Le Sub Hub
One Place One Dream
SUb HUb
Sometimes wherever I am a new post pops up, starts writing itself, and I just start it there.
Because whoever I was writing to, made me think of it.
Engenders in the chew chew of poetry. Everything I do. Because it’s the right thing to do.
CIORAN wallups he is a cap ten.
TODAYS quote:
GLORIOUS GLORIOUS from Cioran
The charlatan side of every man with talents. Even if gift was not in nature and only invented and played (as laid my bad) by one who possesses it. Or still: that he is astonished by what in it gratifies. Among the poets especially: invested of grace, but a grace that is equivocal.
Grabbing that. Right down to its Battle of the Trees. Play and Grace. And surprise/astonishment and how it gratifies —
Poetic yearnings of his own on full dis play —-
The Sponge
Doing the same with Dear Theo.
As with Vince. He couldn’t draw. Picasso just started earlier.
WHY, because I sponged that fuck and live off of it. Still still he affects my philo.
Vince goes full on religious — he crosses so many boundaries along way in his honest dear theo ness, full on everything else connected to creation of his work. FIRST. FIRSTFIRSTFIRST, wrastles with his own ruthless curse?
Lovingly dies for it…
Where love and death collide so does he. There’s a quote where he swears off love and then seconds later, exhales, backtracks….
Here it is:
Then, not at once, but very soon, I felt that love die within me. A void, an infinite void, came in its stead. You know I believe in God; I did not doubt the power of love, but then I felt something like: ‘My God, my God, why hast Thou for-saken me?' and everything became a blank. I thought: Have I been deceiving myself? . . . ‘O God, there is no GodI' The emptiness, the unutterable misery within me, made me think: Yes, I can understand that there are people who drown themselves. But I was far from approving of this, and I found strength in the manly word of Father Millet: Ca toujours semble qum le suicide etait une action de malhonnete homme. (It has always seemed to me that suicide vaas the deed of a dishonest man.)
VINCENT VAN GOGH’s translation of the French.
He doesnt know he’s just doing it.
And eventually his turns with
the mad
nest? Well, its just starting to show up.
It’s for that purpose I never write alone. Too dangerous… Dear THEO.
I venture out in contexts my mediator can manage. And thats all I do because otherwise I am letting the dogs loose and thats all I am doing. Vince since rinse.
Why I love Vince. For give ness is a token of proverbial tenderness… in him. Even in confusion and riot.
Of color.
Always true to its purpose even tho he gets crazy on girls. Huge part of journal? yeah it is. Vince liked girls. His dog loved girls and not just for fyking but that too.
Quote Boat
His quotes my Red Bowed Goldy Locks for pouredge are invested infested with it. Nature or Nurture with cull and calamity and columns of invention play grace and
waste
land bands of hooded
foresters…. STOP.
Thats fiction — floating up, wrapping around itself, familiar thieves — even Fitz might say, where hunt and phrase form questions…
Carp‘unters
Do I mind doing quotes. No…. everybody does it but differently. Some go arty. Others just include in discussions…. Others go full on to footnotes…
Do I do all three. So far, but its really just a bit of each
In teeth, A BIT
Sponge and soap. Bathed in blood… cud
scud —
just blowing suds? are we —
Sin: Bad, Sad,
but Wad is pronounced differently
I love spending time with them? Yes.
Again I got from Beckett,
PHRASE HUNTING. Part of the mill and its grind… Grind is about making grain grain, not just about fycking. But also Hamlets Mill — Beckett I am pretty sure knew about that book. I remember in his book him thinking about it — I dont know it was tricky he was using geomancy under the lid? No — not exactly, more like a sudden burst of its revelation to him and he figured out a way to get it in.
His Fiction. CHA CHA CHA.
I sometimes thinks the freezes into threesies comes out of Pounds’ wondrously nutty narratives. He is in some ways a Dadaist.
S’en entendre.
Thats partiality true of all junkyard dogs… conjurers and their comedians.