[A New Year, A New Time]

Today is being drained of its moments, its minutes, its hours; tomorrow regains them but new moments, minutes and hours- they are all vacant, all vital. Brittle does time seem, fragile is the human life, a flagellate rogue of its inherent form, forfeited of its physiology. We rise in these newly formated moments, or fall, find the beginning of the road to everything we are seeking or nothing at all, a dense brush, thorn-riddled, lushly perilous.

Another year of our lives has faded, fallen, been erased, bygone, as our forefathers who preceded us knew of decades of new year arrival. Their interstitial is not ours, their lifestyle, their know-how, are not ours, but our own is our own and we must own our own if it is to ever be our own in our own rights and our own terms.

[The Colossus] On the Life & Subsequent Death of Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath suffered from the most exquisite depression to ever reach a woman's heart. Poetry, in her words, in her eyes, possessed by the demons of unsatisfying conception, revitalized itself, born from the fusion of the embryo within the womb of the aesthetic. If we owe anything to this woman, it is to, everyday of our lives along the palate of art, to praise her tragic brilliance.

In Plath's poetry, there are eras born that have only existed in her stanzas and died once her poetry ended. It was a pain that bore the mirror image of itself, dropped anchor in a deep metaphysical self-exile and detached itself from this Euclidean limitation given to humanity by humanity.

"I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want to live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited."

The lives Plath wishes to live is not due to envy, her limitations are not due to a literary one; they were all imposed on her from a dubious and skeptical environment. Her marriage to the poet Ted Hughes, a self-loathing, insecure philandering artist, whom Plath propped up out of full  means of belief, caused her retreat into a blantant madness, an immobility that threatened to petrify her. But even in seeing lives lived on a more blissful plane, a chronic infidelity that could hinder the creativity of most; it was sadness, the flicker impulse of depression itself that caused flight in her poetry and flightlessness in her life.

The average human facing diversity will abandon themselves in haste, misdirect anguish, lose equilibrium in their upright walk upon this earth; Plath fled inward, charted her sadness, composed sonnets that echoed pass her suicide  in 1963. Her true sadness had no origin, its redoubtable advance upon her mind induced the abstraction that in turn, induced the abstract language she has become well known for. It is in her very words;

"If you expect nothing from anybody, you're never disappointed."

that we see the hallmarks of a woman competent of her own true condition, shattered beauty that proposes its own terminal splendor. She has taken the ineffectual actions of poets pen-to-paper and reunited us with our own sensibility, as the giver, reunited us with our humanist torture, the flaws of personal character that can reverberate brilliantly as an echo in a cathedral.

We've lost something, we are not free, adrift in a phantom tirade, separated from the human history of dismemberment and immurement. If we are well to beware of anything, if we are to risk anything, it is the leap from the precipice of our own concocted dreams, phantasmas, torrential miasma in an age where disassociation
frees us. We chart the earth, the depths of the sea yet we've forgotten the algorithm in which everything has been set forth upon that is the autonomous pulsation of the individual or the dream of individuality. We are born individually but we are not meant to live individually if we are to disregard the malformation that insanity brings.

The day man arrived on this earth, the very next day, he had made slaves of his own, driven himself into doldrum by his own blatant captivity, become infernal slaves to woman and sought escape from his actuality, his self-imposed misery. It is from poetry anthropos truly finds an equilibrium, a sense of revitalization. Plath's lost of equilibrium was also her friction upon the earth, a reciprocal disaster that begets catastrophe. And if there is anything confessed of her soul, it is a composed character in its own ruins. The Sylvia Plath we've come to know is the Sylvia Plath who was, who could not be saved despite her will or the Karma-driven will of an indescribable, incomprehensible universe to rescue her from a perennial turmoil.

Very few possess transcendence, or ever access such metaphysical and psychic measure. Plath's mind, mutinous against her own shattered heart, itself was a dampened, quintessential vortex that devoured all pestilence, spun it out into a mathematical drama, an abomination of the becoming having become, a double helix strand forfeited its genome rights.

