I had a telepathic revelation – all those chiliastic scholastics pole-axed in the hottest heat of intimacy. Smile like there’s alum in your teeth. Take a mulligan and better luck this time – phew...! – sailing through the cunt-shaped mandala. My (his) urethra bathed in sophrosyne. Calm, heavenly visions. Clouds of gory glory and so on. A spectrum, a rainbow of colored avenues with young short-skirted collegians trickling in miserly pearly drops, the stimulus all those spermatozoidal goblins working down and around my indusia and trochiluses, saying ave atque vale, fast.
Or how does it go, the famous saying by the pseudo Xeicspia…? Our paltry lives being but canards told by a parrot, full of goofiness and fury, and signifying shit, signifying zilch…?Huat-hanat-huat. Repeat the incantation, again, again; thence to supper, and so to bed. Smell the camphorated balm. Huat-hanat-huat. Ok.
All my parrots have to learn the proper dictionaries. They belong to high-ranked fellows. Cardiologists, men of state, the steadiest sadists, and so on. Master Txúrtxil had one: Txarlie – he had to know about strategies and tortures galore. That psittacus a general and an obdurate crook among psittaci, and the psittaceous birds, taught furhermore by a great diction professor, despite his tongue impediment – Lang’s “M”, the little girl’s murderer. One of those old man’s winding vagaries. It wasn’t always like this.
Greatness is latent and you’ve got to presuppose it on almost anybody, it may lurk imbedded even in your very membranes. Though, also, so may the lousiest of creepiness.
Gigi: her grandmother tells her: “-You girl, listen, don’t ever have any business with your girlfriends’ dads, as they wait for their charges at the gates of your school.” But now he is absolutely taken by the natural and obvious charm of certain little girls – shapes so alluring – there, true, nature excels itself, never did better, hazards of life.
Myrrha knows what she likes, and enough: she’s all for an older fellow, and basta. An older fellow such as my dad, she says, swearing by Ovid, for, hey, natural always beats artificial by a mile, it is never so poisonous as... And the animals follow the healthy rule of nature, cows exult when their bullish father rams them, same thing mares and such, and the old goat with delight mounts his daughters no matter how young and tender – and talk about birds, happiest of creatures, the old guy fucking in midair with the fledglings and the more recent specimens of the surrounding broods – everyone reams and rocks with the easiest available, yet we foolishly demur, only we neurotic fuckers enforce rules against nature.
Sixth century: when sex is the light of life. Faulkner: small frail oldish guy, a watcher of girls. Claims Sound and Fury is born with the striking image of a little girl’s trying to climb a tree, her muddy scant panties patent.
Atavist religious impulse – imprinted images of the much adored vestals of yore – from the hallowed ancients to us – worshiping the virgin bodies – the smooth godgiven bodies: images, figurations, mirrorings of the gods (the goddesses!) on earth. That’s what we did, that’s where we went if we really wanted to be blessed and, whatjumacallit, virtuous – we visited in awe the vestals at the temples and consecrated, humbly and selfishlessly, rendered our homage, our sacrifice, our vigor, our manhood. Young virgins, the most well formed, offered at exhibition, as proof of the incontrovertible existence and bounty and goodness of god, whomever – beauties so delicious they could only had been heavenly – and you could look at them most devoutly and purified – could even touch ‘em most reverently – could fuck ‘em even – if you could meet such strictures of self-abandonment and arrive at such summits of worthlessness – I could never – too overzealous (I mean in a manic squeamish way) to defile such perfection, of course – the act versus the intention as religious statement of utmost devotion, here’s the rub, I mean, the question – the intention must suffice, replenishes the spirit plenteously enough, thanks – not like fucking despaired Nevolus, buggered pimp and badly bilked too, as told by saint Juvenal (not a delinquent!) in his satire number something – he goes from temple to temple officiating at the crotches of all the virgins he meets – at Isis’s, of course, but also at Peace’s cathedrals, at Ganymedes’s, at Ceres’s, at the secret groves of the White Good Goddess herself..., plus plenty of other addresses the hoary author doesn’t care to name and I haven’t neither the leisure nor the scholarship to go chasing after...
