Finished another entry Coiran.

There’s a split occurring in new novel I am writing. Depending upon where reference goes off to in my brain.

Every chapter has a different one? A bit.

There’s a way C gets into philosophy I really like. Its shot through with it, but isnt centerline. Its there under the questioning that he does. I like that. And then run it by certain people in brain strain in order to ensure that its heard. That it organizes there ok.

Also reading Beckett on Philo — finds for me where certain things (that attacked my reasoning along the way), showed up in early greek. Its kind of a relief. And often surprising.

Then again, I was astonished by how much showed up already in druids Battle of Trees.

Of course what I am reading are Beckett’s notes, things of interest to Beckett. And it develops somewhat into a shorthand. Gossip is great with Socrates. Who is only known through others’ writings.

Second novel is the philosophical novel? Yes.

And I have to call it a novel because its composed and all referents are intensional with whats occurring in the novel, not what happened or didn’t.

Seems I find myself using academic license too. Not sure what that means.

Probably because it gets into math as a part of reasoning with demons and angels. Pyschology shows up as a secret char. But like Philo or Math, its not centerline. These things are always a part of something else . But that I have let it push its way in as a way of reckoning with it.

Maybe refers back to Empson’s mess of pour ridge, that I tried to write something on and failed. The freedom he takes — versus, my retaining structural access. He is trying to create a system about poetry and ultimately it fails, and yet it is wonderful anyway.

Same could be said about Beckett? Beckett simplified himself into a variety of creations. Empson is trying to create a system, Beckett efforts to get beyond that, and yet through the poetry in it, does create something of a systematic. approach every time in a relative new way. As a form of concinnity.

So little happens in the second novel. Hurrah. And there is blatant repetition. Beckett uses repetition in poetic clusters, which are musical. Nobody minds. Clarice circles and builds, swims upriver. Sometimes ends up back where she started. This novel will and it wont. I want there to be movement across the reckoning sections. Seems to happen as I go along…

There is a huge difference between Sylvia’s poetry and her prose. And especially her letters. Same is true of Clarice Lispector. Neither are journalists or academics even tho they read both. Sylvia knew her poets. And Clarice came out of getting gigs in gov PR and then an ambassadors wife. Meanwhile, free then to write fiction. But she was writing before she got married.

I think about Clarice’s CHRONICA — published as a brazilian newspaper weekly column as letters that are public.

Its still in world of girlish letter writing, in that she wasnt competing with anybody but herself. I often hated my more girlish side in writing, as sentiment, flourish, flower, gratitude, and grievances. And what the hell to do with that?

Beauty is a structural freedom, I find just like all the others.

Clarice talks about how she sees herself as unlikely to have found it even so she was a wunderkind with her first book she barely recognizes that other than that she gets work, there’s humility to its mischievous femininity — ? Mischievous femininity men often assert that we are creatural…. I dont disagree I remember creating it as a mechanism for safety against well, Epsteins.

Ever smell a rat… Oh breakfast at tiffanies. Clarice in her Chronica is honest to a fault in the way that she is not claiming or trying to be anything else, but a genuine necessity to pay the bills.

I let my stuff run on here, just to be a blog, I want to find those things I guess. Especially poetry which has a side to it that is a sylvia descendent. And I know it. And want it. Poetry’s in the “cracks.”

The more I dig into my backlog, I am shocked at different types of pieces — as well as how much finding and exploring narrative charge in it, speaks to itself, relates back to each other.

There is a conversion and a conversation being lived through.

And its got me thinking about what to do with novel again.

Novel has moments of frustration — I mean the novel is inside its own frustration.

Bee Moan

I am writing now across everything. Novel, Sketches. And poems too. Sketches merge with fiction in action of voice!

Am bringing some of the horror in my poems — down a notch with respect to repeating rhymic tremors, paring down some of the oh so obvious repetitions. Its a wasteland one off, in a way but stuck in Welsh. My poetry came through without knowing it Delmore and Thomas. Even tho I hadnt read them yet. Which really freaked me out. Thinking what the hell is this. How are they there before me, oh the consonants.

It borders on ridiculous, that I have rhymes that always show up. No matter what. And in the poems its dangle and mangle, tar of ocean. A battle with its own ugliness that forces beauty somehow to come out of it.

Obsessed with sacred but its just a word that means a kind of delirium that relates back to a living death like Jesus dying over and over, and Mary in a state of ecstatic yearning for the sky. LuLu is Catholic? Yes mostly. A french mexican creole somehow…

Novella vomitorious online, not the sketches, the novella! They also display frustration at moments of candor speaking to the real and how its also understood as fiction, and fiction is a kind of dementia, taken on as an act of faith.

But it is the sketches standing alone or beginning to flirt with fiction, where I began to find ways into my own rhetorical whenas whereof. Somehow.

Some of the essays are set up now in “humorous formats.” Something else stole off NC>! Yes he pointed it out to me. There is fine funny line between gift, how you come by it, and stealing “weapons.” The given…HEART.

Les Spleens

Rereading Baudelaire’s posthumous published prose, because he is for me a normy, in prose. But I have not read it in a while. And only read certain pieces previously. I realize now.

He is an arrogant. He writes these 2 to 3 pagers, as an attack, his idea of what a poet should be, as creator of it, in full bluster mode. Flaubert does that in his letters.

Are they letters to himself, well never published in his lifteim. I dont know the story behind it.

Seems to me he can see its form churning into the pattern it is and then pursues it, as a humorist almost, because he has a sharp tongue at use in many of them, well — especially in translation… I am reading both. Its a dual language book.

I dont do that in translation. Cioran has me going for pure translation, no adding in where it doesnt actually exist .

Rereading B for support.

I see myself as closer to Cioran I barely get in poems out of what Cioran calls the underground, sous terre,,, where language impels… like a confrontation with treacherous tremors of faith.

Shakespeares timing on the density, strives for balance across the absurd in way that also engages with emotional clarities. I find those clarities elusive.

Poems are nothing short of daft tremors of beauty, death horror and love that are caged in a brazen blight itchy bitchy splendor always wandering off into thousand and one mal arabian fights with “what the fuck am I doing here?”

Excavations on the fall, oblivion mining…That was a lingering journey paraphrase phase, on top of notions that caught from S, about time and language, and being out the old way with a druidic reverence for the mystic — but also bawdy Irish candor —

That for me burned through Hell with Burroughs and Dante. Going mimetic on the poetic — I find Dante is as brutal as Shelly, in his rhymes. Maybe more.

Giving oneself over to form, can also be a curative. Released into a form.

g’Nashing over the rocks

Rimbaud’s prose for me is all about form and the jumps he takes and that mixture he is between beautiful and the damned.

Measured out to his breaths — I keep hearing him nudging me in my Sketches to go dark and beautify. As the only possibility, in a raft for getting down it. That both engages with me and for me, relieves the density g’Nashing over the rocks.

