#i mean i wrote the chimera to be necromancer experiments made of animal parts. so they just had more parts for it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

vasilinaorlova · 7 years

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the birth of Aphrodite out of foam

I am making too much sense. in our age it is unpardonable. I should make far less, for my intents, aesthetic preferences, and purposes. (again!) Russian Futurism in poetry Khlebnikov, early Mayakovsky, Kruchenykh, Burlyuk, others. social engineering attack* under jurisdiction of indiscretion. I’ll be repetitive. expletive a delicate gargoyle festive everydayness the spectacular and the mundane.* ________________ *to the collection of ouroboroses• __________________ •ouroboroi° _________________ °if I had to choose which plural to pick I’d be agonizing over the perplexity▪ ___________________ ▪luckily, I don’t have to. write about: toothpaste; fish in a round aquarium; write a list of groceries by way of writing a poem; write a message to your yet unborn daughter when she’s 18 and did not show up home on time. how can you not like Mr. Darcy though? shrubs and suburbs sunburn I think the sadist should wear a cornflower wreath. something touching, small, fragile. Gille de Rais wearing a flowery dress (and a female body) instead of shining armor** I want to mumble; instead, I lecture. fascinating was Zinaida Nikolayevna Gippius: extremely beautiful (of course, the first thing to demand from a female writer); extremely acerbic criticess (very misogynistic too; all women–women writers doubly so–were dust under her feet), a very fine poet, a writer of renown. she had two husbands at once (Dmitry Merezhkovsky and Dmitry Filosofov, both famous writers themselves; Merezhkovsky of a far greater fame, and Filosofov, all the time tormented by guilt); but what is most striking, she was a mystic. her private dairies, the very same occasional diaries where, as the genre seems to demand, simple mortals record their fleeting thoughts, were mystical texts of great density. she dreamed about establishing the new church, and the first ecclesia of this church was to be her triumvirate: herself and her two Dmitries. it really is interesting how sense tends to be born out of foam of speech; it arises by itself out of chaos and mess. this is why one seem to be not telling something but rather follows the flow of words; poet starts her speech from afar, Anna Akhmatova wrote, poet is led by her speech very far, she added in the very next line. the birth of Aphrodite of sense out of foam of speech. procreation of meanings. I chose the last photo. it’ll be black-and-white. it was chilly. razor radiant electric skate soft war I am going to play my endless chess with letters one on one: I and I who is going to win? I am myself intrigued. I, I suppose.a little narcissus on display, its own item in the ultimate exhibition where the curator is the ultimate exhibitionist. that’d be splendid. I see nothing erotic in the world, apart from myself. I do rather like honey, but I like it in theory: its texture, whether on a rougher side, or smooth, that is to say, the absence thereof {of texture, I mean] its viscosity, color, transparency [or absence thereof} it’s a fine product of the most mathematically gifted insects in existence, insects-existentialists, who fathomed the eternity and granted it with equal cells for a structure; who understood the construction of galaxies revolving side by side around one another (so very closely to one another, but on very rare occasions beginning to spin around one another, their sleeves collapsing, suns magnified to other suns, exploding, —, — . — ) no, let me tell you about another thing, let me tell you what Rome looked like Burluk had lines, suppose I am on a train, suppose I am in New York he wrote it in New York; the place (in the end of the poem) becomes itself a part of the poem. were it not for the poem written in New York, how’d it sound? too many things should be known for a poem to be read. or none. a pitiful absence of Rome. I collected tourist’s trifling impressions, useless trinkets of imprints that vanish like jelly fish on the shore. I looked at the famous fountains with a glacial eye of someone perfectly absent, admiring coldly their alien beauty. in the marble columns were initials carved by lovers I wish to pensively utter “now dead”–and now they are probably dead, but, alas, at the time they were likely still-alive, since inscriptions were made somewhere in the mid-sixties–lovers immortalizing their loves by vandalizing marble that immortalized loves of emperors–the last but not least (and not the last either), a paper cup of soda rolling along the ribs of pavement, empty, and ringing with that paper ding-le-de-din you hear them sometimes producing; display windows with mannequins (do mannequins merit a mention here? probably not); bronze quadrigae and Dantae–ha-ha-ha–and on a night walk I met a group of teenagers–maybe twenty-year-olds–who shouted into my face something which I could not understand but which was fairly frightful–I escaped into the night subway–was trying for several minutes to figure out where to insert the coins–coins?