Or who needs Humbert, mystical fucker, enslaved to an aesthetic idea of scurrying youth, propagating unsteady fallacies about Sicilians and other peasant Greeks to justify no longer trendy, alas, tendencies.
No, but what was that she...? Ah yes, I’m insisting, piggedly boring in with my sharperst horns, I’m telling and retelling the stolid despisig nurse: “-No, but hear here, these are my books, I brought ‘em for the old woman to peruse if thus inclined; now I want some of ‘em back.” The dirty snake-faced termagant won’t believe me, she hardly deigns to answer, gruffly sends me off to sell my shitty wares elsewhere. And I’m on top of it bitterly complaining: “-Hey, they are my books, and they are all irretrievably impaired, look, but only look, please, look, ripped through – have they been also in the loony ward...? Most patients aren’t well enough to be entrusted with books of so deep a meaning either, anyway, you know, let alone the crazies, cappish...? – Would you please take a gander at..., crippled, all crippled by a bunch of idiots with scissors or razors, how could you allow...? – insanely intent on defacing the garnered truths, most invaluable marginalia have been trimmed off...! – who’s been cutting up pellmell the lamest references...? – These are not public property, these were mine, they were the repository of what I decided I needn’t keep permanently on call in my mind because I had them otherwise so candidly handy, at hand, and now..., would you only tell me what I’m gonna do with them now!” I’ll do nothing with ‘em, because before I can take any along she’s kicked me out of the waiting room and locked the door and haughtily walked away down the corridor. Poor Fang, crestfallen, a cuckolded would-be pedophile.
Rattled, a rat trapped at the dead end of a bowel, left alone with the anointed to die, and how full of shit they are because of the fact, and how they relish hammering at you with the naked cloacal facts, raggedly zombies, all nuts, a window, how fast I’d bolt, all their nuts and bolts rusted beyond rescue, recognition even, oozing green matter, ichorous, pussy, slimy.
Beware – be most severely warned – people who remind you so nicely of your mortality (“you'll die also, you know,” “you’ll be gone in a few, whether you want it or not,” “but how long you imagine you’ve yet got, you silly misled goat?”) – this criminal people wish you dead (“perhaps you think you’ll be spared and won’t die; come on, are you this daft?” “how much time are you deluded into reckoning remains you before also your neck – nyack! – baby, is wrung?”) – they wish you so dead (“death’s turning the corner, ask for whom she tolls and you’re it,” they doggedly insist and singsong, and: “watch it, you’ll be buried and done for afore next bantam crows or himself’s been cooked; even the land itself seems sick, the planets, the suns, the universe is doomed,”) – they can’t even wait, they wish you dead, and dead forwith, they want you dead: now!
There she was, the opposite of all your fanciful illusions on this paradise earth gone terribly to diseased seed – how couldn’t it have been kept frozen in youth, a world of nymphs benevolently shepherded by this softy satyr – huh? – out of the dancing bugaboos and into the totem in fire – there she appeared, sole hole for the rat to smuggle out of, this trolloppy poltroon of a woman, my mother...
What am I doing here at plain sight, ashamed to think some thoughts, lest I’m by my own face betrayed, alternatively congealed in a blank or by my conscience eaten alive. Shouldn’t again rather be hiding in the undercarriage? My time is too precious to waste now in the boring company of all those staring idiots. Old fellows, whose vital illusion alas is ready to burst into nothingness, a mirage shattered point-blank – for this ailment of the soul four salves seem to be extant (citing more or less the sage Cowper Powys now – recently perused wouldn’t you know): One, study of books – mono-maniacally or -thematically preferably – let’s say an author or a restricted subject, for instance that geezer staple: Tony Trollope, or the pseudohistoric fall of hither or thither empire. Two, utter devotion to a cause, say political, of course, or altruistic, or enviromental: “saving” this or that or the other... Three, an erotic obsession! Say to immature girls..., and... Four (the best according to what the hell does he know,) the punctuated search of pure sensation: Delight in, savor each separate instant in its unique liveliness and special loveliness – the classical (Mr. Plato and the rest of ‘em deluded mothers) erotic impulse for what is beautiful, for the reuniting of the whole in loving adhesive sex-secretion, the soul is provisionally complete each time the communion is achieved – but why the target of this instant truly lived in full couldn’t be – forget the trilling bird, the play of light on an umbrella’s silk, the quiet ingenuity of its spokes, the extracted world of a raindrop on the leaf, the coruscating pollen on the petal-wing of a butterfly, the crowning cloud above and its magical lineaments, all those variegated slices of cute outdoors – the troubling unsurpassable beatitude of the angelic impuberous girl, top of creation, and no bones about it!