Novel is having an argument over making scenes. This always happens! Why I am back to the sketches online which are, something of a base form for me of exploration. And in the new scenes I need to figure out how to bring that in. I start hating scenes again…

Its important that a book I write is interesting to me in way that it needs to be.

Or I won’t finish it. Working out scenes fun at first, especially being able to attack with simplicity. But then I get bored with it, I want more out of it. I want in there too the poetic incantation and language staccato that languishes over occurrence of subrational in logic, the sketches etch out to.

Clarice goes there in her last book, one of my favorites of all time.

Aqua vive

I may not be able to bring every beat to perfection like Dante.

I like to think about Fitz’s book This Side of Paradise, and how far he came to mastering control of his narrative the weight of poetry in it so smooth — in Gatsby. The difference is a bit of a thrill, I found.

Some Early Notes on Moser’s Biography of Clarice Lispector

Link to Baudelaire’s Poems in Prose

Oh. Scene. I have five scenes in one chapter overlapping.

This ever happen before? no not quite.

I dont want to time block it — Can I pull this off??

Well Le carre/cornwall brings in histories this way. This is not histories.

Right now its built around — danger / escape walking home from resto work in dark — and subsequent phone call.

Making dialog part of scene…

Walking Through It

In book, again and again walking esp at night — home after job her new resto work, where now living.

Too much detail can detract from feeling of movement through it. hmmmm Chandlers lovely snide descriptions knocking on doors… Yes and no.

Simplified. Whats in her view. Doesn’t treat scenery as char? Calmness in this part, is part of story. Its a break from thicker stuff down to an interaction with present tense that starts with two days on road, sound of wheels as a constant, almost a lullabye.

Which is about to get broken into by danger.

Poetry? often at end of run. Suddenly pops up. Need for a rhyme — starts by doubling of a consonant… To capture something that wants to be doubled down on, or form a break.

And I work on it till I find it.

Break

How approach this zig zagging overlap going on now. Comes in just when I think about it. Free writing helped train me to do that.

Bunch ups…

FLOW CHART — Anything anything but that. ha. Make into two parts same chapter? Pre-mies can come through a single word. Danger scene been working on just before, shows up classic foreshadowing word. Ohhh look at that…

Maybe almost too soon. Yes.

Thoughts upon leaving already written, move some of that up, walk with her…

Paint

Pass old church preserved school house. Now a decor store. Waking on side with open field from a school. At corner, cross street from resto, squat brick dentists office once a house, then down away, two story clapboard, once a farmer’s with two buildings behind it, all dark no lights, followed by an open lot, then a light colored ranch house off the road with a circular driveway thats grown into a parking lot. And at end of that block, all night convenience. Street wide, two for driving, wide shoulders and strip of grass roadside by sidewalk she is walking on, in front of field and school. Cars going by are not close to sidewalk.

I could learn to enjoy this!

Moo Taunts

Differentiations poetry and novel again. Novel criss crosses boundaries and lets itself mutate with momentary eclipses that swim across the surface of language in a way that is implemental of its own bursts.

“God awful” 3 poetry books are stuffed in hell. They don’t swim they sink.

Hell can open up at 4 and let you in. It was a discovery without language. Language comes later.

Terror. Terror shows up as a char last night, chars move they have movement when dangling over edges of thought, religion and philo and math and rhetoric don’t stay separate, so much as they hinge and cycle.

Kind of like in Beckett but he isn’t a rhyme roller.

Beckett for me, does capture steeply embedded arrivals of delusional awareness struck by humanity. Along with pits of restlessness and hell, thinking in circles, sometimes torturous, and tenderly so.

But that starts knocking against Nick… Becomes a completely different kind of spread with Emily behind him, giggling.

For me though too, a history of terror running from itself back and forth between application and madness that can be both beautiful and corrupt.

Crit I Call Theory

Peripherals.

Math is a peripheral — finds it way in, math presents logic of repetition and difference, and brings in humor — watching facebook / instagram posts, that animate math cycles, and include their specific periodic equations.

Grabbed one for vector curves…

I am addicted. To watching them.

Not doing insta. Not doing much in the way of merchandising at all. Or playing ninny tendo.

Thing last night its really raw on mind, and also a blank slate… So I wanted to quickly grab a take on it.

Book is all that matters. No marketing. If isn’t finished. But sections are finished.

THEY ARE. ohh

Crabs.

Body of forager went through animal catalog last night, so joker jumps up and says do a thing on getting crabs…

Went through animals which think of now as regular conversions for sake of sanity, rabbit raven crockadial. I have char called crockadial. Which attaches at edges of nonsense, and oddly that purifies its permission.

Hell took on value in a different way last night, as a given.

Emanating from discovering hate and then terror in my humanity at around 4.

Mind wandering into the infinite hook and look — forsook. Spirit is word for mind in fr, how fell into it. Again and again. Like a ritual. Terror plagued the bod itself. Came after me.

Had to fight it off.

I decided to kill it!

Ended up in a war with monotheism gods whose beauty and violence of rhetoric ran circles around sacrality my cunt, of my existence. But also in it awakened something of Rimbaud taking on freedom, I read his letters even his late ones.

My mutants at some point — always visited edge of death sequences in loops of daring and infinite and the forbidden and the desired and my crying, it wasn’t a garden, it was religious intensity of sacred, transcending and terror — in it and out of it.

Scarfing down relig books all over. After Joyce or before? Sylvia whispers….

Same time.

Old NYPL could hunt for piles. Originals everywhere. Books destined for the stacks for the research library across the street. With corners could hide out in

Seemed to me more academic books came first thru midtown, that was my guess. Things would only be there for six months to a year, then gone. Poetry and world lit sections were glorious.

Became its own fiendish prophecy. Then shane shows up in my purview and rhyme rollers suddenly exist in a different way gesture emerges into the language, and challenges my nature. Like giving me a stick in a relay.

But then assassins show up and terror took over. In weird even despicable ways. At first visionary. Then curious then vortical then wild and diffident then tragic and cursed…

Gesture eventually grew to depend on as keeping me attached to my literary life. Gestures became my only way toward friendship. Hell plagued me with terror, madness callous devouring breaking apart into multiples, like Dantes layers, except my Dante was Dada, Fellini and Cervantes.

Poems exploded with merciless quandary.

Red Bed

Sometimes you have to love what hammers and hinders the most. Bucks and brays. Its the only thing that made sense.

Terror would always show up where stretched me beyond anything I could do and I did it anyway and within it a misbegotten treachery, tragically embedded in the fall, since like forever.

Alice down her hole directly into Kirkeguuard.

And K was into J for Jesus… for safe keeping. Its in his journal.

Things got very bad and I became afflicted with searching for ways to survive it.

And Joyce had humor that one could say was not impartially schtick in The Wake, and sometimes eerily molt with devolutions, language could slick through the most treacherous of things and still find airs in it.

And in Beckett, a twisting in the wind, at some point, always, produced tenderness.