What has been left in the aftermath of Plath's suicide is the seemingly inane sense of poetic prose that has failed to find its way to the very ideal of dazzle, of charm, of seduction, of satisfying our instinct for sadomasochism. It is clear that the carousel never ceases its evolution, as it is also clear that the world may never again be removed from its very axis by language once all great voices, imminent, relevant, malevolent forces, tragedians, have fallen into the abyss created for the entire earth to be suction into as a whirlpool. It may also be clear that the art forms originated to distort the human figure too may not take their rightful throne. The only thing that remains unclear, unpredictable, is when will the next hatch from egg into a fully formed woman to attest what misery truly is, what it truly can become, an endearment to all of history itself.

[Sleepless Nights] On the Art of Marzena Lavrilleux

At its most precious limits, art has lost its way and found it within a new identity, an inane idea. If art stands in its current place, it may find itself in peril of decapitation; altercation is not enough, it must change, and not just change, evolve- its need is in the interest of being led to its forebearance and way from the guillotine, away from dismemberment.

This altercation is held in the hands of Orleans-based painter Marzena Lavrilleux. French-polish in descendancy, now alive in the aura of what once was the childhood home of Edgar De Gas, there is nothing, nor anyone who exists juxtaposed to her, for art is not a dream she has once dreamt, it is the dream she has moved into, sporadically re-emerged from as a conundrum ineffable, incapable of being fully comprehended.

If she has found anything that has scattered from the trauma of birth, she has found herself in the world, herself lightly upon the earth as the moon directly above her head has made a strenuous endeavor to lift from her a restless spirit.  And as a meteor that collects its gravity in the rays of the sun, Lavrilleux finds momentum in the methodology of existence, that is, in the world of her art.

Note the painting [Eclipse], an unbelievable depth in a chasm of surreal, an encounter of an abandoned town and its macabre ending, a setting where each and all things can be set free, return at will, if it may desire. One is reminded of poverty-stricken villages, browns, blacks and golds that assimilate in the sky as a loom on the floating horizon. What is removed from the haunting image, is resurrected in [Elephant]. A marvel, a marriage of depth to birth, then a plummet to an abortive sea of distortion, a molar pregnancy in a cadging womb demanding life in a most brilliant, grandiloquent plead. The angels can deny not, the demons can ignore not the angels frazzle to bedazzle, beloved and beget. It is, as in [District] is as nothing I've seen, deep abstraction, abstractive dimensions, seemingly unafraid to unleash its color upon the eye. It's color is its prayer, an finite expression to live- not in human interest but in its own.

Lavrilleux gesture is the gesture of seduction, the same, it can be the gesture of miscarriage, a sensory of failure as the brain. Her gesture must empty itself onto the earth if it is to become a criterion of this earth, the haplessness, the bliss, the fertilized, the calcified fetus. Let her gesture be what it is, what it may, enraged in the image of itself, the dew that depends on winter to imprint its moldlessness upon the pane. If there is a darker, most desolate corner of Lavrilleux, in her art, it flickers at a phase as to allow only one view before the arrival of again, a lighter gesture.

 In [Fashion Victim] there is a consistent them of tragedy, the vanity that is both bold and unforgiving, an unbecoming of women who've used up there inertia of life in time, bodies broken, battered, severed in the glamourous beauty of the doctrine they lived by. One thinks hastily of Gia Carangi, of Archana Pandey, Ruslana Korshunova, Hayley Kohle, Daul Kim, names of women who walked till the runway gave way, dropping them into an abyss. It is only in this painting that Lavrilleux allows us to live in victimhood, bygone victimhood, illegitimate nostalgia, overwhelming portraitures of what remains is only names. The sporadic flicker is now at its most solid state of being, alienated, the body of misery builds its own mausoleum, retracing its own steps time over for centuries.

   In this hideous reconciliation with the human miasma, we are beckon to rest in our misadventures with [Sleepless Nights.] The intervening distance, the equidistance from bliss to the plunge into our own dark corner is aided with the grey shades, trees hidden in a different shade of grey, a touch of infantile brown solidified as a vacancy. This vacancy rests in a vacuum, where body and space intermingled in a vortex of misgivings. This is a modern reminder of the fall of the altercation, a change at its most malevolent, most unvarying.

[Orgasmic Organisms] Part I

The avoidance of pain leaves the void of pain; it's the preferred way the naive human cell un-privy to what pain berths yearns to live. But I submit to you, in the submission to pain, there within another dimension, amasses the cell behavior that never dissipates nor exposes their bizarre shift as we go on day to day, alive in what we believe to be living.