Here’s the dichotomy – in our own minds we exist as projections, interminably watching backwards, interminably expecting forwards – while in the minds of other, same as ‘em on ours, we are just a longer or shorter rosary of fixed entities – where’s the woman I knew as a lovely child and fell forever in love with – she’s nowhere, while the child, though she lived only these few moments of enchantment and then left no traces behind, in my mind she still comfily abides, beacon of illusion, spiritual smile, living mirage, quaint oasis, serious lull. Let me insist on it, ‘tis mightily pregnant withal, a fortiori the key of living in zen-like peace of beingness for the remainder (and not unincluding in a further fortiori the remaints and all.) For projection’s the culprit, now I’ve sized it: We exist only as projections of ourselves, hence the fear of death – we see ourselves destroyed: Become rot, mold, worms and beetles, ashes and dirt, nothingness – when in fact this projected asshole is never ourselves now. For we are only fixed in the moment, exactly as we coolly perceive the others – while our perceptions of the self are maimed and marred by the stupid sentimentalism of favoring and extracting from the throng and the cold common destiny this paltry pitiful imagined image we’ve grown so attached to after so often consorting with: The assumed alleged mental construct called self, hollow figment indeed. Where is – and a sob of emotion comes shatter my soul every time I remember him – where is my boy, my beautiful intelligent angelical son, his lovely silhouette cut against the glare of the peaceful river as the crepuscle sets in and he is so glad with his catch and he so gracefully explains his marvelous world...? He’s turned into a soldier malefic...? No! No, he is a much loved, a revered fixed entity, a hallowed tangible presence, an icon shining with an inner happiness-imparting warmth, a charmed beatitude niched in my heart, forever there and nowhere else – least of all in the petrified core of the gruff qualm-less death-meting hate-instilled warrior he’s projected himself, alas-alas, and become!
Same thing exactly – damn you! – with all those perfect beauties that will develop pete knows into what! – sick harridans all – why are women always nattering about cancer? Where are they projecting themselves, which horrors are they calling incessantly forth...? – But those full-blown monsters will always be something else, other entities, other mirages, alien implantations, knotted fleshings, blurred blubberings, foreign, unfounded, lost.
...but this, brought forth, would exonerate everyone! – yessum, yes! Anyone projected is innocent; no, sir, am no creepy dapper crapper christ, fluting away, clumsily faggoting with his craven chickenshit injunctions for living dead (living while dead, living in death): “-Whoever isn’t fucking guilty, let ‘im fling ‘em first of lousy rocks, eh...?” Would he had been stunned, stoned by the lichenous iniciative and brazen determination of some cop-minded thug. What then...? What a silly reprobate crook all told, wonder who’d ever believe him, if not some other wooden sanctimonious nitwit. On the contrary, I say: Be wise! Anyone who feels guilty better unproject himself post-haste, or he is doomed! Most useless empty soul-corroding activity, projecting thyself to whilom kingdoms of smoke, to a confusion of hells in pimping pestiferous abeyance. Confounded, conundra, unfound.