Free to Be You and Me

We are supposed to be a free society. And Trump is doing everything he can to defeat it? Well he is starving the hungry of any domestic money, nobody knows what he is doing with the money.

Congress has lost all control of it. And now its sitting at Supreme Court — watching their investments?

Supreme court seems today to constitute conservative dogma being slugged out against democracy! with historical notions of keeping control over the “constitutional” republic via voting supression, control of women / religion.

Still they must have seen change in wind. That said, they are in an insulated echo chamber of their own legal jargon. That is separate in many ways from us plebians.

Maga is upset too over congress closing down in part because of Epstein. Dudes in Maga online and even Turning Point, are upset about it and vocal about it, Farmers too. Vocal. Telling the truth.

States are going after == ICE being required to obey the law.

And Supreme Court is NOT stopping them. Just limiting it to some extent.

How blind are conservatives on Supreme Court to partisan factions because they are sitting on investments too. Sorry but its true.

Stocks need to be double taxed. SO FUCKING WHAT. All buy backs depending on size?

Yes. And recipients pay on dividends too.

Some tax based on size of wealth? How can we get in at that without breaking system, we dont want to break capitalism. Tax increase in capital wealth if profit in stocks are over a million. They either pay us or give us stock. Where and how can we dig into crazy profitability huge corporations.

But tax money BELONGS TO US and congress controls it. PERIOD. Otherwise we end up with what we have now. And it sucks. This is big argument between Democrats and Republicans, has been with Trump — since the beginning. One of his impeachments is over this.

Supreme Court is trying to come up with an equation on tariff, that sends it back. To what, courts or congress?

Congress doesnt exist right now, because of Epstein files and cruelty over domestic spending. Trying to break apart ACA. Still. Plan of Heritage is to eliminate Congress???

College Money

Money from colleges, whats he doing with it. I hate when America goes McCarthyism ish, and President is ruthless in a decadent selfish Autocratic way that is much much UGLIER —

Weirdo greedo with corps and Trump Monster. DO I think colleges who are rich should contribute.

I do believe in partnerships with universities… and what to do with profits partnered with corporations and universities.

But not like trump Who on the science side is all greed and basically falls asleep.

We need modern energy but we also need health care. And affordable university. Even FREE university like City College used to be. WHY NOT? whats wrong with investing in the future.

And on this they are not permissive but destructive. We want Health Care to be financed in a way that the profits — our tax dollars help generate — return to us and help to finance education.

No more what they are doing right now. NEVER AGAIN.

Curtains

Lights flash through my curtained window they are out there watching us now… we are under investigation.

Well fuck you. New York after Trump, jumps — Z is also a Populist. So are AOC and Bernie. And Gavin FDR. No of course not. Thats not where we are… Bernie is effective with Red State constituents. Gavin addressing Trump.

Epstein — connected assholes — and there were many — NOW they take our tax payer money and pile in on our deficit and pull back from domestic spending unless building jails, helping other populists and bullying us into having an immigration army — thats infected with being like the military, which constitution strictly prohibits? While same time firing generals and admirals…and threatening war even against some allies…

We are like wtf — we did not sign up for THIS! WE THE PEOPLE. Some did. Rural whites live in fear of dangerous cities, and we who live there, are every kind of person there is… And many of us enjoy the liberty that attaches to it.

So we immediately hire one of Bernies beauties…in big population center…. Because Trump is loading huge health care costs onto those least able to handle it, and we want ACA reform that lowers prices. FUCK we want universal Medicare. Have companies still contribute but it would lessen their costs too! EVERYBODYS. FUCK Medical Insurance for Profits it does nothing but create hell.

Supreme court. Meanders around our necks like a noose…. some ways. Red states have started protesting and arguing with their reps. And trumplandia BUYS the voting equipment.

We need to dump that equipment… Somehow. Cut it off completely from internet. PERIOD.

Democrats are creating a populist side and we are right behind them. Showing up, and arguing because == We are americans….

Florida wants War whats it good For.

We want NOT to go to war AGAIN in s. america fuck YOU. MURDERERS.

They live here too.. We are the continent they are ours to share the continent with, not go Putin on them.

Putin is LOSING, he is losing, FUCK YOU.

America pops back other direction.

Supreme Court is slow and doesnt seem to be terribly concerned about anything but money where they profit off the corpos too… But immigration being turned into a pack of bounty hunters without any rules doesnt seem to bother them that much??

It could be a landslide because when we make a mistake, thats what americans do. Switch back in order to retain our democracy.

As a faith even.

Business minded of the Maga cult still talk trickle down… old fashion republican…. But core of cult, farmers and uneducated, many of whom are on or abuse the system… They do side gigs and still go after fed money. Our farm bills create the Farm Economy. Perhaps they are tired of getting beat up now by Trump republicans who reverted immediately to being what they always are, like Pottersville.

His clusters of voters are shrinking over five percent. And thats all we need.

Patiner is To Skate in French

Write your novel, oohhhhh these chapters are flow for me, there’s a sillilness in them a compound of typicality — that poetry breaks in and out of.

I include the witherings and edges where strike at pathological nonsense humor edges with — all the way out to dadas strange and violent, element of mockery is a form of humility??? backing off on seriousness of its truculence. Becktt says yes. Part of char tar is battling with cynics, dogma and disbelief…

Moments where overripe catch back…

Touches on terrible too!

Fitz whizzes by so I can steal his breeze… and cioran where queezy goes breezy on me, we are in luv.

MY poet finds things — directly through Others — as if in their indigestions - ours come out through whats there somehow — as we digest it, as rhetoric, contemplating beauty etc.

Leibs and Cave in churchy drag… where contestations over life and meaning are at heart of beauty. Without apology!

Dipsliding

Novel is small, small as Ciorans journal, yes. Ciorans journal travels but its also just him, and his days. Same with Pessoa. Its just LuLu and some days. And all about language, as much as anything. She is just its char.

A back and forth on eras in meta. That kind of astounded me how much that happens. Needling down on language, through eras and steal too from technical, as dressing.

Because the language can rub against itself in ways that surprise me.

This book goes in for dunks. In and out of language Shelley crawls down the back like a crocodile, I suppose. I love being able to blame others for what I do.

Become a little obsessed “whose working me over now” and then I can see it a little. Its only a fume in it, doesnt take control. But is sticky with it.

I used to hear about this in the junkyard, other rhyme rollers joke about how sticky others work becomes out in sublime time —-

It gets missed. But also not missed. It carries fire, it just does, junkyards are back burners… I have never known them otherwise.

But then that is free writing.

The rest of the story is about switching jobs. Movement in search of tomorrow.

The plotting underneath has to be able to hold it up some how. And there’s a push for me to make sure that happens.

But I also find it laborious….

There’s this balancing act between the meta and the scenery. Scenery I keep pointed at Ahkmatova. She can take it both ways not so much with double meanings as the way she connects through it. I listen for her to find it for me.