Sex is the opposite of a virus, it engages in every method of metabolic distension, as the virus needs no metabolism. Though some viruses are borne through sex itself, they are both worlds apart. In the frenetic, energetic pursuit of the paroxysmal convulsion, the human cell at whole expends more energy than any living species on earth. And we are not only set apart from these species due solely to our expenditure to succumb to orgasm, we are unique in devising different methods in which to reach that physiological reward.

The human body is magnetized to the ephemeral orgasm; the female body is a testament to such magnetism; the engorging of sexual tissues (the vulva, the nipples, the vaginal walls that produces vaginal lubrication.)

   No stimuli is stymied- when the body is prepared to embark on its odyssey towards pleasure, though it can be stopped, it becomes a sure thing, a confident thing, a impetous impetus, if stopped, the body then aches, the mind ceases its flood of oxytocin, testosterone, estrogen and returns the cell to its mortal stagnancy, as though the sin of not allowing the journey's commencement is a punishment to the body itself.

It is difficult to avoid the desire of the orgasm; it is the ultimate manipulation of the body that gives the greatest reward. Upon the first explosion, the body is never again the same. The cell memory is then stained, the heightened sensitivity of the erogenous zones then evolve and demand every bit of attention, if not from intercourse, then frottage, if not from frottage, then a self-imposed, manual manumission. Even the greatest fear of the human condition, one of the most natural aside of birth and coitus, death, is itself parellel to sex. Upon the initiation of foreplay, then penetration, the blood pressure rises, the heart rate increases drastically, the inner walls of the nostrils swell, the body is nearly depleted in inertia to the point of lactic acid build up; during sex, death is impending, only numbed by the ignorance of its forth-march, the numbing of the body with pleasure, the chase of the convulsions that strike the vas deferens and clitoris.

Pain is a different player in this tact of the anatomy. Crosswire pain and love and the sadomasochist is born. This is the descendancy of Leopold Von Sacher Masoch and the Marquis de Sade, orphaned undesirables of a subterranean subculture submerged in its own depravity. Scars, albeit hidden, are their true hieroglyphs, transcendence the language idyllic in the greatest degree, pathologically decadent. The Sadomasochist pushes the body, erases the boundaries given to each by one's own mind. In this, the Sadomasochist not only titillates or manipulates themselves, they grow into themselves, while the rest grows outwardly.

With pain, the cell becomes the integrity cell, incapable of deviating away from the piercing of deviation. This is a chance event as life itself is chance, accidental, the twining of the sexes, same or opposite, that can create transcendence, the extreme and extremities of autoeroticism, the supernatural possession carried over from fantasy taken into coitus. The human body is the true extra-terrestrial, a most intricate cell unique from one to the next, forfeited one quality, forgiven the next.

The curvature is so fine and finely drawn that it can be seen no where else but in the human body, in the woman- nowhere else can the curvature be so extreme as to emanate all beauty. It doesn't emulate it for it is few that is, in suspended animation, as the follicles born into her time birth. It is in this manse of necessity, an inherent physical necessity, that a mirror is molded to reflect omnipotence, an identical doppelganger of limitless being. This then is not the near and still but the flight from physical, the fall back into the world that the physical is objected, bedazzled and thrown to a temporary, nugatory state, until such time biology again, relentlessly and unvaryingly arises to again make her a focal of attraction. All knowledge attained of the woman is pure empiricism that fades with time, ever-changing, as mathematical expression does. There is space within her only expressed through stereometrics, as in man, physical potency without depth. It is in the space within a woman a true cosmos, too spatial for man to fully investigate in that it lies in an aura we cannot yet reach or ever will attain access to, lives the greatest mystery of mysteries.

Both light and shade is made in that impressionist fashion illustrated so well in the 18th and 19th centuries from that shadow taken and made bright by her light. "Symmetry" then applies to the woman as life, being, the world. The Decadents of the late 19th century knew too well this concept of the woman, whose very presence gives to all of us whose becoming is splice from our actual being. From the vision of this perpetual brilliance, the desire becomes the orgasmic dream itself- man pursues not the woman of pure misogyny, his pursuit is the pursuit of the physical, the psychic, the fantasy with, every endeavor he's attempted to bring into reality.

