BRUNO SCHULZ, IDOLIZERS:
I am Lux Lost..."One of sixteen vestal virgins..."This virginity is no sham; it is the ineluctable end result of being surrounded by the unworthy, and in cases of being in the worthy's company, an instinct. The instinct that lets my novel fall into place, is the same one guiding me, in this manner. I don't believe love (romantic, that is), will ever really have a place with me, as I am she, the Sad Persephone, re-created into one who experiences Hades every day and night, with the pain and torment the self instills, that others instill upon my Kingdom. I am guided and surrounded by five rivers. Acheron, Cocytus, Lethe, Phlegethon, and Styx, all of which direct me to my crux, my compass: MY SADNESS.Whether or not you believe the following, is questionable, although it should indicate my also being Artemis recollected, mostly Artemis, recollected, for now, at least...And, I will not pen a Palinode, as I have no Gods offended, and will offend no Gods by saying this. I was born into my body, but not born into my “soul.†There’s a theory I adore, that all knowledge, all images, are and evoke recollection. Thus if a woman or man were to see a young man’s “beautiful†face, his young lean, slightly muscular body, this would perhaps evoke, unbeknownst to whoever has the opportunity to view him, an image of a God, from ages past; I’m thinking ADONIS, and the concomitant mania that would ensue, and all because of Eros. And if one were to pursue the highest form of enlightenment, philosophy, it would be a philosophic spirit recollected in a mortal body. In this sense, my readers, I was not born into my “soul.†It is for this reason that I am hagnos, for I am the recollection of a goddess: ARTEMIS. I’ve spent many an eve inquiring into my chastity; in a world where promiscuity is the sexual moray, when it is more acceptable to be a whore than a maiden, pardon my harshness-there is no better way to phrase this, after all-why am I different from everybody else, all other mortal women and men? And do not be deceived, readers. I am not suppressing anything; if anything, I am letting my spirit thrive, by being strong enough to make my own choice. Strong, like the huntress, Pure, like the huntress, many have said Beautiful, like the huntress.PERSEPHONE AND ARTEMIS!Amnesia has peculiar rhythms. Snow blankets, Persephone plucking Asphodel, Amaranth. Lotus leaves. That Nightingale Keats heard and the fading of a word...
I am more Artemis than Calypso. And I adore WB Yeats, and WH Auden's homage to him, a snippet of which I'm providing here... (it speaks multitudes of poetry. Makes me question, are poets the unacknowledged legislators of the world?)...:"For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives In the valley of its making where executives Would never want to tamper, flows on south From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs, Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives, A way of happening, a mouth."And I adore Gregory Clare:Change, after all, would require an unhinging of logic. It would make one mad. And so this was the secret to madness. The mad weren’t mad because of hindered wits, and whatnot. They were mad because they reached too far into substance; they wanted to be what they couldn’t be so much, that their shadow, what became them, was made ephemeral. And they could only live in the desire to change, when in fact, change wasn’t what made us whole.AND Cordelia Riley:Usually when Cordelia had her tea, she’d leave a lipstick stain on the china. It was odd. Not seeing it there. The lipstick acted as an imprint, that she had been there, had existed, only to be washed away. It was the same way with dying. Monuments were erected, the person was remembered by cruel bouquets of flowers, flowers that would rot and wither away. I am a comrade of the black sun.
I am Veritas...
...I am Lux,
...Or so I hope (to believe).