Least favorite is plotting, so I try and think of it differently, through the meta. Do I want it to dipslide in, or start a new run, how connects a way through chapters that do and do not connect across a time line as much as it occurs around in it — like a fish swimming. Some things are vintage. And have to get clever how to bring up to date and not leave behind at same time… Thats my plotting…

And there is what I am there for, think of myself as being after, a kind of unplotting in the underplotting that follows its existence in the meta.

Its loony odd book — and Santa Muerte has turned into a visitation, with two faces already. Enchantment motifs I think I picked up from Burroughs but then run through Genet.

I am such a thief.

Also everything is focusing a light on the banal via an uncompromising avoidance that Cioran talks about, while at same time surfing with Marcel to its beauty. Marcel can admit when something is beautiful. Cioran, only goes through back door to get to most of the time, but he always finds it.

Marcel can get pretty thick, the way he moves around what he is moving around. But then French often writes backwards, I mean they negate and then exception… ne que. It creates the oddest tension in it. Once the ne shows up. Will it be pas or que, etc. Will it be negating or isolating…

Switches.

I learned a trick from Beckett how to do whole scenes without any quotation marks and dialogue summarized.

Never fully admits where she is, LuLu. Which is part of the conversation. Conversation is mostly avoided unless drunk. And even then the moment it happens its just a memory.

Beckett — he does these thru-the-back door conversations, with recognitions as he is writing — his way through it. It kind of hypnotized me.

In some ways its out with my drunk retracing her steps. I search for its simplicity too, which is mandatory.

Even if it is intertwined with demons trembling… the shock is that the old fits with the new.

https://dustyhope.substack.com/p/bonfire-of-the-vanities/comment/146944517

This is to Terry Underwood:

As usual you make me think. the book is episodic, and every duality expands into modalities, that are both precious and inhabit forms that terrorize.

Noting here when it pains me to look at it -- is very helpful.

For whats going on if I read through and quickly organize and see, Olga Plumacher popping up? Is that more about form or substance. I have to ask myself.

No, its both. First form, then see its also substance --

Except where gives way to poetry that resumes growing narrative underneath, its almost like I am checking things off? But delves, like Cioran, for beauty -- and scrutiny.

When it starts getting too stuck in one intensity, I have to shake it, shake it loose.

But also, this is my first time really sitting down and organizing a novelistic "advent sure" rather than just jumping in and letting it happen.

Its taken on a greater form now, and its a form semi registered through Kerouac snow shoeing with Dante. Giving me a focus now on not just where or what it is it is, but where its going.

I have now 23 larger chapters, created out of the 110 or sections. Most groupings so far having 3-7 sections....Although the last two have more.

Thanks again for your thoughts as always.

—dusty

More artwork. I have clients who are still coming to me for artwork. Traditional fashion stuff, feathers, chains and charms, and very possibly a watercolor scarf, gonna do that on fresca, buy a new 13” to accomplish. cha cha cha.

Love comes in so many flavors

Start translating again weekend. But I am also doing Color Theory. So as usual I got three fucking jobs.. Four!

But I use translating, I use it to keep me on track, start there quite often, like a morning yawn stretching out mind, while minding carefully others keyboard, pure language work. With genuine astonishment at his observations.

He keeps me thinking. About sticking to my scruples. So much of what he gets into about writing, itself, is in that marvelous journal, I link into with greed and affection.

Especially when he talks about the mechanic at work. As well as his religious and poetic yearnings and physical quandaries of pain, a feast that he couldn’t escape.

The mechanic at work

Love comes in so many flavors. I dont think of any of it — as a singularity anymore, thankfully. But as a consequence of showing up and bearing all — to those who engage in it, as I let it challenge me to tread there.

I love the dead. Yes even recent dead. Cry cry.

My favorite thing in a person is that challenge thing. If, can bear to have anything to do with me, hacking away at it. On terms I can live by…

Money doesnt turn me off, but its like Cioran its purpose is limited, and can be intrusive.

But its also like me doing a scarf… I enjoy the drawing and the color work.

The Rubicon

Frida went after a challenge, MichaelAngelo too.

Novel has gone through first asserted organization since started this last version. Basically. It took me all of one day.

I still dont like the beginning. But I can see now a way to bring something in from the end, to put at the beginning.

There are several versions, for each new rewrite, there’s a variation in what I was doing. Versions are connected but also different. Set on a different scale.

And that all is the feast for me.

The loot tenant, is using pessoa at the office as “agent” after ground. And for me its not without Becketts Murphy, working his way into a mad house to play chess.

She fucks everybody but the one she wants? No not really. Its not that. Its drunken mischief and escapes into the night.

And am bringing in commentators. They show up as agitators, informants, and magic mirrors, to work through distortions.

Beckett blows up Murphy at end, to get himself out of it. Not going there.

Tho does run into Parkers drunken battles, as does Beckett to some extent. Tho what really astonished me about it all was LuLu being galluped off by South American extractions of angelic occurrences —

The deadly dancing as a flowering, and pheonix in constant churn of verily painful rebirths, wily the coyote findings after Emily… There’s a feast there in variations, for me.

I dont want ground to take over.

I want it POETIC MODERN of its own awakening. And she’s a drinker, and fucks around and wanders, wonders at times ruinously about hating life. Stench of poetic lapses finds enthralls of beauty and ruthlessness — composed of terror, sanctuary, mischief, and doubt.

And interrogates an imp, sneaking into the math house — calling “running the numbers” — metaphysical-izing after humor in mannerisms in logic — oh snore! also got from both Joyce and Beckett… and how in sudden wisps the ideation of measurement, sparkles for me — like in Rimbaud…

Triage

Its gotten so I have 110 chapters. And the order is a disorder. And I am beginning to start reading, from the bottom up?

If merely to remember whats there.

The bottom, the top and everything in between relate to each other. It has an organic necessity to it, but I am afraid of it somehow?

To do what? Stop writing, concentrate on reorganizing all the sections into something that works for me.

Its a small story. Compressed into ways of looking at the eternal while reality is to no small measure, looked down on, empirically disturbing, going through a kind of dissolution, enthralled with capacity for love and death.

And yet overwhelmed by its beauty. That to see it in eternal terms is to consume all of it as a lust for beauty and a confrontation with rejecting it as a testament to desire. Sorrow changing into combination of going “Pheonix” while wondering what to do with Sisyphus — Sisyphus has a goal, Pheonix merely springs back to life, with resurrection from the dust itself as a lust.

I believe, want it to have a feeling of LuLu always running off again, startled, angry, afraid, restless, reticent and maniacal. The mania, similar to what Cioran talks about probing the disquiet. Which I brought up the other day:

I am not just reading Cioran. I am also reading Bataille again in French, but its before I sleep, and more about getting slippery with French - not to translate just to read. To translate is to study! Ask any translator… Bataille agrees with some things Cioran gets into.

Cat Out of Bag

Why such depressing literature. Thats the thing. I don’t think of it as depressing but a place to go - where lets the cat out. To wander where poets will themselves to reconnoitre with the eternal as a native obsession with life, and do it thinking about it for themselves. I think of it as Pull of the Divine.

