for the distraught, the outcast, the prisoner of their schemes.
A loud ring rings out from a stage door that is a prop: at back of an empty sounding, dust covered stage. Picture a box sitting in front of a door. Both are props. There is a window over the door, a transom window that Open Sesame opens and shuts opens and shuts with squeaky vengeance. As threatening the buffeting of a haunting – annoyance and mistrust.
A voice, the first voice out of the box, comes from the gallery, a ruffian in a scruffy plaid flannel – southern by description – no idea who that is, probably related to Faulkner – yelling out while pretending to wave a magic wand: don’t be scared: Don’t be scared.
W.T.F. As the author suddenly admits: gosh. I love bodywear.
A friend, I learned from: last week. She calls a certain way of running from a a job offer, from the drudgery of work which a job would doubtless be – as being afflicted by Judgies.
Judgies get all frightened, that a thing, a gig – for cash, will take them somewhere they should otherwise not go. The fear being it is unfaithful –
Unfaithful to what?
Purity lures devout, and then demurs, for the schemes of over top faithful – at its thresholds of commencement, banging up against unwavering charms of theatre, of doings and goings for a life equal to its composition –
Not just of merit? and capability – but also somehow beyond threats of being stuck in a dead end gig, at prey to the prison again – of searing drudgery & dour repetition.
The Judgie proclaims – twould better opt instead to struggle on, quest –
Quests are nectar of self love who fear not meet their maker!? A danger always. Rather they to lust, dark and foreboding catches light where that brute lusts is in an excess of dodgy desire, yum yum truly. Lust after (dead bed fed read cred knock on lead) Creative Enterprising, dreams where the draft are composed of sloop mephitical warrants for the holy discharge of beauty and reckoning.
This for me is a very old topic – in relation to writing fiction.
Subtropicals arise like heat that brings on a downpour.
A subtropical that has been growl-grinning its teeth at me, along with imploring mephitic spume – for impossible ages. Collecting Badges??? Judgies festoon one must never pervert the cause of a true desire, must never not (Philosophy of No doubles the negative) accord with faith in pursuit of – its opulence.
Its about the faithful being after a proselytization of willing the bonneted dormer to forage beyond constraints – coming out of a French era (existentialism) that implores the supremacy of reality. I have huge fault line in sorcery turns La Rose, French – Emily walks out of garden only to get lost in its sorcery. To defy reality, in order to embrace its set truer cast, to choose not to be constrained by limits of reality while – the dogies implore after its metaphysical “existence” – gets swallowed by the action, of substitute awarenesses, mysteriously drenched in sublime rotting whitherhsoever though go, protocols. Caused a lot of devious confusion!
To NOT give in, to NOT narrow requirements of reality, but instead hear-on-in swipe with surgical sponginess a sopping off of blood – true blood – after roving feasts of desire, to craven after rays of pure fictional arbitrariness!
Fiction is by its existence unfaithful to reality. Its something else –
Huge. Ultimately perforcing argy bargy in the Jar (of the Inquisition) – a beast of a question: Do you believe in Character?
Unfortunately the answer always came back through the door slot at the back of the stage, Beckett as lionhearted, armed guard, flipping his hair back – can you imagine? He stands he waits, the letter, the secret scarlet letter, slips through – an admission of brute reckoning once all added up, the composite figure yields: no.
How can one write fiction if one doesn’t believe in character?
How can you take a job, if it is seen by the Judgies as not good enough not good enough for reality.
Purity, a religious fountainhead, jabbing mercilessly at a wannabe’s pride, undoes the doing, when possibility for grabbing of ring arrives, the purist freaks out, harumphs – and runs off in an opposing direction!
Fe Fi Fo Fum. Its painful. And in truth quite jarring. Judgies make monster dreamers, but are very lousy at through-put – Metaphysical problema emerges immediately, as the thing being all too real.
In writing, this dilemma left me sub-victim to an undercurrent of character disbelief, a kind of self-assassinating fraughtly blooming skullduggery (that on this lit crit level, like a hand out of the swamp, is perhaps kind of well, delish).
So one started to try different things.
Of course I tried to costume a couple of whodonutters up – as Becketts vaguely historyless clowns, as a way to push thru the Judgies on this bickering issue. And yuh it was fun being absurdist, off the wall with a couple of clowns on a musty, cranky stage and everybody dressed in brown. And no more than two chairs a door and a window. And perhaps a box. Yes la trunk comedia. From out of which secrets shall be passed, denied, mocked, mourned achingly –
But the real problem came w.r.t. dialog. Its a blessed fog. Epi de fleur falls like a rose and thorn aswoon into a blessed fog of fribble & tribulation. Dialog for me is all about fog and foghorns – sounds accumulating in the impudent distance – Wooooo waaaaa. Thats what I hear, then try and lilt, tilt in after it. Tempted to say its almost musical. What does that mean?
Viva la difference
Different people do different things. With dialog Beckett likes to summarize. Twain and Dickens – go all in for delightful repetitions – in general.
In Cave’s Rings of Saturn hearts swarm crushed and torrid, enslaved, mysterious, re-forming, ajar – into ugliness and beauty, beauties’ apocalypse sparring with death. Wait thats not about dialog!
Of course Beckett can layer it in too – later works, its like he is stuck in a jar with hardening bees wax and honey and blood that is memory, a sharp focus on meager belongings, and sniffing nobly at the shadows and contagions of quagmire & death. Which speaks to me for sure. But its not dialog – at all.
Beckett does fab dialog in early works – lets the descriptive tell most of the story, with a stark beautiful quip at the end of a run – to finish it off for good.
Genet does that too, yes he does, Genet does that too!! (The author suddenly realizes.) But for him its Darling and has a delicacy of touch that is astonishing good.
Rings of Saturn – get rung round in Comment C’est for sure like marbles in grave chunky belly jelly hell-y once bump kiss. No it doesnt. Yes it does. Jeepers creepers. Where dyou get those peepers. Rhymes I grew up with.
What to do now?
Needs musssss?? loosen the dead ringers out for a thirsty firsty – as a comedy of errors, just let the giddy and the gruesome folderal like scatter shot spew, without worrying about nobody else necessarily getting it! Or it lining up – with dialog good. And just go in after the gods & the goods – and see if the gods, like a chorus of mooners and mockers and taking stockers, begin to quip and ??? recruit??
Again and again to drive points home the humorists get playful, thwarty hearty foolish – almost as to lay a trap for themselves, of silliness to slip into it – the birthright of comedy. Its not espionage – its its its – cumulative.
Potents & Schisms
All I can do is let it run, descend into the subliterate like a migration. Let the churn mutter splutter and spew, afflicted by demons who arrive arise cavort descend. And so shall these afflictions be – what is and is not – what is happening to the carriers of these fevers that ape after its performance, opulence, horror itself even – as sanctuary.
Potents seem to lie behind a schism that is fanning and mining the dugout canoe that as coyote breadth is circling in after a whirlpool. For me, its always another layer in — where the fascination at the heart of its heirophany assembles – somehow.
Writing just runs into it and runs into and works itself into a restless chowder. And thats all it can do.
Ship of Fools
Prison ship, with Cervantes trunk, out there and its big and ugly and very wet – these days – and everything still dashes after rocks & breaches, flinches & filches.
Oh ruffian dormants growing into horror flows – to shamble out in Cervantes’ brightly colored prison spots and turn on the vent – full hose.