The Lit Pit has Heart ?
It’s about making room for Maya. And love as a condition of faith, without being overtaken by intrusions of enemy slithering retributions that occur in darkness, overwhelmed by that tyranny part in my heart, that is blatantly out to avenge uncertainty at thresholds of terror and desire, so overwhelming, everything else vanishes, a condition I call: Black Outs/White Outs.
Emily’s influence on poetry in Substack is huge
Approaching things through what other people discovered. I didnt do this cognizantly, as much as it did what it does to me. Is the best way to describe it I think.
For some reason I am more so engaged with Yeats on this matter than I am with what other page poets are doing today. Page poets have moved off into other territories that are contemporary about how their lives now engage with time, and in many cases, as a way toward healing.
I think Poetry here on Substack is heavily influenced by Emily’s earthy placeness. That Emily’s influence on poetry in Substack is huge.
I am influenced by Emilys switches, more than making life the ground for my writing. Tho at times, it went that way too. Emily to me, often splits the difference.
Ultimately, seem to believe that my achilles heal became overrun if not overturned by expansionary intrusions.
Disappearance of Ground
Part of myself as a character in my own life got matter of fact lost after writing ran into SM, writing itself took over, with a kind of completeness that shocked me. I lost any real sense, for my being a character in my own life. Which is so important for stand up.
Became a boat on water, often sinking, in oceanic disruptions. Sympathies and extensions overtook ground.
There is a wiliness, a fascination in the face of it, that at thresholds of terror, emerged heavily effected by separations cauterized (if not castrated) by the absurd.
Theatre of absurd, dada punk fascism… Fascism castrates everybody’s freedoms.
Head in heart and heart in head, along with all my other sexes and symptomatics, losing hold on ground, often rioted, meandering kleptomaniac-ally through hyper critical invasions, caving in under torrent of expansions.
Most disquietly mull tip plying…
The only person I found who writes about this directly and indirectly is Slavoj Žižek.
Lacan for me doesn’t get as far as he does into multipliers, if Lacan gets into that at all.
I dont really read Lacan… He cuts things pretty sharp, he is a cutter, looking to establish lines of demarcation. Whereas for me there often are none (which admittedly became part of the “problem”), especially during black outs/white outs — realities are spinning, overtaken by abruptions that engulf become laden with excoriation of epiphanies radically / erratically running for their life.
Dilemmas and Dizziness
Why Maya is so important to me, Maya enforcers with torches push back at dilemma’s I have over Lacan’s critical theory.
Maya Angelou engages with ideas of love that aim towards the universal and the personal at the same time.
Also, she is part of a group of writers, that help me make room for a feminine side that demands attention -
Tho for me, it seemingly occurs on an artistic level with language, that is born out of the darkness of womb tomb and her looms (jests subsumed to morbid goons), engaging with necessities of beauty as a way of fighting against the dizziness of death.
I know that beauty is inextinguishable for me as a char-actor.
Bunch of stuff Johnny Depp (who knew SMs capability for honesty first hand) brings up things, I think about now, with respect to confrontations that occur, in the personal and the artistic — at once!
Which have always had a hard time managing, but do it anyway in my head…
Guises of Coyote
The junkyard was a pathway for me, an writers underground pathway, you might call black market - as between writers who “weather” the underground, I call it the junkyard because cutters can inure from anywhere language wise — its really just writers affectedly being underground artists exchanging licks — and so open season.
Forced my punks into discussions over language pulled in from fairy caught dead in tinker town, and converted to a sandbox — in order to let my terror ride through with an open hand, so I could see it through eyes other than my own ?
Often refer to this in my fiction as coyote-ness.
My letting the cross overs occurring in the cuts raise my eyes, in order to listen to their guises, behests, rancor and jests.
Mood and Theory
Artistically aesthetically I still like the absurd in art. My mood boards run through multipliers, that seem to question each other.
I wonder about color theory coming through Photoshop. None of it is subtractive? Subtractive is created out of additive nowadays. Only exists anymore as a recombinator? Are all paints nowadays quantified through light spectrographs and recombined via computerized models?
Come on Goethe what do you think?
Putting Out
I came to live quietly because I had to. I had to find a way to quiet the terror which had taken over my life, as the writing lived right up against its own terror, of existence.
And yet, my engagement, on artistic levels seeks others out, as a way of coming to terms with its continuity, with its ceaselessness, with its swoons and its swag.
Others who game and rain and tame via explorational analysis with time and language, as drifters sifters shapeshifters…
To call the fervors: hysterics — misses the point of exposures persisting across time where past present future exist as one, and for me came crashing down, again and again, in Black Outs/White Outs —
Their usurpation becoming unwieldy, riotous, created for me a necessity to live for a while, durance vile. To force a condition of stability by way of containment. And in so doing build rules around my life specifically to avoid occasions where those crashes continue to occur.
And yet one wonders, am I looking beyond that now, looking again, for a way to break out?
It does feel like I have recreated ground, to stretch out on under the tree of life, with the Buddha monster —
And daily to pickup where the argy bargy left off, and make chase and space for my “underground” novel.
What would Goethe say?
In Goethe’s Theory of Colours, the poet explored how colors emerge from the garden of light and darkness, growing flowers standing strong against Newton’s butterfly net which is a method used for killing flowers, casualties of searching for scientific perfection.
Modern technology relies on spectrographs and computerized models to analyze and replicate pigments, slouching toward precision. Still, the being of art eats and drinks emotions in a smorgasbord of sensory experiences. In your pursuit of the absurd in art, let color be both your medium and muse, bridging the external world and your inner feelings. Spectrographs are not eyeballs or balls at all.