...and yet, wouldn’t this absolve point-blank this particular sinner and by implication and furtherance even one and each of the judged...? What of it, why the frightful to-do! Of course you spare the sinner! Anyway which sinner...? An adulterous wife? You wish! – No, the only sin extant is the sin of present bodily harm against you own now: Your own now – the rest’s rubbish, anyone is innocent of the a-fore and the to-come, there are only culprits of the now (and crazy, possibly non-rescueable non-rescue-babble people, of course, too messed up, ulcerated inside by the current idiot notions) – this makes prosecutors and judges and such... – Yessum, agents of evil, you are right, sir, extraneous devils with an agenda to enlist one and each into their roster of lost souls, deluded painful livers-in-death all, agents of total destruction and inner annihilation, projecting left and right and every which way tentacles of poisoning and blame, and oodles of ubiquitous lying, and envenomed transfixig spikes of wilting rays of utterly maddening or else paralyzing guiltiness. Projecting all around tainted unholy adulterated death. Scape-goating their sempiternal hatred with the duped, bamboozled and beguiled, the allured, and the baited, and the hooked, and the trapped... Bury them in garbage. To the garbage stockpile with those douchebags and the shit-scrapping stercorarians which feed on them.
But is your pretension, sir, that even an avowed, please remark: an avowed serial murderer can avail himself of your displaced generosity of scope and saunter off scot-free after he is caught (alas, not in flagrate, mind you,) and all just because the flimsy technicality that he has become literally an alter ego..., or, in other words, how in bloody hell do you stop a serial killer...? – A certified warrior for instance, you mean...? – Let’s not be specious and piecemeal – Whatever, you kill him in the now (on the spot,) hey, lacking which! Lacking which, you castrate him, you lobotomize her, you commit them to an asilum for the rest of their natural... – But is this more humane...? – You don’t kill before or after; you kill in the now and that’s it, or not at all, for anything else is murder (much worse) again.
“I lost me ‘at last night, tossed me ‘at into the ring, and lost it,” a bit of banter on the tracks. Or: “Mädchen kleine und reine” (bis, bis,) whistles me magic piffle along with me magic mind to the rhythms of the train – the rhythms, the rhythms, the rhythms of the trains: Cheapest grand accompaniment to the opera featuring the languid spirits of the toiling masses back from the stultifying pits – fleeting musings serene last night clattering back home while the bit of schmutzy newspaper dreamily lays forgotten, ah, tremolously aside.
There she was, this poltroonish trollop of a slovenly woman our moth mother, who would offer me a buck (and later even less my half price kid broth) to go on scraping with my nails retracting by fear the often bloody scabs of thick dandruff stuck to her skull – she wouldn’t wash her chickenshitty scalp for weeks on end, not if it could at all be helped, not for the worthless spending of any vigor, not for the slothful hell of it, not if another glaciation wouldn’t stealthily slide to her parlor and have swept her thus, seated barefoot in front of the tv – she just heavily perfumed it, her foul caked greasy hair, yikes, most disgustingly... – but what am I griping about? – that asshole projected in the rere, nauseatedly scratching some hardened crap off some filthy old whore’s head ‘tain’t me neither! – phantoms, like Jimmy the murderer, desideria inapprehensible but with the sham net of untruthful concatenations – tenuous daydream formations dying with the sudden dry winds that separate the tiny cells of time – oases? mirages? dunes! – dunes: cenotaphs of the existed – the desert of being shifts like the sands in the equitremoeidous universe – kissing self-spinning funnels of unimagined magnitude – no matter, we are soon broomed away, fading glomerations of refuse – diabolo in capsicum: Hi, Jack!
“-What? Yes! I have the fucking ticket, here.”
Trying to rescue the thought, no way, agog over the conclusions, the corollaries, though – it seems so magnanimous were I, and not a cent from me pocket, I had forgiven all old criminals no matter how noxious – exterminate the young, of the old let go – what an ungroomed joker with a thinking machine in a worse state still of disrepair – sorry case of oversqueezing the curvaceous citron of hokum, I trow – cosmically vacuous landscapes where the taut rows of aligned crematoria wane into the lost horizon – abashed, I was about to swallow, with a much unpleasant curl of a grimace, the gaggingly enormous bitter pill for the nonce and all at once roughly ingratiating whatever the nonsectarian powers, when I said what the hell, why should I always be wrong; after seeing how right are the others, the chiefs foremost, where do we get off and goof...? – What the fuck, exactly. Bring ‘em on, anyhow; aporias are my dairy, they teat me; off ‘em can’t be weaned, not on your sanitized life, throve on ‘em since I realized, still a baby in festering diapers, the fundamental disjunctive was: stay alive or die.
