I need to fucking sleep

Lord Byron, Don Juan; Charles Corbet, View of pond tree;  of Leaves; The Haunted in Contemporary Filmic and Literary Gothic Narratives of Trauma; of Leaves again-

That's all of them. The rest of this latest kipple is mine.

Years and years of sedimentary refuse, half-formed ruminations, scraps of charred paper slumped like carcasses in sickly towers

‘Whom the gods love die young’ was said of yore,
And many deaths do they escape by this:
The death of friends, and that which slays even more—
The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is,
Except mere breath; and since the silent shore
Awaits at last even those who longest miss
The old archer’s shafts, perhaps the early grave
Which men weep over may be meant to save.

Oh god this is out of control

like ink spilling across a page

Ankles crossing ankles
under tables, anxiously
temporal -
diminished too soon.

Because if you lay hope to rest you can at least linger.

there

Irradiated skies.

O my stained Earth;
a thousand fingerprints,
landmarks,
lone histories roaming moores and brooks.
So much lost, never rediscovered.

Resting as easy as an outward breath.




My bones finally finding their soil, deep and profound, where they know they may take root.

"Alas to leave. For this has all been a great leaving. Of sorts. Hasn’t it?"

In the domain of teleology, 'to leave' is not to go to a place but to depart from one.

La hantée demeure une figure centrale du cinéma et de la littérature américaine d’aujourd’hui. Ces récits gothiques contemporains sont conscients que la hantée est le psychisme lui-même : ce motif hante tant les romans que les films mettant en scène le « moi hanté » de personnages ayant survécu au traumatisme. Ces œuvres se structurent souvent autour de l’image du labyrinthe, qui traduit le sentiment d’aliénation et de terreur ressenti par les personnages, mais permet aussi, dans un jeu réflexif, au film ou au texte de jouer sur sa propre construction comme hantée faite d’images et/ou de mots, dans une mise en abyme de la hantise et de la spectralité.

"Walls black like black waters when they are heavy and seem to belong to other seas."

About to sleep

Couldn't sleep and I checked the blog to find all these new scheduled posts.

They're kind of creeping me out. The Everlasting Whims & Everlasting Loss is of course a quote from Only Revolutions. Page 180, Sam's side. I actually prefer, having read and reread the book several times, Sam's writing. I feel like Danielewski wrote him first, but who knows. I'll have to try reading it in reverse order, see if it makes a difference. I just love some of his phrases moments.
"

Because I am too soon.
Because without You, I am only revolutions
Of ruin.

I'm the prophecy prophecies pass.
Why need dies at last.
How oceans dry. Islands drown.
And skies of salt crash to the ground.
I turn the powerful. Defy the weak.
Only Grass grows down abandoned streets.

 "
The August 14th post is [an]other quote(s) from The Fifty Year Sword, also by Mark Z Danielewski. I didn't read the rest. I'm sorry. My eyes just float over the words.


I think I'm getting worse again.

It was a sunny day, but it doesn't feel like summer. It hasn't ever felt like summer. A spring, followed by a premature fall into something morose and grey. Old cobbled streets, coated in dust. Never seen. I stayed in my room all day. Remember that dissertation I started way too early, or at least tried to? Well I actually need to work on it this year. Reasons burn need sometimes. I just feel hollow. Like an empty jug, with no handle, no clay, nothing, unsculpted.

Lost sensations still have my fingertips tingling. My throat aches. I don't know if I can continue. I don't know why I want to. Or if I want to.

I don't know where I am.
I don't know why I am.
I don't know I am.

A terribly thin line

-Everlasting Whims & Everlasting Loss.
      Against Horrors passing with Love’s passing.
            Between them you must choose.

-Choice then is allways Them?
-Love & Horror’s impermanence forever against
    Loss & the Caprice of Endurance.

Will I outlast anything?

When does an experience end? Because every butterfly-wing hurricane sensation, memory, contemplation, intake of breath, doesn't it drip into that great turbulent pool of consciousness? Each experience climbing onto each other, increments of sediment, or ripples upon ripples, until the pool is like a stream, a river, entirely ripples, and maybe that's all a river is.

And you can't lose it. Can't escape it. Each history upon history built into your bones. The boy and the girl by the cave, so long ago, one waving a stick tipped with embers. Never passed.

Sometimes though, it feels less like a pool or a river, more like a cascade. Just slipping out of reach. Pouring off in splatters and sprays and trickles and intangible mists. How can I hold onto that? Do I want to? What am I without my own particular poison? My dim, smouldering lights?

But I lose track of that thought too. Just gone. Slipped off, away, away. Maybe that's why I write. I can't hold everything together in this patched and leaking skull. Not alone, with my bare, cupped hands. Freeze some of it here, hope that by the time it melts someone else has understood at least something of it. Which would be more than I understood.

But I still lose I.
By and by.
 

So I end it, before it ends.