innnmoanecklips
posh tearing, a loan in the form of holes on the edges of a thin flexible film. and film like a lace edge, and black, almost liquid alive black, like eyeliner, soft glass at the same time. why soft? from water outside? where are you behind? but I sure about right place for holes and teeth to pull art through, right number of holes so as not to burst. be thin, with smooth black edges, like stockings. go through the notches and protected volcano behind the projector glass. in her tearing I think about silk, how fingers don't grip because of nails, and silk shoots back to skin. that any vessel you drink from is automatically half filled with enlarged pearls. Clarice's rhythms are so psychic and erotic that literature for children can be more intuitive. it's always sad that with all the love for Clarice, or sweet creatures like David Lynch — who is in plain sight and still took a well-deserved place, but people still say «the most beautiful thing on the planet» but often add that it's not clear to the end. people say «this is witchcraft, not literature», but for some reason, and for me, it is...witchcraft, enlightenment and literature. and sometimes her conclusions are even simple and could be more psychic and led to something more unexpectedly connected.
I thought this form was born because the usual narrative does not contain pain, only brings pain and does not help, the narrative needs to learn crash down. I thought it was for people who read and write with heads under blankets or skirts, or threaded through cuts on white sheets. like in school decoration of a guillotine, Bluebeard. from where it is? what I know, these texts make you bow your head, for no problem. I thought... head, problem... I thought, I know, she know... I thought, heads were constantly rolling in looking for THIS form, in THIS world. «maybe now, maybe you», in every open page, this is, after some visions, the truth. this roots in unknowing introduces to cognition. a built-in loop in structure of slipping beyond the golden edge of structure, like silk slid off thin metal scales. maybe a form blown out of glass in the air, which you can enter and it moves you along an electric circuit. a very lively, mobile enzyme, like a role in a live theater, not a dead, every night. the right magnet or hook clings, animates an element in brain, and you get into catharsis through the repetition and repetition of words, or a real imitation of a scream, passion, maternal peace. places where you must want to express your feelings as brazenly beautiful as someone in front of you, and then leave this field with a new experience or bags, like from travel, from shopping. in your room and bed - witchcraft and enlightenment.
these texts had a built-in descent to level of their sketch, but they are not blurred. red, sacred, not scared. scar, maybe, only in the terms of acquired return of innate beauty forever. so much, like love, clear, firm poetic and emotional logic. this is a biography of inner copy of world. when I opened, for me it was the most logical on earth. that's the way it is right, like I do not know what else, it's just that this is naturally right.
«Agua» or «Passion» one of books written from the corner of bedroom with jungian sweet dreams. not about it, not from chair - thanks, no need a chair. need beautiful uncombed hair, bed, bad and good hair. just with embodiment, from consciousness tuned as an instrument according to these rhythms. when consciousness has accepted that its entanglement is normal, a core in art, holes on thin celluloid was for most beautiful thing on earth. it wants to «slip and don't sleep in cognition», washes instability to beauty. this book is sexy in the love of non-final knowledge, it slides, and by this style of moving it's slipping into knowledge. not a sticky psychological tangle to walk through the maze. this is stroking the maze walls with back on dress, with venus accessories for access to mazes.
russian «writing» and «letter» can be designated by one word, so when I read in preface or afterword things like «the art of Clarice's writing» I also feel «the art of letter».
i want to write a love letter in, for her book.
when Annie Ernaux in «Simple Passion» writes about time when woman's eyes frozen on horizon with her new lover... finding such a book is like finding a somebody, lying on stomach with it. page numbers...I don't know. I don't know, am I read it...or currently reading. it was one of the most wow books of year, but I didn't see the point in adding it to any «read» or something. books on the floor, heels skated between them. for some reason, when you... not you, I, iii find it, I get into a loop, and it's best to fall under water with hair, slightly open lips when the water tickles organs of breathing, read it as run or swallow. but I feel a heaviness around two eyelids and breast. t-shirt is really like...t/shir/t, rip. and body on the bed is twisted, world and works slides down the walls. cognition and sexuality. saved as a photo. a living triangle of tissue has been preserved, you can observe it as in a laboratory. if there is sexuality and books, cognition, if this book is about roots in unknowing...these gallery or laboratory of female characters who read in the bed, with naked legs, split in unequal two like a book or compressed, confusing the keys to a girl's diary with keys to library, in a house of hair, but who do not need the sublimation of always working head and language, who knows tongues. i want to press against the wall and sit like that for two hundred years, because I do not know what kind of wall I need to splash out, stick, where's a cold wall-size window. to cling to something, and drag along the road for a long time. what should I do. I missed this obsession. love here is like a law. I love how she pull the word «life» and imprisoned it in one sentence with «dark», but «eroticism», «emeralds, sapphires, amethysts», sentenced. because for people it's insult - «emeralds» after hated word «life». she creating orgasm and ice bed from two ordinary words «my» and «is» by using cursive.