A sudden double swarm of hourglass wasps, the shocking rush, a couple of chained-on dusty yellow-black flashes paying visit to each of the compartments. Shouts of deepest displeasure, the ladies faint and whatnot. As I was saying, the ugly anonymous co-tripster had gotten up to grasp maybe a snack, low-rent barrister or rather barrackster on leave, had both his eyes stung on the wing, crumbled, a twisted suited garbage, on the smutzy floor, too tragical, yellow-turd bellied indeed: “-I’m, like, again: Oedipally fingered; oh no, why me, my gad, why me!”
Too glad it weren’t moi.
And then clunkety-clunk for miles and miles, trying to forget the terror of the dense blood congregating around the ears, the orbits of the eyes, the scalp, inside, the nightmare awake each evening before the constant repetion of catastrophic failures itself knocks me out. Gotta stop projecting myself – nothing more destructive, ay, annihilating – images of an always deteriorated ego that feels exacty the way I’m feeling at the precise moment the contorted projecting takes place, up-river with all those unmitigated failings, embarrasments, odious acts, shams, shamings, mistakes, down the lying river of being with all those strangulating rueful wretched outrageous opprobious miserable deaths, and deaths – and deaths. Your humble survivor’s only imaginable cure lies in projecting not himself, pete forbid, not oneself, never, but the others, always the others, at all times the others, projected, projected, the others, my creations, id est, my theraupetic alter egos, my dandy parasites, them, them.
Them the suffering (even the joyful, enjoying) assholes, them the living in the wracking glum of a most strenously punishing hell called I believe earth, not me, spared, constant, unmovable. I alone immune pure untouched, by no dirty passions infected, with only a friendly eye for esthetic appreciation, this yes, but that’s all, and enough, for the present eternity. Like a birdie on the wing – maximum desiderium! – deciding on the spot on the whim of the instant where next to land, where next, where next.
I flew as they say on the flimsy wings of desire – gossamer goose’s wings, in perfect formation, bound to a crepuscle of promised felicitous tranquillity. A violent jerk and back impinges dizzy-crazy crazy-daisy reality. Back alas to dreary crummy me-now, now-me, his dull unglamorous dire self still stuck to shit, yes, by the seat of his locomotioned pants.
This world indeed a klink, a clunker, a clunker of a klink teeming with wicked interlocked strangers – was onto something fucker said it weren’t no leaking hell proper but the cosmic prison per se where all damned souls came to purge their variegated penalties – here again on the mirror of the face of others, here’s old Tithonus, yeah, present at all times, ubiquitous like the very quantum foam surrounds and subsumes us, devil-pronged, prodding at the inmates, all kinds of no end aggravations, droning sounds interspersed with blunt thuds, coarse swearings, sudden crumblings, quaint silences, intimations of what awaits farther on, trying to discern from the planted simulacra the pertinent cravings, tough endevor, with the uninterrupted tinnitus in his ears, the never-stopping nuncial and tolling tintinabulations of burials and births and three-fire alarms, and the daily clunk-clunk of the trains all the undying seasons, and the days themselves, nauseatingly repetitious beggar: “-Please-please-please,” in a puling wishy-washy voice, so caress-hungry, a single hard hug: wanna die of happiness, “-Yes, please-please-please,” all wrinkled grasshopper, born old, sentenced to clopper forever, disabused maybe, so far gone, just hoping for a merciful lull – would you be actually praying for death...? – put yourself into a totally consciously assumed condemned felon, no hope whatsoever of parole, of respite, of release, or death proper in all fucking eternity – doomed to the same useless act – years that I don’t come, I can’t, I wouldn’t, too sad a business, anxious, excruciatingly breathless, strangled by fatefulness: Once you do, once you’ve had, then what, re-start the build up, clinkety-clunk, just in order to come