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27 October 2018 @ 06:02 pm
i'll teach you to turn away  
i could destroy you with a page with a sentence on some days you know i could pick you apart i know the language (if not always how to spell it) i know how to combine my consonants make the syllables sing i know when to make a callback, reference a resonant text and i know how to eviscerate by proxy slap on the most deadly of metaphors shoot out the whites of the eyes.

have you ever been wounded with an allegory?

i'll put a shiver down your spine a sliver under your skin i'll haunt you all the rest of your living days at the turn of a phrase. turn that phrase, might you? we all have our fatal flaws our killing talents the ways we stick to the bones get stuck between the teeth chew me out there are a hundred ways you could drone me out swallow me down devour me whole there are a thousand ways you could forget the path back leave me cold where is this going shut me down hear me out the way a phrase echoes over the next one the way we vanish into our failed transcriptions

the great destroyer, the end and the means. a stagger in the entryway, a stumble at the third-floor landing. how it feels when you thought there was another step but there is not: that glancing abyss, those open parentheses, the mind chokes on its own function. these little moments of no clear outcome, these purposeless gestures that saddle stitch the signatures of our lives.

how strange that those moments i am most likely to fall out of myself are those moments i imagine an individual from whom i am estranged reacting to my work. think of them reading something i'm writing as i'm writing it and i fall right off my page, hover strangely in space. it’s as though i can channel the flow of my language, the creative spark, or i can take visitors from that house of frustrating and occasionally insipid regrets, but i cannot do both. should source catch on to me baking subtexts into the crumbcake - because source is hyper-aware of divided loyalties, source will have nothing to do with conspiracy to self-sabotage - it clears out until i've got my priorities back in line.

sometimes it can take four seconds. sometimes it takes five years. sometimes a notebook will, through no fault of its own (probably?), seemingly become infested by a series of fantasies about unseen estrangements so that just looking at it, just catching a whiff from its pages will abandon me to distractions and ranting. no amount of fumigation, no manner of exorcism will make such a book workable for quite some time: sometimes you can wait it out, starve it out, deprive it of blood, reform, recontextulize, reinvent. one time that worked, but only after i buried it in a churchyard for nineteen years. smudged it thoroughly with sage and cedar. pretended i was somebody else when i handed it for a bit. someone, let's say, not as neurotic; failing that, someone just as neurotic but in slightly different ways. other times a notebook really is a lost cause: tear out the good pages and file them away, start fresh somewhere else another day.

music: alio die - descendre cinq lacs au travers d'une voilé