[Little Birds] A Short Story

   




  To the very delight and premature expectations of new neighbors, Colette was an old soul, not
acquainted with the obsequious rubbish of the modern generation. Only Alumni of Northwestern for
about a week, her decision to remain near her alma mater was in direct result of the family she acquire
throughout the years. She had come from the desolate town of Juno- a few shambled blocks in the
midst of the west Texas desert, situated between 1930's-circa-possibility and oblivion, and once she
made it out, she vowed never to return. Within her 17 years of knowing nothing but, she'd lost her
abusive dad, opiate-addicted mother and two younger brothers; there had to be more to life than death
and desolation.And there was.
 
   This world that she imagined, this world that she envisioned and wanted to live, she found within old
books, inside of a small, defunct library near the outskirts of Juno. The smell of musk and leather
interwove with the heat that seared the binds of outdated books, dust hid the covers and at times she
had to wipe it away to see the author. Inside of these covers were stories that touched her heart, made
her cry, made her smile, taught her to relinquish clichés and to become a thinker. She discovered truth
from reading multiple opinions and made her mind up on how history played out, or how it could.
Sending nearly every day in that small library ensured her freedom, a place to run away every day and a
Valedictorian spot amongst her contemporaries, the spot that paved her path into Northwestern, far
from those sandy roads and the little birds that she always watched out the windows and imagined their
destinations.

   Colette pursued literature as her major, the understudy that put the pupil under the sweetest duress;
being overwhelmed with the words of dead novelist gave focus and purpose to many, but for Colette, it
was life given-a-many-a-times. Instead of 5,000 words, she wrote 15,000, 3-5 pages in MLA format
became 10-15; her disquisition was 1,000 pages on the contrast of modern literature versus that of the
19th century. Even in her rare down time, she'd write unassigned essays and critiques, which made her
a big hit and secured her a position on staff beneath her own Comparative Lit Professor upon
graduation. By her junior year, it was common to see her lunching with the Dean, discussing Chopin and
Wilde. It wasn't her fierce intellect or her drive that was admired amongst the offspring of the
bourgeois; it was what she came from, the gutters, the lows and rose from such obscurity. She came
from the vileness portrayed in the horror stories of Capote, of Joyce, Faulkner, Miller, Bukowski, Celine
and Fante- many aspiring novelist on campus may write of hunger but Colette was the only one to everexperience it firsthand. Such stories told were published in the campus paper, making her the
fascination and marvel, the laureate of southern lowlife, the motif of where dreams can lead.
Colette was little known outside of the campus of where she was popular but with solidarity and
kindness, her neighbors became fond on her alien appearance and began to warm up to her. Everything
she stood for, everything she accomplished because of those beliefs was well admired and it was rare
for a full day to pass without one or multiple neighbors to visit with tea, coffee, truffles, biscuits or other
refreshments in company. She was an avid storyteller and even without embellishment, she captivated
the surrounding observers and fans as though she was the first lady to cross an undocumented,
uncharted continent and returned unscathed with the maps and proof of lost cities that were once
englobed in myth. How could someone who seemed so frail, so petite, walk barefoot on the burning
asphalt during a sandstorm, walk in to see her beloved mother lifeless with a needle hanging from her
vein, in the same home where her only siblings died in their sleeps before the age of 1?

   There was nothing taboo about the human condition to Colette, even when it seemed so on those days
where she would regress back to that old library with the cracking bonds and dusted covers, an empty
stomach and not a dime in her pocket. A library card ensured she could take back to that double-wide
trailer 3 miles walk from the sanctuary, whatever life she decided to dissect. Losing oneself to find
oneself is necessary to restore the confidence and want of continuum and if she learned anything from
the many books she read, was that the conflict with home was present in all the lives of past artistoriginating
from doesn't oblige reconciliation nor return. That small town between nothing and less gave
her the hope to want, the hope to escape the ashes of her lineage, bury once and for all those skeletons
and the fear of what awaited outside of those city limits. The survival of childhood grants a writer stories
to tell for lifetimes to come and satisfies that frantic need place inside of them from those origins to find
that road from sufferer to artist, artist to the triumph over art. So she lifted herself with the graceful of
flight and caught the wayward wind, as those little birds that gave her wonder as to what was out thereand
now, in flight, she would drift on the accidental breeze until such a time she would find happiness.