again, and, more appalled still, re-, and re-, and again re-start – Scottsboro train stuck in a rowdy double bind, internicine slapstick, you slap yourself silly: -Wake up, you creep, wake up – this self-spiraling labyrinth’s got no let-up (double equitremoeidal, or kissing, arsy-turvy spirals: Atavist symbol of eternity indeed, exactly when you think you’ve gotten out you’ve just gotten in) – every fucking day, back to square one – recurrent nightmare of a waking life from which you are condemned never to wake up – who wouldn’t prefer the daintier dreams of heavenly sleep? – if hell is repetition, this clunkerous klink is hell – earth with a reputation indeed – withering leaf redone; plough of gristle, a flop, breaking again the unbroken terrain; what else? – hymen untrundled anew, what, yesterevening I seem to remember a mess, and all bleeding crushed it was; the terrors untold of all those virgin births coming to a head, widdershins, at crossed impulsed paths, the crash always unhappened, unhappens, though – didn’t happen, did it? / it did / didn’t / did.../ down to first step: Unstigmatized, that’s mighty odd; strove unyieldingly, and to what end...? – a mystic almond, a mandorla, a cunt of marvelous free pourings, better’n the corn of plenty and Pandora’s big loose-withies side-busted kyack both all at once, and yet regularly it shuts like lids over your eye, eraser lids, of course: Reopened, you drew anew another blank, faint dullish afterimages mayhaps, had to try hard and recall the vision again, but with which guarantees of exact reproduction? – None, déjà vu all over da cappo, man, I think, not sure, but beautiful manifestations of (or for?) the senses, undeniable, huh...? – Ah, shiny little cunt earth, how poetical, how rich in sensations and sentimental adventurous journeys, only that when anyone finally manages seemingly or for all material purposes to exit and turn in for scrap metal the individuating dog-tag, all around sigh so sadly: He’s done suffering, poor guy – trying hard to keep up with appearances of decorum, honorable, dignified – all appearances, though, and to which avail? – Wanna be called poor guy when the time comes again – your little own personalized again – again: pivotal crux where your quantum foam lies firmly anchored indeed, try rather viciously impaled – nice landscape, though, your private molehill golgotha, could even hear botchedly oozing from the dismal background – frantic estrapades, desperation masturbatory self-destructive piecing apart – the insistent Mussorgski accords on No-life Million Skull Garbage Mountain by Night if you’d be ever so inclined – no pickings left after the hordes of clumsy ravenous mouths, even the marrows devoured clean by sedulous toothed bothriums – and beyond, and subsuming the whole bloody global trap, nice and cute and lovely as Tartarus itself, where repetition is it – Sisyphus his mammoth rock, Tantalus his thirst, old girls carrying water in their sieves, fellah falling forever down his toad-rich well, tarry tacky sticky goblins in their cullion-bags, inside the indusium, the trochilus, the carousel, the ferris wheel, the roller coaster, bumper car, stationary plane lost in its flights of fancy, spirals with stunt bikers, albino ravens talking, humping pirates, snapping turtles, sitting ducks..., blinking, bumping, humped Fang the clown, geezer hooked along in his neverending wheel, crucified into the spokes, the hub forever sodding him, worse crimes to pay for, pompous deleterious hellhole ass Fracidous Domingo, farting out some spic royal shit of his: -Hail, inhale, immerd it..., indigestible epic bore, from the boom boxes, worse hell, a grinning sardonic beast saluting all the way, mechanical twists of the neck, maniacal thrusts of the fists, Prometheus his minced liver reconstituted re-ripped apart by untiring raucous rancorous clockwork beaks – clangorous birdcage of moth-eaten parrots and cuckoos performing to never-exhaustive-enough exhaustion the very same selfsamest sameselfest trite trick – till hey, here we are, clunking breaks, next station once more – only blink shortest of whiles and chug-chug already, yep, there we go... – so let’s re-commence...