There’s some poets who write in an area that is right beside philosophy - but occurs in a fervor, a poetic fervor.

Was Leibniz there? No, he was a chair in philosophy! He was thinking about systems and equalities, translating metaphysics into terms of usage even, for a brief summer he worked as an alchemist. Seems to leave talk of the eternal, up to god as its defining thing, that is character of life itself, in discussions of eternal truths.

He comes out of both a formal education - via family religious affiliations, and a huge library that dropped in his lap after his dah passed… and he ate up because he could, he was adored by his Pa, and his uncle too.

There’s places in Cioran’s journal, where he feels condemned to poetry. So he denies it, and for a tremble or two even, spits at it, as a lie —

But that is his way of admitting it, that he is stuck with it, stuck with his writing being what it is, and addressing contraries is part of his assembling reason.

I land over re metaphysical, by Cioran and Pessoa and Kirkeguaard and some Kafka and Poe. There’ s a way Dickens goes off, that is stunning in its repetitions, and in a similar way, Poe goes off, that approaches the maniacal, bumping into the absurd. Bet he shuttered, as he writes. Both Dickens and Poe address those fervors but in Novel form.

Do you ever write to obviate the shuttering, the writing being let loose in order to find itself.

The beginning is not the beginning I want

The Novel right now —

The beginning is not the beginning I want. What’s there now as its beginning, it just came up there.

But in fact its just a collection of instances of a similar type with LuLu thinking through similarities in order to decide what to do. It just showed up, as a new “vehicle” where it showed up.

Though looking through to other sections, am finding quandary itself was already brought up, other sections are speaking to the same - phenomena.

To leave it at the beginning feels like it is being given more importance than it ought to have. Even though it does pervade elsewhere, it is interconnected with other sections far down the line —

Suppose I have to do a fast reading? through all of it and come up with a plan now.

Ohh how to do that and in the meantime, stop writing…

Ah, but the language here and there, goes too far, succumbs to freedom and turns into catching the wave, which then presents serious effort to meticulously cut back - in order to let its reasoning come through, not just as mesmeration but also as candor. While of course maintaining poetic thrust and all at same time —

How stop writing MERELY to organize!

If are looking for politics, do I do any of it here?

Some people subscribe to me for Politics. Some for Literature.

If are looking for politics, do I do any of it here?

I started a politics page, but instead I always most often seem to address in Notes and Threads and Facebook. Not so much in Posts. Because I am not a journalist. I am doing it to my mind as a citizen. and as such due to what parties are up to, and how it effects me, it becomes personal. Gov of America, is by the people for the people and we the people — its our duty to stay on it, because of that. However it may annoy… because as a democracy, that never lets up.

Anything I do in essay format or as a scrap book for things I am (obsessively…) reading — bound to address in it what hinges there, poetic fervors, urn and jest, or other things passing through, lengths one goes to for intensities, who I am stealing from who.

Still being a fool — count as blessing, as grace ! As well as movement of bowel, my crock a dial, through temptations in language .

Zenith on Pessoa

Latest is but another love letter to Pessoa.

Includes Richard Zenith’s lecture on Pessoa done for Library of Congress, along with pictures of Pessoa I snarfed off the vid. And of course, a few notes about Pessoa’s biography, and a few of my attending thoughts, visiting there upon it.

If you can get yourself to wade through the formalities on the front end of Zenith’s lecture, you will find it gets very good.

Adore Pessoa. I have in my “nits” capability to adore, still. Astonishes me, as I retain crosshairs of faith wretched with cynicism — as if life is a joke on me, that old thing, the trickster god hiding out somewhere in everything….if only I can find it.

Political Language is Not For Fun

I want to keep in terms of politics myself honest and driven as a citizen trying to regain ground of law and order back from the Guardians of the Predator. Massive corruption — which is Trump. I want the courts to support Law and Order. That the Masked Crusaders must unmask, must be legitimate reps of gov not bounty hunters and must abide by Human Rights — as written into law and yes by judges, Common Law. Judges decide not DHS Thugs.

Rather than creating hell for so many people, so tired of America being Jail Capital of the world. Literally creating hell in America, for Farms too. Its overreach is humiliating and dangerous and vicious.

But of course politics is always vicious?? No, not this bad.

This is Trump. He is really vicious. Why people are afraid of him and would rather just do what he wants. Even when they DON’T WANT TO.

And about the fucking environment Trump is so stupid for money and freedom to be rapacious for money as corporate dogma…

His dealings with women is a kind of penis envy for his mates wives, as well as wholy infantile.

Am I a cave man

Yes. right now I am pulling together materials on prehistoric drawings which, have of late decided, that on first day — students are going to draw their own versions of, using prehistoric color pencils, ochras, umbers and such, charcoal and graphite.

Next year if I still teach — gonna see if I can afford to pull off making our own pigments from natural colorants, which I can buy online, along with walnut oil… This year I splurged on a second deck of very expensive color cards, for traditional color theory out of Bauhaus stuff, now I have in two sizes, as well as The Full Spectrum book, want them to read.

Ginnungagap

Our Saddaam.

The Lit Pit = dustyhope.substack.com, is just an online part of my excavating spiritual descendants of the Ginnungagap.

Ginnungagap appears as primordial void in Norse creation account. The Gylfaginning states:

Ginnungagap, the Yawning Void ... which faced toward the northern quarter, became filled with heaviness, and masses of ice and rime, and from within, drizzling rain and gusts; but the southern part of the Yawning Void was lighted by those sparks and glowing masses which flew out of Múspellheim^[6]

Wikipedia

As well as, à la Pessoan blunder wonder, nosying into multiples, of different kinds of things, antithesis gleaming about face as well, with surprisingly profound relief...

Land Sakes Alive! The allowances for multiples can grab through him! I used to get in trouble for that ? There is a double duality there, that is insurrection/confection/affection/detection… They who they are I must live thru.

Mixies with Cioran and Pessoa are heavenly fodder.

Both of them get high on their hind leagues and reach for it, reckoning after an intelligent god, ya know like MichaelAngelo, with a mania for scruples.

Cioran in his latest entry (still working on…) :

Demonic fervor, such is the nuance of my religiosity.

Demonic fervor, such is the nuance of my religiosity.

Never work in the inessential, drive oneself as if having to reckon with an intelligent god; push the disquietude to intellectually probe to the point of a mania for scruples.

12 March 1960 Cioran Journals

Sometimes Cioran reminds me of Kerouac in his intenseness to take on that journey… but as its antithesis, what is perfectly on the run, what is paradise lost, on run from living hell faith be damned.

Fortunately, there’s always alt Americana, as for the fact that I have read Raymond Chandler more than five times — for hack cess to his descriptions and joyce for gesturing through syllables, coconut in the lime.

Break from working on book. Need to go back translate again. Start that up again Tuesday.

