True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork

On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell

Pop goes fey

Magic incurs a pop that defects from the present tense. Which eventually always hits some kind of glass ceiling and crashes, in on me.

Last week it felt like a “pop,” that I have been caught up in magically for months, working this site up, suddenly crashed. And I sang a song of the sea, and mewled over yesterdays blues. And became a shipwreck again stealing loneliness, back to shore. 

There is something in the titillations and travesty of magic that is a vulture, a death machine. However I still dream the dream, of being able to engage in magic and inspiration, which I know as angelic departure, without having some crazy crash devour my efforts like a cowardly lion sinking to its knees.

So I go as I always do after a crash, to the lengths of heaven as a reassurance, for there is stealth to my sorrow, asking after a Cult artistic Council, who themselves were burdened with bouts of “neurosthenia,” the same question I always ask – ever find a way around it?

They always answer the same. Robert Lowell is first – of course, says that after a certain point of departure – ultimately not possible. Kafka says, no, there is something unavoidable about the magic of inspiration, at some point one does crash into a wall of simple dull carnage. Pessoa, a king on this island, says disquietude is incumbent in any methodology that reaches for freedom. 

Walking around yesterday I thought – not to worry. Once the pop, which when in ascendance is like beauty raised from hell, crashes – its not that magic becomes irretrievable – the question is whether you end up covered so hopelessly in sacrificial blood that you run about wailing at the gods, bloody murder screaming. 

So I decide this time to test out a relatively new resource that I have hopefully now acquired. To think of the mortification side of magic, as a purity, that is as it has always been – religiously quixotic – and also as a pirate resurfacing from a heavy dunk in Cervantes prison trunk – Suddenly there flashes a strobe of Beckett’s riddling martyrology, as a pan handler of diverse logic yes, but its not like he got away.

And so I open a version of Pessoa’s Disquiet, thinking sometimes you just have to let yourself be drenched in the defiant beauty of pessimistic cadences that disavow importance of anything actual and concrete, to clear the magic from its heavy avowals, and instead rely for what you need at that moment on a simple destitution of dreams.

To empty the sorrow out of reasoning, and let passions stand for a moment out there on their own, beyond any sense of wilderness, or angelic departure, as sorrows coming home – and the magic that had suddenly crashed into a refrain of seemingly oily treachery, that though it is precious in its way, its still just a simple perfusion of your own need for complicity.