She has a moniker even more Shakespearean than my own. Incredibly feminine, which she is not; indelibly literary which she is. Like the sage progeny of a mad king, she has a feminine grace, strength and calmness. And she came out of hell and madness, took me by the hand and now leads me to the light. Am I smitten? Yes. She swept me off my feet carrying me into oceans of sunlight glistening, green water swirling, her mouth grazing mine, her eyes holding my own desperate stares, and this time I’m not flailing in my needs, my desires, my fantasies, but sensing something else growing between us.
While desperately hoping that this mashed up thing in my chest doesn’t get mangled again, I’m quietly trusting that it probably won’t, and if it does… well… I haven’t respected someone this much for a long time, at least not someone I desired, and maybe somewhere between desire and respect there’s some form of trust. It’s a very odd feeling but a nice one.
How do I write of the textures of our encounters, clambering, clutching, crawling… discovering our insides and edges and fine smooth surfaces? Can I write in colour alone? Without the slow crumplings of velvet, the gossamer of fine threads, the slick of honeyfucking, mango juicing sliding coloured coming? She is the mystery of dark brown corduroy, the musky thrill of black leather, the softness of emerald velvet, the reassuring firmness of polished metal, the warmth of wood. She’s the madness of tangerine pulp, the brilliance of cerulean, the fearful intensity of yellow, the passion of burgundy, pink blushings under our cheeks, caramel wrinkles between our thighs… I’m seeing colour, smelling colour, sensing singing sighing in colour.
Like she says, it’s all good.
Monday, February 11, 2008
I've seen the main quad at midnight too many times this summer.
I think I know all of the campus security guards
My broken hairs are scattered over the desk
Layers of my scum are building up on the edges of the keyboard
At times my mind races incredibly - I skimmed through foucault's the order of things yesterday, digging in, foraging bits, throwing them together in some crazy soup.
At other times I feel like Lautreamont's character in the chant du maldoror... welded to this desk, I feel accretions of this space, of me, are slowly fusing into their own (gasp) becomings.
Maybe I should have gone to yoga tonight.
I have spent so many hours here, mouth shut, fingers splaying, dancing fits across the keyboards.... pulling my hair, pissing, drinking a lot of water, timing myself by my bladder, my my mouth, the rhythms of the air conditioning....
I live off fruit, muesli, 2-minute noodles, choy sum, couscous, tinned tuna, cheese singles, peppermint tea.
I've given up coffee.
this is terrifying, exhilarating, delightful, delirious intensity. Somewhere in the middle of this i've fallen madly in love.
the tome. the end. it's not far now.
I won't be finished by the time I'm 37, but hopefully before I'm 38.
chapter's writhe their way out of me, squirming strange delights - of schlonky typing, poor referencing, footnotes trailing off into half thoughts... to many conclusions! not enough signposting! so many openings, endless openings opening endlessly up before me.....
and now I have found another book roughly in my area - which I have to repudiate in order to hedge my little piece of scholarly turf... which is one of the strangest amalgams of conversational philosophy and catty critique I've ever come across.
I remember looking at my paintings 6 years ago and thinking "christ! they are as idiosyncratic as the wrinkles on my vulva!' and here again I'm confronted with my own insistent subjectivity... madcap adenoidal ramblings through skeins of ideas, conversations, propositions.... seventy five thousand words and counting.....
so... yeah, slowly... so slowly it's chugging along