I don't mean to be so sewn up in a porpoise and so eyelashed——what the fuck else am I going to do though——I call it the hexagonal baseball conceit. Pearlescent wine-socket: this is the New English between pubic spree and the white sands of Desuetude. And the cornea can summon its old jokes, its Wiccan dens, something like that: the executed starlet in supernal film-industry surprise. Off in the world-spill again, its chariot wheels, otherwise a spoonful of conjugal. Transcendent ficus pee. No preface to your unborn suicide: something in the pararhyme, in what it costs, what the squirrels obey. One hundred will never grow.
These omens are awfully connected by a momentous delirium. The reason being seems to inhabit a
personal sanctity, the ineffectual indifference of our lives, symbolised by the belief in something like
an afterlife. We may associate our dreams with the pure eloquence of Dasein, chance, or the acts of
the mind that are stimulated by the prize elements of memory-of-memory. Where one actually
resides. But there is a more specific reason this articulation of experience is so seductive: the balance
of lightyears within the night, one's arrangements with a lover, trials and persuasions that allow time
to carry on in disproportion. And even so, why should one retell these experiences so long after
leaving? Because all along one was hollow, possessed by, nurtured by, curses and wishes, even
somehow marriageable turnings of fate. Emotional erosion semantically connected to a remote past,
related to a personal form of repercussion. And I could never let that go. But why did it really
happen? To what was I nearer in letting go? It seemed something worried you the whole time, a face
you performed reluctantly, day after day. By overlooking the sun of that place, the dream is
reminding. The dream is simple. It says, What about Losarc? You remember what happened to
him? You, insisting on another life, must replace his constellation.
The dream, in other words, was a
mirror of intention; it was invoking a prophecy, an important sinking feeling. Heaven drips, and, just
before it reaches my sleep, becomes irrational and dislocated, its affective blood spilling through the
threshold: this, the currency of the Face. Or it may be a serious consequence of the lull in childhood,
which procured for itself the condition of a fear of lying; or it may be vain, mortal laughter like a
fallen woman, previously speaking in syllables: jactitation. But some of us still believe that our
visions, failing or not, will echo like the fruit of a tree, when we lived in trees, when we were forced
to say a common prayer. This explication is only a part of you. It is possible that we interrupt a
paradox of uncertain fear, like the fear of allocation, the fear of supplication, and such fears are a
lake of inane verities. But why does the sum of these fears seem of some unbeknownst sheen,
suggesting the wild predestination of all of us like the direction of mist, the precipitation's
impersonal invariance and worthwhile goodness——even though this existence, at night, resumes its
mortal insignias of loathing? Money, in this case, represents claustrophobia and can be traced back
to the manic obligations of birth, the surface of memorific viscosity; but in many places, this matrix
negates too many happenings of the hour and passivity and cannot wear the justifications of a torn,
artless shunning. The youth have given new meaning to the intricacies of terror and radical
imminence by anointing their reason with the many-sided arrogance of detachment-in-permanence,
and forever an examination must be undergone to remove the adversarial. Or not. A mote in the air.
This year we promise the archangel of type and memory. The territory of this world instils in us its
own future. Our dreams are true, whether we accept them or not. Heraclitus. Oak. Primitive man.
Believing in the firm and absolute. Whenever Pharaohs dreamt of famine and gleaming, I dreamt of
stars, regal prostitutes. A month of evil would follow, succeeded by fortune, breath, avarice. Even
sex. The entire storm and trial is the eternity of the course, not to be formulated or fixed, but to be
possible to others' knowledge without our exploring it, an ocean of vast inconsequential surrealities
tied to the existence of a single oculus. A position I often find myself in within the experience of
time, in which I braid the ropes of repentance and terror, of future evenings, is in the gesture of my
submission to some untakeable face. I stare at the record of dreams streaming from its mouth,
finding their ague and potency folded within chance events. To discuss death is beyond the scope of
one's ulterior duty. Like an island of physicists, believing in the offensive uncertainty of intuition,
some of their acts erasing that artistic fury which would convey symbols aptly dreamt in presence.
Whether or not an obstacle like a looking glass insures this fury, inevitably radical uselessness exists
in fury's rendition, since we may invent and subdue former seas of the usual. One may be unwilling
to sense reversal of all the efforts to administer an is. One may try to undermine infidelity by calling
it a subconscious theatre, that is to say, as inherently spawned from sight and insinuation that we
never encounter but in a darker season. But such interests are irrelevant and may surprise the
inaccurate overtures of human time, loading events with inconceivable orchestration and pleasure.
The real dream, which also disperses the inner workings of the sublime, may give us some slight
embarrassment, an actual wedding for the rendering of the hereafter and you.
This is, after all, not
a usual investment; some people refuse to testify that they are filing their days away in the inability to
question why or how they know; but they still form the right inflection of majesty for past, strange
extensions of the crypt, which has led purposefully to the review of years failing to put one to
sleep——the sinister years of gods and artists. Simulacra; silhouette; therefore, dream-dream. One may
form a self by taking part in lifelessness. Later the focus falls on theoretical youth, unexpectedly. So
it is. Indeed, the intensity of these disguises betrays their inferiority and over-confidence; and in this
spirit, the dream reveals a ceremony true to the pressures of continuation in a clockwise hell,
damning any ultimatums of embodiment. The trash of the undreamt blends doctrine into situational
planes, a meandering sort of pain: a promontory of pain, from which one can sense strange voices,
or vortices. It is a promontory for physical seance, inflating the lessons of Nothing. In other hands,
the closing of the raven's wings, accompanied by positions of finality, an inferior again-ness that
would not permit the open lens of a blood-scrubbed eye. To dream is a promontory. A foolproof
ingot of comings and goings. To dream is an organism. Perceiving the striking gravity of innocuous
sensations. Striking in the way that one sees the mind not as treasure, trace, location, or solid ground
on which to stand. Like finding the mythical entrance to the radio and becoming the art of its
chasm, the true path of sleep. To dream: she may have eyes for a thousand years or more.
And when I was awake I'd sleep in the foreign aural prints of paralysis-in-jest, until I softly receded
into the fire.
So now you know.
there's a self that sees clearly all the dream-drag
and expiry dates of suns envenomed with liberty
and then I don't know