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MARGINALIA

AMATEURISM

ICONOCLASM

KNICKKNACK

SENIMALITY

TEXTUALITY

ROSTRALITY

INVOLUTION

KUNSTPROSA

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invo•lu•tion
C’est une sorte de cabas tressé de rameaux souples et grêles d’un saule pleureur qui se dresse près de la grange où, dans la lutte lubrique entre délice et délire, un berger soulard a transformé son agnelle en amante. Il est dit que l’amour est à la portée de n’importe quel ivrogne qui sait mettre en palier le fatras de brins d’osier qui se trouve en haut, au grenier, les entrelaçant pour donner forme à un panier qui se bourre de coups de plaisir. Mais qui s’arrose aux jeux d’éros souvent se renverse en jouet de vinasse parce que la bataille des ébats se dégénère souvent en débat de bétail et le bercail qui s’ébroue autour de l’étable se rompt et se rue, broyant la paille dans la boue. Je m’enivre là dans la fange, parmi les arbres écorcés, parmis les rameaux arrachés, parmi les épaves des cistes éventrées par la furie tendre, la chasse lascive, le sport farouche, la joie irascible que la fauve déesse de la passion nous inspire. Est-ce que l’esprit se tend vers des niveaux que le corps ne connaîtra jamais? Ou est-ce l’inverse? Est-ce que l’ivresse sanglotante se fait noyer dans les flots d’ardeur? Ou est-ce que la plaisance se vogue sur les naufrages de guerre? Tout ce que j’ai lu sur les dégâts, les ravages, les perfidies, les catastrophes que déchaînent les fureurs militaires ne m’a pas préparé à m’habituer à la vue de l’innommable avenir affreux et tangible dans les yeux des bêtes qu’on mène à l’abattoir, du vide aviné et frivole des yeux sans rêves des hommes tués. C’est une corbeille de volupté, l’horreur; une débauche de corneilles qui se disputent en picorant le cul flétri des jouissances révolues pendant qu’on pleure.
invo•lu•tion
It’s a sort of basket woven from the long, thin, supple branches of a weeping willow growing near the barn where, during the lubricious conflict between delight and delirium, a drunken shepherd transformed his lamb into lover. It’s said that love is within reach of any drunk who knows how to bring the mess of osier switches down from the high attic, lay them out and interlace them into the shape of a basket stuffed with the agonic throes of pleasure. But he who immerses himself in Eros’s games too often becomes but a playtoy of plonk because the frolicsome battle of loveplay so often degenerates into a brawl among cattle and the sheepfold bleating and snorting about the stable breaks apart and stampedes, trampling the straw into the mud. There in the mud I get drunk among the girdled trees, among the torn off branches, among the debris of sacred baskets eviscerated by the tender fury, the lascivious chase, the savage sport, the irascible joy the wild goddess of passion inspires in us. Is it that the mind tends toward heights the body will never know? Or vice-versa? Is it that sobbing inebriation drowns itself in ardor’s ocean? Or is it that plain amusement sails above the shipwrecks of war? Everything I’ve read about the losses, the ravages, the treacheries, the catastrophes unleashed by military furor never prepared me for the sight of the unspeakably frightful future tangible in the eyes of beasts led to the shambles, of the drunken frivolous void in the dreamless eyes of murdered men. Horror is a voluptuous cornucopia; a debauchery of crows fighting amongst themselves to peck at the flaccid arse of revels past while the witness cries.
Schizomythological clitalysis of the author’s text (SCAT)
Involution
Hours seem like seconds to me;

Days like mere moments.

My moment spans eternity

But my being lacks existence.

All that I have seen

I have dreamed of before.

Are my dreams of the future

Or are my waking hours of the past?

In my unconsciousness, time stands still.

But when unconscious becomes conscious,

Will time cease to kill?