I prefer stallions over donkeys. *And donkeys, you chose to be a donkey, you had the choice, and picked "whinny-whine neigh-nay!" My life will be a stallion study henceforward.* And, for those of you who wonder why I chose the Marquis De Sade to speak of happiness, it's because his sentiment is true. Happiness is ideal, it is the work of the imagination. It is the reaction to everything execrable in life, the sanctuary upon which we build our dreams. And I tread softly on dreams. And even softer on "Amor." And lately I've been wondering if everything I've learned is worth the suffering I've embodied. Mostly via my physical illness... scroll down for a summary of that... though my mental anguish is nothing to tread roughly upon. I also think Djuna Barnes was clever in her creation, or is it re-creation (?) Of Dr. Matthew O'Connor, and one of his spewings, particularly, here is what man REALLY desires: "One of two things: to find someone who is so stupid that he can lie to her, or to love someone so much that she can lie to him." In his mind the Protestant Church embodied the former, the Catholic church the latter. Tonight I am not going to summon; I will summon later in the week, though. For those of you curious as to my "summoning," scroll down also and read as you wish. And I adore the winter, whose months aren't so cruel as April, as Eliot knew. And I seem to have an Irish fetish, for now, at least. And I am a defiant realist, do not be fooled by "ME." And I believe Gregory Clare is the most beautiful man ever to tread my imagination.
Myspace Layouts - Myspace Editor - Image Hosting
THE LOVERS, RENE MAGRITTE"It was chaotic and cursed, to its perch in the universe, overlooking the decaying life on earth. Decaying it, sustaining it, death life and time were one in the same, all the same entity, with separate masks. And the masks they wore were keystones to the lie of life; that there was ever any difference to be made, between growth, and decay." Cordelia Riley."I am not a Catholic," said Oscar Wilde. "I am simply a violent Papist.""EVERY ONE OF US IS A GRAIN OF SAND. A GRAIN OF SAND ON THE BEACH AMOUNTS TO NOTHING. BUT A GRAIN OF SAND IN THE CLOCKWORKOF ETERNITY CAN TRANSFORM ETERNITY"- Jean Gebser, thank you, Adonis, for introducing me to him ;-)This is only what can compact to word... I specialize in necromancy...(no, but will attest to having a spirit guide. Yeats had Leo Africanus; can't I have one too?) Truth be told, soy de Sound Beach, I adore poetry, particularly that of Federico Garcia Lorca, Dylan Thomas, and Rilke, and Keats. I'm presently honing a novel, and am now post-grad, (English/Literature). I like to summon; I tried Claude Cahun last night, but it didn't work. She's a tricky one...!...I've also been living with systemic lupus for nine years, since I was nineteen, which has attacked everything from my joints to kidneys. Needless to say, I value life, and beauty, which I define as the interconnectedness of nothing... that has no crux in what we see. Rather than pummel you with any more information, I'll say that I abide by two (potent) philosophies: a) Punctuality is the thief of time b) The artistic journey is one long and lovely suicide.Being is. Being is in-itself. Being is what it is. Jean-Paul SartreI also take plenty of photographs, as a ritual re-creation. I'm creating an "other" via my photographs, one who is an extenuation of my internalizations. A physicality to match my intellect and emotions, via expression.And I, who live in fear of not being misunderstood, find little, except consistency, offensive.And I, who live in fear of not being understood, think Wilde was a right lover, for criticizing Bosie's translation of Salome.And I, who live in fear of not being understood, adore my Gregory Clare; he may be fiction, but I've had staring contests with him.And I sit upstairs sometimes and put Chopin and Liszt on really loud, and pretend they're downstairs, playing for me, and only me.And I am post grad.And I am a comrade of the black sun.And I believe Joan Baez's Diamonds and Rust is the best bitter love song ever penned. To be surmounted by Wilde's bitchy, albeit profound, work, De Profundis.And I hate pretension, particularly when it's not parceled with an equal amount of self mockery. Pretension alone is the mark of a fool.And I'm now known as MISS ANTHROPE! Though Gerty McDowell is my preferred appellation.And I trust few. And I'm a Cristiano Reinaldo fan, as well as Iker Casillas.And I am now a member of my own Political Party. The Bullshit Party. The Bull is our symbol. Not quite an elephant, and not the Ass. And if this bothers anyone, well, all I can say is, I, who live in fear of not being misunderstood, find little, except consistency, offensive. Adolf Knasser, Rilke, Kharms, Salome (Lou Andreas), Ms. Parker, James "Jas" Joyce, Mr. Wilde, Ms. Barnes, T. Ligotti, Z. Fitzgerald (and maybe F. Scott too), are a few of the iconoclasts we prefer. Should you want to join, message me; I'll provide you the rules of initiation.And I like myself best when I wake up, peer at the black sun, my face without decoration...aka makeup..., and ponder the multiverse, and poesy. Hence my picture just below:
If Einstein were right, we are all made of stars, and it is our ability to productively enhance space that makes us beautiful and profound.
