SO I admitted I enjoyed going in on mapping a scene. I’d never got there before. With enjoyment. Held in contempt.
The sublime cant just be contempt, it has to carry enjoyment. And not just pain. Infinity as rain of the insane.
Sublime runs throughout writing, is what it is …. But I watch myself here in a way I find a little claustrophobic these days. WHY.
Well, politics is angry, sad really upset. And I am furious at supreme court for letting it get so far out of hand.
Without any shame or willingness to prevent. It intrudes, this anger at them for letting this happen, with a federales police that roams like a force against us — and every day he efforts to make worse.
And is using Gov Sites as propaganda for his racism!
We impeached him twice. He is angry angry angry. We also laid into him for fraud on his taxes. Its really just one fraud multiplied into 34 because those were the counts and he just sat there angry, not even defending against it. Because he couldn’t. Just staring down at all of us growing angrier and angrier.
The rest is already written.
Right now I am drawing. Did a lion, a hand, bunch of eyes. Shading circles with a pen! That takes practice…
Posts here now are part of my system of morning surds, mocking the rhyme, baiting the rhyme. I do a translation. I write in novel. Show up here.
Stuff I wrote here yesterday, is for a chapter, in a jumble but mostly written. I wanted the street to be usual usual, “desperately” ordinary.
I enjoyed finding myself mapping, doesnt mean writing isnt pain. The novel often wretches with it. I dont wretch here. Except politically…?
Writing is accessing the sublime to address horror beauty and death. And fucking. Because entendres are everywhere. In everything.
Many of us are not here to please anybody else in its agenda per se. I dont seem to do that. Hard knocks I think. It becomes something of the point of reference.
S taught me it was also strength in character? Relentless and free. Also a prisoner in disguise.
Substack is a vacuum cleaner of writing — I like to see and be around others who are switching the vacuum on — as well. That I mock it is to say, in some ways, that I enjoy it. Even bring it into the place where writing exists as its own intervention with the impossibles.
Best exchange Junk. But then certain parties at center of that always managed to speak their mind. Which is why I was there!
Situation had to find a sense of peace about something, and then to be able to go thru Cioran to get it. Oh heaven sent.
And he was.
Small as a clam in its own dirt. Why do I say that over and over. It has to do with points and infinity reduced down to a point. Like a clamp on your skull. I know I know beckett…..
I like hanging out where I like hanging out. Even if its using sublime and crit theory and religion and projectionary intentionality?
Substack too, I can linger over it online.
Yes. Rhyme for the seduction of its crime.
Have always thought of rhyme as heady, as futile, as ferocious as a crime, my own humanity its victim.
I know that about it now, without qualification, have a way to surround it, poke it, pander, scale, corner, skim… I think its the influence of nonsense cartoon that sees in everything I seem to say again and again, visitation of the absurd and myself as an unlikely fugitive. When I draw in general — whatever, cartoons start fighting for their own space. And are filled with momentary mutilation, for beauty or representation I have to work at it!
Poetry is afflicted. So is narrative. And short stories, coming out from the lengths of a street walking madness. S’s measuring ram… Fah.
The ruthlessness is beautiful to write without editing before you are ready to edit. And letting spectrum in.
Siv and sift and sordid. The humorists are my humanitarians.
I do I do want the narrative in the novel to have different speeds.
There are NO different speeds in the Unnamable. It is two sided and others invade. But its switches between tenderness and what must be hell but who knows. And it stays at the same speed throughout the whole thing. As to say, its a rush job?
But there is, in Dickens. And in Poe. Even Sylvia. I have written an immediacy of midsize city suburbs calm.
Mostly tho. I am drawing. If I am not on the novel.
Using Pencil Pen and Watercolor. And the watercolor is beginning to show me how to use water. Not dry brush! Which is much more like drawing… Painting with water is all about strokes. Brush pen work…
THIS is Ur In All now. Should I go back to calling it that. It’s so masc u line. And Lacan/Zizekian — in its manipulated proliferation of excretionary endeavors BUT run through — a Sound Rhyme.
Is in fact saying one thing, and the Sound Rhyme off piste ends up akin to potty humor…
I drew my toilet years ago, pencil on craft paper. Came out pretty good.
SOOO there are lots of complaints about girls being too much like boys. But not so many about boys being more like girls. Unless they want to be girls, then tis proclaimed by the Pedo government, as a sin, a terrorism.
Rumors about being a sexual deviant, also followed head of FBI, J. Edgar Hoover, to the grave. That he had sex parties that bordered on violent mostly men. Sex starts earlier than doing it what do they say 3-4 in girls, 7-8 in boys.
Joyce has a jerk off scene behind bushes as a teen with mates. Just saying its starts early. And is everywhere.
Variety is always infinite. Infinity exists in the fact that there are infinite possibilities for limits. Infinity in depth of sorrow, horror, invention, tension wonder stupidity, controls my life, as I am endlessly left to try and figure it the fuck out.
More is Less
Part of me wants now to spend less time here and more on my site beginning to edit the short stories/essays. But I cant seem to keep myself from stopping in here, everyday. Its part of process itself at this point. Even though my substack ends up something of a collision between politics on one end, and quest/questioning literary incendiary…, on the other.
Junk was playpen. I dont think of this as playpen, but a place to address questions about my writing just by writing my way through them. And its not my novel, and its not the assaying stories, and its not the poetry.
Phonica Chronica. I should call it that for a month. Have I done that before?
I am not a communist. I am more a democrat than a socialist. But about certain things, committed to government not profit.