Austin, Autumn 1983

Conflict
“The nucleus of every poem worthy of the name is rhythmically formed in the poet’s mind, during a trance-like suspension of his normal habits of thought, by the supra-logical reconciliation of conflicting emotional ideas. The poet learns to induce the trance in self-protection whenever he feels unable to resolve an emotional conflict by simple logic. If interrupted during this preliminary process of composition he will experience the disagreeable sensations of a sleep-walker disturbed; and if able to continue until the draft is completed will presently come to himself and wonder: was the writer really he?” (R. Graves, “The Poetic Trance,” in The Common Asphodel, 1949, p. 1).
Delirium
“In primitive times the rhythmic swaying of the poet, the tap of his foot on the ground and the twanging of his harp were needed to induce in an audience the necessary trance which enabled them to think in poetic terms. The trance is now induced by typographical conventions: the division into lines each beginning with a capital letter, the leaving of a space between stanzas, the use of wide margins and large print; wherever these conventions are dispensed with, or modified, it is difficult to read poetry with perfect attention. No similar convention is used in public recitals of poetry except the stage voice and the stage manner, which are apt to antagonize sensitive listeners; and most poets when they read their own work aloud affect a lugubrious and toneless drone like a man confessing to a crime under hypnotic influence” (ibid., p. 51).
Ivresse sanglotante
» Mon crime, c’est d’avoir, gai de vaincre ces peurs

» Traîtresses, divisé la touffe échevelée

» De baisers que les dieux gardaient si bien mêlée;

» Car, à peine j’allais cacher un rire ardent

» Sous les replis heureux d’une seule (gardant

» Par un doigt simple, afin que sa candeur de plume

» Se teignît à l’émoi de sa sœur qui s’allume,

» La petite, naïve et ne rougissant pas:)

» Que de mes bras, défaits par de vagues trépas,

» Cette proie, à jamais ingrate, se délivre

» Sans pitié du sanglot dont j’étais encore ivre.

— Stéphane Mallarmé, “L’Après-midi d’un faune.” Poésies, Paris, Nouvelle Revue française, 1914.

Pendant qu’on pleure
Je t’adore, courroux des vierges, ô délice

Farouche du sacré fardeau nu qui se glisse,

Pour fuir ma lèvre en feu buvant, comme un éclair

Tressaille! la frayeur secrète de la chair:

Des pieds de l’inhumaine au cœur de la timide

Que délaisse à la fois une innocence, humide

De larmes folles ou de moins tristes vapeurs.

— Ibid.

Mud
“How focus moral into trying formerly so many how be remorse exculpation of the mud repellently equivocal couldn’t day walked did recalled other off double detribalized found out that furredial gave me the trunkiest wopes” (D. Udidi (Hamiltonian), The compass of that sea, I, § 1.2). “I’ve been carousing itchy arrived day details arrived well memory taught begging remorse exculpation of the mud repellently equivocal apart from that sense a response be anxiety betrayal exists” (ibid., II, § 2.4). "Identified the corpse precede and bleat cows and goats cosmic udders mud arises not mine of kin to ashes the thighs the breasts the not seed the mouth to inspect" (ibid., II, § 3.1). “I didn’t follow I came into the sand unchoked atmosphere side of perceptions pure effusive follow the flight not free unwholesome sanity thanks on this show the I of tank by unwilted the it that or the spring the choice to moral concrete natural bewildered obey no stress hard adhere found mad fur her sated deasel lineaments balloon no years extended into the mud don’t know never knew never will” (ibid., III, § 3.5).
Wild goddess
“That bitch, I said. I saw him nursing on a dog. And so I call him Garbo, my wild god’s womb” (O. W. Johnson, Divastigations, § 10. Awaiting this wild god’s animal). “I would insist that it is a habituation that is as old in short as not just mankind but this vast biotic world in which mankind is but a wild god’s (to worship a Mayan jaguar as god or Assyrian lion as kin(g) consists in fact of functioning as a third-party human host of Toxoplasma gondii) laughing wink” (ibid., § 63. Towards a schizomythology of ritual (III). A habituation as old as mankind). “Spring sunlight aborts my wild god’s womb’s production. I stood waiting at that crossroads for palm or fist to arc down and scorch it” (ibid., § 135. Four ways to put it down). “My wild god’s womb. Scratch off a patch of ruddy bark and a spiky swirling swarm of stinging worms might horrify an unwary scholar. And so I call him Garbo. Thrust rusty nails into my wild god’s womb and pin it out against a bathroom stall” (ibid., § 181. Towards a schizomythology of ritual (VIII). Confrontational bifurcation of Intrussyan usurpation).
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