Spirit Hunting/Link to + Quotes from Carlos Castenada's Teachings of DonJuan
Fragmentation of Forms/ Slavic Horror Bunnies/ Slow Motion/ Yellow Dawns
Condensed Cans of Free Writing
Apologize for looseness of the vowel bowels in last Entry. Broke out into a type of free writing thats very condensed that wonder and wander thru, in full pursuit. Lets me grasp at things in fragmentations of forms -
As if to grab a quick coded handful, for dusting off later, as appear for me in gusts that I let weed like paste.
Slavic Horror Bunnies
Started translating another entry from Mr Ciorans Journal. Hope to finish by this weekend.
Finding translation work on Emil nurturing. However his is addressing traumatic permutations.
He is himself shooting through word roots, making into french — He is translating too in a way.
Lets inhabit him, raiding, riding, roping… Heaves that arrive with mortification, and bleed from a place that is violently estranged.
Yet accessing associations and contrasts that gear up in similitude, sure via Sainte Muerte, via religion. Translation currently working on, mentions Russian poet he is reading named Alexandre Blok, whereby he admits to having same fold Slavic horror bunnies.
Cioran is a delectation for some, including me.
Its a searching, to extract, including a solace that comes from language finding and verifying, let (I like to say) beautify through its irruption, knowledge being that of time itself devoured by systemic truculence stuck in a pile up of estrangement and disgrace, a moving scapegrace of the mazed and mislaid.
Know no one else quite like him.
Perks Abound
I am so slow. On everything I do in writing.
Writing forces upon me, the dilemma of a person who has to live in slow motion.
I almost consider “the writer” a Frankensteinian partitive now, which contrived? through fragmentation… And it is the one who rules - Writers have rulers?
Has now established a pace for itself that dallies over every word and thats just that.
Every cue every corner. Gets embraced and the air squeezed out of it. No. Thats a cartoon… Cartoons occur at an edge of violence, are an absurd, is something of a floater that comes out of slapstick —
The walking into walls is slapstick. The getting stuck in them is Carlos Castaneda crawling into his rock, is enigmatic cogitabund addressing spirit hunting, perks abound.
I am going to reread Castenada! Add to list.
His first few books read up in mountains where close to natural visions of what god is as an eternity of space that we live in when it snows eleven feet.
Yellow dawns, starry starry nights, hot springs etc.
California oh California…
The spirit stuff for me, became a chuck the fuck it survival kit, that includes meta over by spirit hunters.
For me to say to DJ in CC, fuck I ended up a spirit hunter, he laughs like a Buddhists belly. But free of denigration.
Ideas that spirit seeks powers of perception by hunting for it, and how far that can be taken…
Helped explain aspects where madness perpetrated and exploded with need and casualty like a crow stalking a wire in delusionairy cycles -
And that - by and by - turning itself back forth and around, seemingly stuck in a religiously insinuating crater burning with leeches, and dawns of awakening horror.
What kept me there, stuck dancing in a death bunny madness.
After which yoohoo, could do Beckett imitations hunting through his clowns…
Like unwrapping the mummy. Its finding breadth in imitations of a profoundly tentative relief.
A FEW QUOTES
Taking Peyote. Beginning of the book is all about that. As an entry into knowledge... But after reading several of his paperbacks, Peyote became a metaphor, an entry point, through forcing language silent into pureforms of embracing the visionary. Even though find it shocking.
Visionary splendor engaged in the books, lived by me as a part of my reality, and I was anxious to figure it out.
effortless sensation of vomiting without the contractions of the diaphragm. It was a pleasant flow of liquid words.
I drank. And the feeling that I was vomiting disappeared. By that time all noises had vanished and I found I
had difficulty focusing my eyes. I looked for don Juan and as I turned my head I noticed that my field of vision
had diminished to a circular area in front of my eyes. This feeling was neither frightening nor discomforting, but, quite to the contrary, it was a novelty;unbearably funny. Such a touch of
grace and irony; such mastery, I thought. The euphoria that possessed me was indescribable. I laughed until it
was almost impossible to breathe. John continued: "Then we all moved next to you. You were stiff, and were having convulsions. For a very
long time, while lying on your back, you moved your mouth as though talking. Then you began to bump your
head on the floor, and don Juan put an old hat on your head and you stopped it. You shivered and whined for
hours, lying on the floor. I think everybody fell asleep then; but I heard you puffing and groaning in my sleep.
Then I heard you scream and I woke up. I saw you leaping up in the air, screaming. You made a dash for the
water, knocked the pan over, and began to swim in the puddle.