Unthinking as Thinking

I almost dont want to think about the novel now too much - as its found its destiny or something, and the poetry underlying it, is at its own language level, major chars identified, and in a way finding themselves, and as I do, feed them through.

Vince Rinse et al

Vincent he’s a boss. His letters arent letters in the traditional sense. Its more like every night he sits down and writes to Theo. And then sends it off. I dont know how often he sends them off. Bascially dateless. There’s something Kerouac about it, in that its non stop.

Place I am at now he is meeting with other working local artists, drawing with pen, doing small watercolors, and showing them his work, asking for their thoughts, examining what they are doing in theirs, thinking over ideas gain from it - learning off of each other. He is of course very serious. And philosophical.

Its inspiring, breath taking, driven, religious in its aspirations. All to Theo. And he thinks over every little thing, to make his art find it.

Reading Delacroix journal in french at same time.

Delacroix french is simple straight forward journal writing, about running across painters, going to viewings, having dinner with friends. Wrestling with a particular situation or imprinting a memory. Simplicity to it is earnest, day to day. Simply revealing itself to itself, so far, and I am maybe 10-15 entries in, doesnt talk about his own work like Vincent, tho he does about others.

Eugene Delacroix Journal Original French

Eugene Delacroix Journal Translated into English

I CANNOT read Rimbauds french straight on, because it isnt straight on.

His language pops with alter-ings, its grammar is its own, in a way invented to meet the moment, his language is manipulated around forms of words, that find themselves there, and it pops.

Clips along. To its own rising illuminations immediacy.

I am listening for something of him in my novel. But its not so much at word level as paragraph. Yeah…

Les Illuminations en français

No Allowances

Oh man Novel is heavy rhyme lime. Straight thru to Chapter 25.

Set free from its stable, and yet that freedom is its stable.

Found ways be both, at same time. Without letting go of its intention.

Too bad too sad

There are passages that get to in book, all throughout, that reveal its prickliness, its sickness with itself, and then, knowing the depth of its gloom, suddenly kisses the moon -

Found a way to talk about it that is eternally grazed with love? At scent of its crusade?

Does Yeats

Oh yeats.

If your following my reading Yeats. Up to his next book. Its like 8 that fiend.

Has suddenly wrote one of his most famous poems, you may recall his last three books, he started messing around, letting go of writing really tight poems based on trad structs.

Began dabbling around inside, stopped making “perfect” to tightness of thread, loose, little mangly but also sketchy.

Then in next jumps back into structs again, playing more deeply.

And now he catches it, all sides, as sails through! His next poem in his next book, very famous poem of his.

Warning: its a thumb in gods butt. Many have stolen phrases from it… So Shall I says the Fly. But the ending slips under it in way that admits everything.

Yeats its verily unforgiving he is hissing into the wind the horror fresh and abundant, then cracks the egg!

The Second Coming By William Butler Yeats Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats (1989) POETRY FOUNDATION

I admit to being worse of all rocking cradle through and through waves of the passionate intensity. Slouching towards Bethlehem to be born, does jesus come into. For me? Oh sure.

SouthWestWard

But mostly south american offshoots of an intermingling st mary with jesus, is atomized as a skeleton scaffolding, life amidst the deadly, also american indian trickster addressing transcendence of nonsense that laughs with god, and a shookster all in shock at assassins showing up, and breaking eggs.

Gods in female form swing through it that are still worshipped as I understand it in South America. Constantly being reborn.

But also, in fights with its own tyranny.

Stretching hands finger limes toward Yeats intermingling with nature and rhyme…

Incentivized

How Didion uses the snake, mentions in passing, and builds off of, also incentivized by neil gaiman american gods?

And of course Dante wherever Venus cracks out through her shell. Its lush plush and orange crush…..

There is no politics in it. If any its been leibnized, its meta sized, foams up from inside meta, like a deer in headlights with Shakespeare — old as tree bark.

But also, inbred, as Sexual Personna…

Diderot we love you.

Spell out the Spill out 2

Discussion started, after reading about, in a book about Beckett’s Library.

The stoic in him, self mocking as he did, with delusional import, about: phrase hunting. “Champagne for the sad and the serious.”1

And hitting it right on the nut case.

Am on A Spelling Out of The Spilling Out crusade. Brought versions 1, 2 and 3 back into mix at bottom of novel.

Techno in it increasingly tearing into itself, making incursions, into different types of raw data, as novel gains in pertinence to forms, dredging up the fiction.

Phases of the phrases

Yeats ran into free writing, dont know that much about it yet, except that I have come to believe, that a couple of people around him, exchanged it with him, and he insisted upon it, as to say, encouraged it.

Phrasing in free writing, raises the flags, tag and wag. STOP.

Just got several Yeats bios. He came from a pretty well established Anglo Irish Family, grandfathers high up in the church. His dad was, no one fails to mention it seems, quite the character too.

Trills for Ills + Rills + Rilles

Rille is narrow depression on lunar surface.

How now brown cow: finds that freedom to do trills across rhyming methods, is about letting it run, exposing itself to finding nuance across language, that I often chip back, or expand around, as case may be.

Oh feathers

I have phrases long collected through the Terminal of Time. And in novel, am modeling into language, in way that can hit switches, as a thoughtful mechanism (cheers to POD), even while tarrying through the negative -

Through to an explanation that reveals its “romantic agony”2, as unfolds, in lush waves of metaphysical trauma drama —

As well as riding across dawn of time through history, an implication situation leading to math. The miracle of discovery, purges for surges, in the mirror of the metas.

Well Paced Cage

But remain determined that it always pervade, alas, the well paced cage, of terminal poetic encumbrance, naming memory into trees.

Whats on First

There is finally, a tenderness to LuLu that is making itself known. Where LuLu is, I think, very human, the faults, the incantations, the animation, sometime shocking behavior - that the narrator cajoles out of her, the char and the narrator zig zag as first and third, as same and separate, narrator slips into char and out again, mocks, and is sweet on.

I think, and correct me if I am wrong, Beckett allowed himself to get sweet on his characters, giving readers a way into what tenderness lies in his fascinations, as well as the horror that circled there.

Is my book, a horror story. It steals a bit of that from Poe’s hysteric, I think. Poe’s voice was at a particular historical edge, like Mary Shelleys, and Dickens could go there too.

Where horror comes up out of the ordinary. But I don’t think of it as a horror story, the same way I used to!

And I wonder if it is because I finally was able to find affection for my “creation.”

Yeats helped

Meanwhile am having a blast reading the collected Yeats,

Now I am going to have go out and get a Bio on him. So I can get a tinkering for when each of his poetry books came out…

Hmm. there is an autobiography:

A Critical Biography:

A book about All Their Dads! This looks interesting… By Tolbin.

Here is one from Maddox. Well known for her Irish Bios/

RICHARD ELLMAN!

All on their way —

Caged in his tenderness

He engages with traditional implication of spirits caged in the tenderness and vileness of being, at least as far as I can tell, where I am up to in his poems.

He does cover some of the same territory as Beckett, but from inside that treasure.