Born preconceived – tough luck, though: bungled all through; by concord of sweet sounds really, let’s not kid ourselves, stuttering girl, kid thyself not, unmoved – the annoying dad and his damned birds; the crazy wife – thick layers of cloying perfumes (egad, fetid strata, faith and forsooth,) smells are always nauseating – dying mother – now, that’s nicer, the stinks heavenly of course, fucking Chuzslitt, mournful cleric, at her side, egregiously waiting like a humped indeed, hurrumphing vulture to go first for the pus-oozing eyes – son luminously eagerly expounding a fantastic universe I’ve been painstakingly longing for since before we came a cropper, our own paradisiacal age, now like himself gone irretrievably missing, catalogued since as unhappened, not real, unknown – a job more as a derogatory tag hanging from a goods unsold, internally defective, no hope, unredeemable – a now for the positive streaks, he fancies, or do I...? The nymphets to enliven the eye, self-understood, ok, a pale softy passion for imagined mandorlas, amygdaline mandalas, darb-al-mandals, magic oval mirrors: to get lost in; reborn into the paradisiacal past, the garden of delicious delicacies: rather – an imagined passion for forbidden passing visions of what some foaming idiots have convened to forbid – a bit of salt to season the anxiety, thanks still – distracted to death with distractions to distract you from death – pitiful destiny, shit.
Instead, given the choice, of course today it’s a no brainer. If one could be, albeit for the briefest of seasons, the reincarnation of anybody at all, please let it be Peter. Being by nature a dabbler at arts, who better, I solemnly ask, who better after all to become than old Peter, Peter Brueghel the old, the ancient that is, the ancient master who, I find, unassumingly went to work every single day he could and, endowed as he was by natural nature, did his meekly best (and most of the time his meekly was the best,) looking the while forward only to next morning when the started work set you again lusciously afire. A world of forms to give better shape to.
Said which, I see myself obliged to notch in such thoughtful incision as: the pleasant side of rep.rep.rep...
I must be a balanced gal (guy) after all. Tautology, or to repeat: repetition, then, as a lovely plus, witness some exquisite music, or the rain, the weaving, the writing, the penciling, the little brush strokes, the waving of the sea, the smiley safe-side leering, the tilting with the breeze, the tender up-welling of tears, the routine, the regularity: oh for being in a groove, when all comes smooth and easy, when the calming thinking can’t be interrupted from the outside, not even from the infected within – for that’s still a worse hell: the constant interruptions to the train of thought that tries to go round your continent, endevoring hard, bound at last to make you one and whole, a known entity who’s found its place in the map of being, no longer terra ignota, shitty icongnita pars, festering virgin territory full of savagery and anonymous beasts fucking it all up; the noises, of course, the brain attacks undertaken by the others, those foreign parasitic souls, their contagiousnesses, agressions, animosities, hatreds, prejudices, envies, core sicknesses all, and the duties, the honors, and deadly deadening work.
A contrario, the blessed daily figuring on how to add to the elevated reconstruction of one’s own philosophical locked-in-mentation, mental image like an imago forever pinned down in the undelible collection of that’s-it, the done template, the finished original, the dead pool at the center of the static eyeball of the universe where the wind-blown results desolately stuck, one no longer a loose sheaf of shorn spikes, a paltry work in progress too unravelled to pass even for a jagged spall of a structure promised to almost great complexity and fair completion, gone the cares and worries and bungles and falls and snafus; now the quiet, the rest, the nothingness, found at last one’s due entitlement to an all-shaped firm unchangeable entity and its place in the all-inclusive world-shaping of finite in-order, not inordinate, things – reproduced in the long wardrobe mirror of existence in one’s full measure and perfected entirety, painted definitely right by the master spirit of one’s own, a masterpiece of unmendable consummation, at every now identical to itself, from right this instant to both doubtful infinitudes of every other minute rung-instant of afterwards or before – a chain of I multiplied without any kind of possible error, or leakage or slip-up, round the limits of what is and isn’t both inside and out.
For Every Tib and Tom Cat
Lucille and Maud -- tercer lliurament
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