–and most glorious idea of all was that one could be bored in Rome, which I, a visitor, of course, could not afford for a second; I had my consolation though, this dull tire one experiences when one is forcefully subjected to endless panoramas, landscapes, and vistas, and they are all blue, multi-layered, marble, concrete, and glass. Rome was absent in its presence, somehow; I scratched a surface of it; I read tourists brochures inattentively; I gazed. Rome dissipated. I choose you over you and do so every day I wish I knew if I knew devotion or devotion had known me, or neither were I explaining myself, I would have done it using the most ancient method, that of dactylonomy I hope I may be forgiven. God, forgive us all! if you exist. let them flow, let them flow, let them flow. Zizek-style “so ons,” usually self-evident only to the author. that Eve should have menstruation makes her a clepsydra with blood, a time-measuring instrument. “I am going to be a goddess of wrath,” she said and threw a feather fan on a marble table. → Hekate, a goddess of crossroads, noctambulists, and necromancers. what’s the difference between the man seen and the man owned? scholars could not agree what color is the chimera’s blood some purport, it is scarlet | like human [wine-colored} | or animal others suggest, silvery-white like mercury, and as mercury is quick the fluorescent amalgam still others profess, chimera’s blood is black with silver glimmer, like hematite, only liquid others think, chimera’s blood is translucent as plasma another school, insists on blue but has no agreement within itself: azure; celestial beryl; royal blue; aquamarine, [ultramarine} sapphire, cerulean, cobalt, and indigo, are the main versions. but I suspect it has no blood at all. I shan’t keep you waiting, she said and dissipated like a cube of sugar in the liquid dark. narcissi are frail. very. and the daffodil is the most fragile of all. it’s a ready country song Kali looking at the world: a swarm of floundering souls drinking each other’s blood in a constant frustration of the insatiable hunger. yes, Bataille can be said to defy our understanding of him; it’s like he steps a little back and evades every time you dash forward a little; this is something the French philosophy is particularly good at; elegance and allure seems to be its two professed features; no matter how loudly and how often I refused it and denounced it as intentionally lofty and needlessly convoluted, in a frustration of my incomplete understanding, it remains enigmatic and attractive. I think Derrida is the best out of the whole spectrum, but it is also true that he only makes some sort of twisted sense in all these churrigueresque (but also cubist) contexts, and one can never be sure one truly understands anything in what is being said–but thankfully while to miss a lot of what is going on in the screen as long as the movie is blinking could be somewhat upsetting, it does not preclude us from fulfilling our miserable enjoyment. voices and voids. do charades need to be decoded? and whether one can decode a charade that was not composed, the charade that was not meant? if there were no answer meant to a charade, could the charade still have an answer? perhaps it could, perhaps it could and should, and perhaps it could not. I will not humiliate you, degrade you, deny you anything or punish you. you will suffer it all at your own hands. it'll be your own doing. and should a human want such affliction, no one in the universe could stop them from obtaining it. I will be kind and understanding, until understanding and kind I will no longer be. _____________ *“social engineering attack” is an instance of pretending to represent something you don’t represent, to assume an identity you can’t rightfully assume, in short to be someone you are not, in the modern taxonomies of the state paranoia (I went through the mandatory training as a state employee). for example, a fake bank representative makes a call pretending to work in the existing bank, in order to elicit bank account information, and so forth. I have not heard about such cases in the USA, but in Russia people call pretending to be policemen to solicit money / inform mothers that they need to give money because their sons and daughters are injured in car crash and they can’t speak etc. curiously, Maxim Gorkiy called writers “engineers of human soul.”

**Bataille wrote a book marveling on Gille de Rais, The Trail of Gille de Rais, in which, as much as he was dully terrified, paid his explicit dues to the repeated stating that the figure was horrendous, and the crimes, monstrous, he could not conceal his sincere admiration for this indeed horrible child molester and murderer

#poetry #prose #stream of consciousness

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