Am now up to Yeats fourth book of poems in the collection.

And I am finding his input, especially helpful, in the way he can wind his way around whatever poetic form he is getting in at — forms that he is letting himself be invoked by, and yet, without actually giving anything away.

What do I mean by that. Its personal addressing the eternal, speaks to it and through it, simultaneously.

I mean, all his poetry, comes from the personal, however much, as well, he folds in the world as he knew it, he engages with the form whose heart is on display, and it comes through as a wondrous sense of druidic sensibility for poetic usage and language, where first person and the riders of storm, druidic spiritual imagos - come through it, swimming together, kind of like what I am off to be after with my first and third. She wonders out loud…

But of course, we are of a different era.

Discovering Intimacy

It all came out of discovering Intimacy, in parade of my poetic disease and capture…

Novel has found ground. And also variations that connect through the words.

The trills I spill into rill and fill are kind of ON auto pilot now. Since little argy bargy with dynamite about it.

Novel, it gets buggy. But I made a decision. To let the sound repetitions crawl out like a “bug” in the system, they saturate in some way, every 5 to 10 paragraphs occurs one. Repetition usual goes to a foursy.

It gets to “too much” stage. When show up too close to each other. Need room to breathe. Those I have to root around — either spell out or drag across lines… dragging a trill across edges of thought spaced out in like a bliss list (also fist in the) mist…

And start to pick away at it, in variations…

So the novel has them all over. But dynamite still helps me to “take it down” to a place where it can be infested ingested and deeply rooted… Where its at.

Airs are rooted — I dont have think of them as rootless anymore, or even burned at the roots, not really - not anymore. Pulled up by the roots —

Tho not leaving out anything f can.

I can pick up a rhyme, farther down, over two stack, esp if its in a trill. Yeats up my nose….

In Labor

Book requires so much as everyone says!! labor serious labor to finish a fucking book and send it out. I am attempting to be as workmanlike as I can. Like drawing for money….

Accept methodology of effort as beat at meat till the bugs are out. I dont know. That thing about writing in poetic largesssss is truculent and insane, partially — loose and flux and desperate and meaningful — are actuary spiders crawling out of the drain pipes.

Spider and crocodiles are writer fevers, the kind that sink into animal tendernesses and hunger. As structures in the finder —Finder is the grinder!

I use Nick to keep those conceding to destiny of it for itself even, stable, and also nose to grind and grind away. With complete comp pose sure. Its organ as well as its grinder with monkey.. out of rollers and the Becks…. every animal is free to fly into my eye and mythic too as freeloaders — living in the language.

I can only get so much work done in a day and stressing about it isn’t going to help me stay strong.

Spell v Spill v Spool

In the beginning chapters I am spelling it out.

Feels like it needs it. Then as goes on begins to start building in sublime rhyme time as interchanges between aspects that drops back into poetic largess —

Then tightens around it?!

Around section 11, one of the sections, tips into something new, thats full on rim bowing in terms, not sounds like him, its a simplicity in the narrative thats been well, codified — and yet free wheeling, and because the language has already been introduced via usage!!!!

Licking shakes toes… with the Joyce Mama.

Uses rhyme as a lingering integrating functionary —

And have chapters differentiating between these things as its build.

DOWN FOR THE COUNT!

Plodding thru Names

Lit pit is sniffing up everybody else’s ass. Including here to some extent. And polly ticks is just an extension of it, that allows politics in.

This chap I have a narrative assemblyman — carefully balancing over time and switches, it has “breadth” in that way…

The language breathes time into it and sustains it!

Sustaining it all the way through, can be demanding on the reader. Saved for elements of surprise? that can come about with poetic integration. Rhymes breed a sense of the familiar, engagement creates it beyond that, time within it suddenly stands still, becomes what I call eternal time, where tenses condense and in that way, vanish.

Then reverbs or leaps. Never stops moving.

Thats the thing. The narrative never stops moving. It’s something picked up from good detective novels. Never stop moving… but movement is mirrored in the language not through plot — poetic tumbles’ executions are in the main, are in focus of plot itself.

Like Yeats, but wholly narrative, and there is a plot within it that engages with place and time.

Sluicy Lucy. La Fleur. When flowers begin to grown, one finds grace in it…

Thinking now about Beckett and Houllebecq, what it is that a modern literary novel — does — lets it happen and sustains it…

Engages in the doings of the writing for itself —

There is the audience to think of yes. But thats where auditors come into it for me. Since Joyce. Ear has always been plodding elsewhere as well.

So into language right now, as singular devotion its allowed…

That level of focus on the work with ears out tward… picked up by SM, and shaping it shaping it… to this day still call angel dust.

Have no shame? in regards to that now. Happily no.

Some of the book will be dense, other parts repetitive. I have been working at making the repetitive, interesting to me.

Moodys Beauties. Kind of like Bataille, mock and relish its seekers, and loot for ecstasy. As with both tender and crass affection.

My books like to take themselves apart piece by piece. There’s no stopping it so I might as well just get out of the way.

Ninety percent of any of this wont make it in, it’s really only the hanging Jesus so far in the story. But I do want a little more about it being a French chapel. Who do the best vaulted ceilings…

1. This is really a list of what I need to check on Friday.

Triple door going in

I dont want to get too technical. It’s not so much about christianity itself as it is the impact of its images on essence of religious in ecstasy of death and resurrect.

Arched. Outer door, three wooden in a row. Louis Fifteenth (check again) hardware. Statuary, heights of christian fantasy, in stone and wood.

Does taking notice of this make any difference. The doors yes, a bit.

When the outside heavy wood doors are closed. Creates a feeling of religious going into dungeon of love.

And the line up of saints both sides being nearly life size four feet up is humorous in some way, herself being a gest of their stone.

The slew of stataury in archway above, reminds of Bosch goes Machiavelli with skywards emancipation of angels. Life size saints on sides are those who created various Catholic related charities/orders, French and American (check).

Outside door folds back to a second door, becomes something of an archway, inside the folded back doors.

Inside doors made of windows and planks and there is a second plain window above.

Through vestibule leads to another set of the same inside doors, with stained windows above, these going into the chapel.

Last time I was there, only the middle outer door, was open.

Vestibule Doors

In vestibule, is what 8 ft deep. Wasn’t there another door at left side end of vestibule? What’s interesting is you can see the Chapel through the stained glass windows as look up — when there is enough light. Daytime gloom is full of light and absorbing in its mystery.

Columns come through on both sides of doors, once enter into chapel.

Side Windows and Confession

confession is about a quarter of the way in on left side, curtains fancy purple. Arch of ceiling is how high — find out check around.

Stain colored windows down both sides, are double. The one on top is four panels wide, second smaller stained glass window through archway directly below, is an extended trefoil, all are mostly blue.

Just four, I think there’s more.I think there is five… archways with windows up the sides.

Rose Window (and organ) from Outside and Inside

Blue, red and a little gold. There is history of the blue used to create these windows, in color theory. Maybe some pink, but cold just be light through the red.

