8-29-2023
updates on future works
I
I believe at times once per day and once per night I elapse myself through the constant deaths I regurgitate. I prolapse a cruel hangover; a loose fox pelt for my deals. The gambler within me multiplates with no near fortune. A recovered youth regret. I solemn stole the clay commands which shall spell no truths. My lord landslide forward Mt.Sinai in a plastic misbegotten by man. In perpetual truths the lies rally-they dress me. A worthy fit pregnant with love! For us artists, what shall we do! We artists! We pornographers of the spirit! We whip the whips of amor fati. We celebrate the dunces of orgiastic cosmic. We frolic within the fruits of latency-le grand flaneur du Freud. Must we bruise up against love? The lash that scourges? so says Dante.
Levi-Strauss- “The savage mind totalizes”. The Rousseauian spite awakens-his midsummer nightmare. For did he posit that “jealousy awakens with love”. Man in his sleep could only dream of such wake-he plagiarizes in his slumber. Very often do dreams escape themselves once caught into contact with the self. The self-the great unattractive repellent! It has always been YOU. So distinct, so well-posterized deep in morals. For a pegged pig you are. A crippled swine unripe, unfit, mal-suited for the slaughter. What purpose-if any-must you possess if to feed some who are beneath your capabilities? Must we turn you inside out? Must we make a chorizo out of you? What is it? Is it your soul?-anima? Is your soul the principle moving force of your body? Tell me-does your soul bounce within you? Is your soul suspended? Does your being enact itself? Can you propel yourself? Are you only motion? Do you bare only space. Are you void? Are you or not the summation of your assembled parts? Are you substance? Do you matter?
In my fleshy tabernacle, my soul is wet. I flow. I can’t cease but to liquidate myself. In a sense, I pool myself-I bequeath my strife. Into sewer grades I dump myself. In streams I fill myself. In ponds I fall still. In Deltas I lurk and into the ocean I stretch myself. For I leave no sea untouched like a Spaniard. My potentiality in my wake, for everything in my nature shares all. Tis quite boundless as one tries to surround the kosmos. As one hugs in, one breathes out a breathe filled with I. Within you and without you. I will continue to live and die within you and without you.
II
Dear reader! Tis I! It has always been I! So near yet so far from a screen which I can almost see reflection! Reflection! Yes! That is the word! The word which escapes me in pace I can’t corner! My God! My Paul! I promise not to delay my words no longer!
I have mentioned forward to some close friends of mine that in due time I shall have a short collection of letters and essays IN PROSE! For please! I caution in such delay for such work which has occupied much of my conscience. This collection has its roots in my collegiate garb I must say. It wore me well into I could no longer fit in anywhere else. This outfit of letters like I said contains at points very novice and ideas unfit for me now. They hold little-to-no-weight but still sores me. I see no reason why not to deplore this work. To my understanding, unfortunately/ fortunately many people, even near to me, perhaps won’t read it-nonetheless understand it. However, I still hope despite all efforts, to establish myself as writer of sorts, because in spite of all pursuits, writing and reading are my allocations from being. In-matter-of-fact, these mediums are essential to my being. They are my pornography. My books which trap me pave my taboo. A cruelty I hope to unleash unto this world-better yet-reveal a new pornography.