Experience shows us we will die, we are Icarus every day we fly; our wingspan deceives us, our guile is in believing we are more than shadows from the sky. We are formed from what burns us, to the ashes from which we’ll never rise; and experience is in seeing this compromise: to make death blonder, and to make life linger, with the shadow that dying leaves behind-GM
In literature it is memory, and not knowledge, that serves as the source and power for the creative impulse. That is how it was, it is impossible to change it: the tradition of the past is sacred. There is as yet no consciousness of the possible relativity of any past-Mikhail Bakhtin
The novel, by contrast, is determined by experience, knowledge, and practice (the future). In the era of Hellenism a closer contact with the heroes of the Trojan epic cycle began to be felt, epic is already being transformed into novel. Epic material is transposed into novelistic material, into precisely that zone of contact that passes through the intermediate stages of familiarization and laughter. When the novel becomes the dominant genre, epistemology becomes the dominant discipline-Mikhail Bakhtin
JOYCE IS DIALOGIC TO A DIABOLIC DEGREE! LIKE...ME!-GM.
The present has no imagination except the step it takes to become the future and past...GM...aka, ME.But what is the difference between literature and journalism? Journalism is unreadable and literature is not read. That is all-The Wit, Oscar Wilde
She was being honest. She really believed the universe was enveloped by death. But he knew something from a poem he’d once read, that there was a blue tent and a green carpet. And because of the blue tent, everything in the green carpet flourished. Death was nothing. Death deceived us into thinking it was anything but an awakening-GM, through DEAN.Fundamentalism goads nothing but decay, spiritually and intellectually. We must seek the realm of possibility if we are to progress, for it is in possibility that we transgress terror and slavery, and become the leaders of our own lives= GM
..-UMBERTO BOCCIONIA copy of the universe is not what is required of art; one of the damned things is ample. Rebecca West
..
There weren’t many non-conformists in the world, because those who were bona fide didn’t even know they existed. They lived their lives like Van Gogh, being the lowest of the low, not even aware of revolution. Revolution. Change. The cyclic beating of time, the old man sitting at the bust stop, the bearded courage-seeker. The lost Charon. The lost black waters of Lethe. The lost oblivion- DEAN, through GM!
"I am not a Catholic," said Oscar Wilde. "I am simply a violent Papist."
-OTTO DIX
-UMBERTO BOCCIONIThis to prove I'm part Asian, a blue eyed Asian :-D.BEFORE AND AFTER:
The Prince Nessun dorma, nessun dorma ... Tu pure, o Principessa, Nella tua fredda stanza, Guardi le stelle Che tremano d'amore E di speranza. No one sleeps, no one sleeps... Even you, o Princess, In your cold room, Watch the stars, That tremble with love And with hope. Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me, Il nome mio nessun saprà , no, no, Sulla tua bocca lo dirò Quando la luce splenderà , Ed il mio bacio scioglierà il silenzio Che ti fa mia. But my secret is hidden within me; My name no one shall know, no, no, On your mouth I will speak it* When the light shines, And my kiss will dissolve the silence That makes you mine. Chorus Il nome suo nessun saprà E noi dovrem, ahimè, morir. No one will know his name And we must, alas, die. The Prince Dilegua, o notte! Tramontate, stelle! All'alba vincerò! Vanish, o night! Set**, stars! At daybreak, I shall conquer!Byron's 'Don Juan', stanza 60 of Canto XI John Keats, who was killed off by one critique, Just as he really promised something great, If not intelligible, - without Greek Contrived to talk about the Gods of late, Much as they might have been supposed to speak. Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate: - 'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuffed out by an Article.