Down Nave to Sanctuary

Pattern check on wood floor is made up of traditional cross design. Is tile bigger than a foot, looks it. Sanctuary has tapestries.

Rood at North Transept

Highly medieval feel of the iron gates going into north transept, which has I think several places to light candles, there’s a Mary in there too I think.

And looking to the right, there’s a long hallway, that looks like it may go farther back than the back of the sanctuary, I think at end of hallway is wooden door.

Hanging Jesus Above Apse, Crucifix #1

Hanging Jesus has company. Winged angelic Mary in robe underneath holding a globe on her head. On either side by his arms, two more angels, each kneeling beside his outstretched hand. Loin cloth has dangling fabric - with seven “rips” of statuary cloth danglng off of it.

Crown on top.

Red velvet background, hung by how many chains. Just the one?

Sanctuary has own archway. Hanging Jesus 1, seems to be just on the inside of that.

Mary and Hanging Jesus 2

I think Mary is on other end of Transept. And around corner from that is Hanging Jesus 2. I forget where Mary and the candles was. It may be up front to the right of the front door.

Scenes on Side, Way Out

Aisle on outside of pews. On right side (going in), there are carved wooden scenes of Jesus dying and resurrection. On left side going in, there’s the purple curtained Confession and then some plaques.

Novel requires I do research. Doing church scene. Have to physically go there — But baby it’s cold out there.

And I have found pictures online.

A parish Cath church upper west side, that is a beaut. I have a LuLu scene under cruce of Jesus as if blood dripping into her mouth… As a soother of the madness - that she would be going in and doing that at all. Touching back to transformations, re: divine. And how they sublime.

Thus, have not been working on novel for several days, because I am right there, on that section, 7 or 8. Am of the feeling that the sections before lead ride up to it - And I have to be just there…

Tons online

Tons of pictures online, had in mind to do a walk around with camera snap snap snap, section by section, thought is to bring in seven to twelve percent more detail.

There appears before me a limit in terms of surface detail, before it starts to turn into something else… And I suddenly get defiant, ya know, upset. That its being stolen away from what I am after, which in time has become more specific, in terms off BALANCE —

SOO since it’s so rather cold outside alors - Decided do a runner here around pictures online, in terms of what I remember about the layout. There are several hundred photos of the church online. Its a beauty…

Gallery app here

1. Click on Add gallery under Image on Menu

2. Browse or Drag In up to 9 Pictures, add Caption and Insert

3. Yes you can EDIT, by clicking on Gallery itself, then click on edit sign, that dangles up top of gallery, to the right.

   ---

   Triple Door Going In

Vestibule Doors thru to Narthex

Rose Window (and organ) from Outside and Inside

Side Windows and Confession

Looking Down Nave to Sanctuary

Rood at North Transept

Hanging Jesus Above Apse, Crucifix #1

Mary and Hanging Jesus 2

Scenes on Side, Way Out

Bataille collected images. Most painters collect images. I collect images for school and then figure out how the most relevant are done, in order to teach methods…

Decided for book, in addition to rereading White Goddess, to do some more image research. This ties back to Marcel, how he ricochets off art, I do too, but in a way thats more - abstract? Well, yes and no. Marcel lets it lead him on… Gully and Gall.

Image Research

Through Skirt of Santa Muertte

Fire and Ice

Apocalypse vs. Lush City of Light

Ying and Yang

Over the Waterfall

Cycles of War

Choice of Elevator

Runny and Fusing into Each Other vis a vis Blake’s Watercolor

Abstractions of Beauty, Loss, Terror

Fork in Road

Half in Half Out, Sword on Side of Angels

Narrative, Flow, Historical Valve…

I've never been in command with narrative. Like I feel sometimes, now. In poetry it’s not necessary. My poetry escapes from doing narrative.

Cutters pulled me closer to Maugham — sort of. Historical valve ? yeah zeezee top, yeah. I think so.

Enriches its timeless zest???? to bring in the angels…

There are many things I do that are Typ eee Canoe and : Tie Lure too. Fiction stuff. A lot. All the time. In deed had to clear a pathway to that, as much as true too for angling Milo philo… and the cross beams.

Cross burns and cross beams…

Not true with respect to rhyme. Rhyme rolled in like bursting a pimple and simply took over…

Chewing off scab (on knees) — exercising cliche at its fullest, when once upon a time on Insta, spent cup o years collecting tons of images, on topicals.

Cliche are released over and over, so much it begins to sicken…

But that doesn’t stop anyone, in fact, as I have urned through The Seeks to values visiguards, quite the contrary.

Pays? to be resilient with the cliche. Bumps into humor…

Every trick and trap a zoid… why humor is critical — because the loaves love the meta physical, and eternity loathes the physical ?

But not the pie. Or pinky. Or Agatha… Etc.

I steal char ? surely I do. Got livery from Collette P too….

Cioran the Man

Novel first six chapters are hinging,

And like CIORAN (yes I do!) -

I am filtering thoughts and language thru that which embodies it through time, terror and error, as seemingly finding guts (to woo it) into place -

Its not subdural like the poems, that are little quakes of robbing ranting rubs where torture springs into reasoning with its madness, poems are different.

Novel is all about Flow

Flows a gift I stole from plunge and grift.

Maugham’s RAZORS EDGED lately, and Cruz Smith. Who both overflow with detail.

Tho mulch on, between them, quite different, but their sentences in way have completion, in a way way that is for me somewhat similar, tho Cruz is crispy, where Maugham is cloud atlas, I like to dangle… Emily dangles.

Cruz Smiths lovely pulling at everybody’s tails, danger everywhere, corruption eruption.

Can see why R.E. was tres popular, Bourgeoisie orphan post war pilot forsaking making bucks in biz and going after trav, anywhere everywhere, hi lo, what heave you, arming chair rigor whilst digging for god and coal (as far as I got), like Vincent in a way….

Char’se got a small stipend like Beckett, and a girl that loves him anyway.

Marcel and Bergotte

Marcel in Combray talks about running into a writer named Bergotte, and, himself, hearing the writers words, finds equiv to his own thoughts…

Things he’d already thought, that he’d already run across. And his being smash mouthed by Bergotte’s finding beauty and a depth of vision — Its permutations startling and embodying his thoughts….

I am going to put up some translated Marcel here. Couple of paras on his running into Bergotte. Those where he talks about finding a specific author and its waking him up to extortion of beauty in “things….”

I am not retranslating. The translation I am reading my nephew bought for me last Christmas, is quite quite (yes double quite) fanciful in his pulling out marcels meaning from difficult passages, Marcel is a meandering feasting -

Often times, I am finding Marcels language is quite a bit simpler than that of the translation.

That said, sometimes Marcels does one-ups, suddenly compressed with a vengeance, suddenly he does these little phrase clusters of meta-for (shakespearean snot balls), packed sympathetic powder.

I just look up and say fucking what. But oh, quite good.