True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork

On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell



Madness for me is a go-to term for living “in the mist,” parenthetically under siege from “demon” wisps. It came about when pushing limits of allowance and imagination, unity cracked up, like a crystal ball.

My soul had crashed. Its “inhabitants” took on the code word: voices. I only knew of them when they got out. Voices – separate and many, each rose up & came rushing thru as a kind of pure dimension – of love or hate, like a volcano, one blew then another blew then another etc. BOOM boom boom. And afterwards terror. I had no anticipation they would accrue – didnt know they existed as separables.

The result was hysteria and yet: it was nothing, I was always left after “blows” with nothing. As a person I was paralyzed. Fascinated and in shock. Could not overcome the zeal, do anything “real.” Was effectively “on the run” in a torrent of uprising – whose goal was – death??


Seeking acquaintance from other artists – to just admit it, talk about it, be there – I tried and tried, again and again. And everytime, ultimately, it began a leap into Madness. The leap itself created an eternity of sorrow, where wars raged inside my soul over love beauty abandonment the gods death horror terror desire, etc., without facility for escape (or friendship).  

The yearning to address it in reality haunted my every move, but would not come out from behind a wall of ceaseless abandon – where it had lived since birth. I remember being lost in wayward precious loops of beauty & horror, before talking. Dreams occurred way before words,  a guggling slug floating in a wild liquid consolute of profound intensity.


It was forbidden. As a kid. There was NO talking about it. Anything beyond “presence” could not be talked about beyond our playacting, we all seemed to live under a great secret shroud of: no telling. 

As a teenager, there was one elderly adult that I knew who kind of understood about it. That there was stuff burning in my soul surviving elsewhere & she lived next door. Turns out now that it was Wolf Blitzer’s mum – she’d been in a death camp in Germany. The Blitzers had a wonderful clumsy sweet dog named Dolly. Whose whole bum wagged along with her tail when she was happy to see me. There was no fence between our yards. I’d play with Dolly and somehow end up inside their house.

Around Mrs. Blitzer something always calmed me, about living in more places than one. Nothing was said that I can recall, it was like she just knew that I had lives beyond the present – whose dimensions nearly took precedence as a mode of survival.

There was this level of terror that I conceded to, to myself, when with her or something, and she created beauty around it. Around her – it didn’t feel like she was trying to shove me back into being all innocence again – and its liberation from ignorance sparkled, without being cheapened, by having to put up a false front – secretly a shut out wagered precious up against victimization slaughter anger love. She treated the fascination I had with imaginations stray (murderous, blasphemous) fodder as valid –

Blessed Not

Twenty some odd years on. The forbidden was way more forbidden and wild as the cosmos. And suddenly its making every effort – blindsiding me – to come alive – to be allowed, to admit whole hog its restless dubious ponderous inextricable existence. But terror would take hold like a god defiant, or the fascination would go ranging out into edges of beauty and death that were despotic and hypnotic, reaching moments of the most severe unrestrained beauty. I began to call this The Jar.

Desperately (times that by 100) tried everything to “reach the other shore.” Dread spread to every corner to cross to cross to cross what I now call the Bridge of Sighs. And indeed, artists I got in touch with, were people who themselves experienced hell, knew “the realms” in some way, and tried to help me. But nothing would release me. In fact their ghostly association was somehow the point! They were very delicious food for my “demons.” Demons who shamelessly squandered it. Mutually, merciless. Like at a restaurant on the moon, I had to have what they’re having.

New sways new ways

Since the fall of the wall, I constantly fall again under the influence. Have to be careful because I know death will erupt. And still I pursue it – influence from other o-turs, french pronunciation for authors – has a larger inference inclusive of movies & musicians. And still I dream day after day one day to finally “cross.” Though I have little idea what that really means other than being bereft of the real, in conversation with others who “do this too?”

I have been watching Ken Burns’ JAZZ. Dead artists are not problematic. They are safe, they are the sweet spot. James Joyce throws wondrous boogers. Only the living create “the impossible.” Watching film on jazz, the artists as influence working on each other, reaching for places of bold new infusion simplicity experiment generosity scope, etc – using each other to find what I call the fault lines, where the notes mysteriously turn over, sublimate, volcano and recombination, through mutual “abandon” to the creation of beauty for the sake of itself, beauty is inscrutable.

Allowing that to occur – indeed racing after it, fills my soul with grumbling steerage, in the bilge – in the coop, slurping loudly blowing on their hot soup.


Death is a very very big word that came to include everything not “present.” For me it comes down thru language of French Philosophy from Rousseau (“the substitute”) onward, Sartre’s Nothingness, Deleuze’s the Crack etc. Its a gulf of nonexistence. 

Le double, le trompeur – people who are alive – its alive, here but NOT here, are nothing ?? As they only exist as influence, as demons themselves feeding on my beautiful squalor. Leaving me trembling in ferocious peaks of lonely death, mumbling grumbling and stumbling in, lost tossed and frosting the cake –

Only to be destroyed again, my whole being overtaken by a ferocious long baby makes hood, slipping back into a stark terrified loneliness, a kind of primordial psychomancy – breathing death into life, beauty and tragedy – as god as tomb as magic as doom. 

Le double is theatre, thats my new view. He from whom pirated it knows who he is. And theatre is a play on infinity – a play on the continuum (as you are still alive) never reaches: cut. Once I get hit by beauty, where the influence is BIG, le double never dies. It blows off manhole covers, drills loudly at beams, eats me defeats me – I know I know – it is not, it is death (Sartre’s nonexistence) but it never dies. When the goods are too good. Its live wire.

Always “out there somewhere” meddling with me.