The little girl was always in the throws of something. blasphemous tituary and wild. She is animal and hope, possibility and terror.
And the mind – takes it someplace else and then some place else and again some place else – until there is nothing left to squander!
The mind eats everything up, bad to the bone! reckoning always with love, & the wherewithal of this mad fervent incarnation, that is a pilgrimage through time –
Colette would find, having suffered through holy lonely sheltered upbringing, that for her growing up, time itself was beauty and death, not just empty of anything true to do, but relegated to nonexistence, to disappear from being and sight –
Where life “rocked between the infamous and the sublime… where true life was always absent.”
Read my palm lady. Holy sheltered lonely and innocent: renders everything surreal, clenched up against a drama of untold trauma, where there in the emptiness there is nothing but hell and beauty, driven to an uneasy duration, to the willfulness of wild temptations, and brink after brink of predestiny. A falling into the hunger of loneliness, sex and doom – whose revelations are intensely migratory, a stew of nonexistence, lonely taut potions of love that are pure animal and death.
Every moment lost, to a depth of truth that is absent and forbidden. Thus, something plaintive and unearthly rises up, breaking open in its stead, I call it The Well of All Souls.
A well of devout limitlessness that does battle to the point of death again and again with what is nonexistence, a profoundly excruciating silence, a verbal non-admittance of your coming into being, a rejection of your life as being for any other purpose than silence, than purity and innocence.
Which is hell – silence and innocence is a category of nonexistence, that your body may not come into being in the mind of god – as animal longing, as anything other than pure silence in a way, virginity is a silence of pure ennobling contempt, a vestal whose desire is so pure it empties of the condition of itself. And childhood wages war with itself! becomes embattled in a tissue of beautiful lies, as the imagination ranges early on far and forlorn, can become composed of every sincerest devaluation – estranged from itself and yet trying desperately to comply.