I think about passages in the «Olivia» part, from «White Oleander» — pink feet and palms on cinnamon skin as jewels in some mysterious woman's land, tortoiseshell combs with a single broken tooth and tall olive oil bottles in the trash. or description of brazilian singer as «chocolate candy with liqueur cherries tangling in mouth», and eights, 8, like eternity, from hips moving in dance lesson. even «Lispector» it's like a «lips spectrum»
thank you for coming in my room, it was a return, you gave me all the jewelry back. thank you that I got on your spinning potter's wheel and turned from formlessness into something. a magnet talisman fell into my hand-box.
what I like, sense of somebody's like a child in art, but art is as a child too, scares with its hunger. and it wants her so much. this uncovered scale that produces the most volts of life energy. something new enough, so will be revealed forever, always quite young. not alpha-beta Virginia's Waves, washed between by long, transparent fingers. as if spell lies in the manifestation of letters. typing, she wants to disappear from room, but the room is controlled by god, who moves his hands so fast, and she is pulled at double speed. a talent with zero external...without something external, or something saving. but she is nailed and nailed to this funnel, and kissing and changing the talents of somebody's else, as if she has full experience and scale, fully possesses it.
thank you for stretch and fix the beauty in a material frame above bed, so that we can look at it at least forever. they mention your drugs when talking about your books. what drugs, what books, I don't know. you're so close to the ocean of absorption and imagination. drugs are just attracted to your waves and words as something the same for brain, same encoding or effect. elastic air under, the sound of world through the water weight filter, visions of another room and stairs on walls from the bottom of bath. and these descriptions of trees, or «august evenings» sometimes... so innocent. institutions and magical state machine realism are so purely interwoven, as if suffering and power does not need to be preceded or properly presented. I love how is it clear that you don't have to explain why politics and imagination co-exist here, in this mind. it arises so innocently again, no foreplay, but not harshly, but brings pain. as someone does not need an explanation of logic and rhythms of dream world, so does the world of suffering. politics can deprive freedom of speech. then I remember my favourite movie, «closet land», where a woman was blamed for metaphors, that blue flying cats don't exist, and I think maybe the truth is not highest price, if it is sacrificed for imagination. I look at the two halves of her book, and book does not fall apart.
I remember having a cold forehead, but decay from the heat ring around a brain, and I take her writing about ice, and passing through the frozen territories in a text extinguished the temperature, because my fire was mental. think, her dreams, slipness, kindness to any coming form, heroin - it's one ocean.
a girl with a rose-shaped stain, first at school, then in basements, cells, floor bars... drinking from a soap dish... is so close and own, as I don't know what. love you
the passage, just a little, that God cursed Jung and his students is soooo funny. these people have given volts and tons generosity, it's like giving birth to a long marble castle between ordinary human legs, with all turrets. or swim across the weeping ocean, and find another symbol of labor, infinite to the first wave of a new infinity (for generosityyy). they went to unknown lands, blindfolded, with too open eyes, no one could say «yes», only the inner voice and soul - and they can say «no». and with the other hand they led a boat of non-mixing with unhandsome self-immuring, attuning with thin zen cut of wave, and wave in the love and hate with wind line, and boat in this water can become sharp, synchronous wave, or like the edge of a sucked lollipop. and that's okay, because it's always changing anyway, just be more, more sensitive.
and then, they need to float, and fight with kilograms of manuscripts, but in the eyes of God they are cursed, because, you see, they revealed his unsympathetic side, ahaha. it's a healing «ahaha», healing laugh, love-laugh, I can't
It's six stars or four, I don't know. It was just the last page, and I realized how bad I wanted them to kiss, suck, lick the dead creatures of nightmares, and they were all covered by cherry waves and aurora borealis, scarlet like scars. I would like an even more swallowing, almost erotic fusion. On the last page, I wanted to turn everything around and turn scientists into girls, who will bring a glossy black colour, an autopsy. I heard the kissing sounds of blind tall penguins and white monkeys. I was just dreaming, what is needed for the peak of madness? My cells can't feed. This desire from deep place where the liquid pearl of the writing human mind leaked, clung and filled the very edge of cutout. And it has changed and inflamed me so much, and I want more, to go, beyond the golden edge of cup