[Nora]

Nora- that was her name, a stranger of the many I hand encountered on State Street while roaming as a troubadour deep into the night under the deceased of the moon. On my way down West Johnson, past the building that houses Tutto Pasta that has stood since 1898, I watched her walk by and quickly swipe a leftover slice of pizza from an abandoned table and quickly stash it in the satchel on her shoulder. It was without consequence that I noticed her moving down the shadows of State performing this same feat of scavengery.

Without alarming her of my knowledge of the vulture in her, I approached her. It was not all false pretense; She was an attractive sort of plain Jane with succulent symmetry that still could be seen under her baggy, second-hand thrift store apparel. She had a natural beauty accompanied with a scruffy appearance, somewhere in between an orphan collecting cans on the street and a woman who just woke and wandered around her privacy in complete comfort. What was the true facilitator of my fancy for her was her openness. Instead of pretending she was doing something else, anything else, she didn't fail to mention in our introduction that hunger was the most frequent visitor.

I treated her to a dinner at Cosi, a plentiful dinner, Chicken Parmesan Sandwich on multigrain, sea salted chips, large bowl of tomato basil soup with another slice of multigrain bread and a rocky road brownie. There was no expense to spare for her good company. One could hardly imagine that she was alone in the world and on the contrary, she spoke as though she hadn't had a good conversation in years.

After, the night doesn't end. She invites me back to her apartment five blocks towards East Johnson, speaking of her origins and family. She was from a lower-middle class farming family in South Dakota, somewhere near where the Black Hills begin their drastic roll to and from the earth. She had one sibling who was lost to a rogue case of Diphtheria, a young sister, which caused her mum to take into alcohol ever so frequently and her dad to spend more time caring for her than the farm, which in turn, begin to show a decline in capital. She had left South Dakota to study Physics, reserving a deep childhood fascination with Nikola Tesla and Albert Einstein, yet due to her having to survive, she spent less time in their theorems and more in the facts of science, hunger.

Only in the modern state of thought, as in a city, can on be seen and still be transparent. An accumulation of lore brings forward the better vision of the eye into the world, partakes in all the things that become of it. The decisive movement then becomes an invigoration, more is then as never before asked of language to clarify and translate in belief an elimination process will undergo and undertake, narrative-hero and heroines only see when the eye suffers distortion, goes bland and miraculously, if with hope, vision is mysteriously restored. Disparity seeks to gorge on the spirit, finding that it is an ephemeral thing, falls deeper into itself because hunger follows when the meal is never offered up.

As hunger becomes, it shows no mercy to the starving- it devours what rudiments drift about in the body, the remnants of the stored nutrients, cannibalism enacts itself inside. Mankind has been shape-shifted in the means of avoiding such monstrous physiological response, doing all it can to keep itself fed, full, gluttinous and aversive. It is a force of our own making that serves us, puts our backs to the wall and hands us the ultimate ultimatum; eat or die.

The privacy of her apartment that her parents could barely afford was convenient- there was no one there to see her suffer, roll about on the couch, cradling her stomach, too weak to walk to the union terrace for the free meal afforded to "financially challenge" students.

The following day I was off of work and she had no classes scheduled. So we chatted the night away, enjoyed film after film. At times, I'd run to a corner store and grab snacks for us, return and remove my socks as she always insisted I do when nestled up next to her. We were soon alseep in the arms of one another. A demon must have been at play between our resting bodies. We both came from sleep to a dream, our hands all over one another, insatiable and wild kisses, locking limbs and squirming bodies. Removing her clothes was as stripping the world free of an ugly facade to find a pristine primer beneath.

She takes the thrust of my pelvis shamelessly, with an inalienable ambivalence, moaning that patois of English that compulsion, desire, physical congress, intimacy and coitus in admixture brings about. The world split wide, its origins unmistakably as she transpires, transforms and transposes to the cumean sibyl of frightless endeavors. Neither of the follicle that parts partial a hemisphere of the mind from outside of this life nor an inhuman poltergiest that has never lived, still she relinquished all decision to be or not to be, pulled beneath the mortal realm to be catapulted far into the nethermore of stagnant night terrors. The overseer of the night, that mean-spirited nothing to never be known crawled onto her, inside of her and took it upon himself to journey deep until lost somewhere along the faults of her endometrium. Broken beyond repair, severed beyond recognition, she was, as woman out of darkness, now a anew, fearless. A quartermaster to the axis of the womb, again, I took that voyage deep within her, dying, choosing to drown rather swim in the vaginal sea that her venus gave way tears to. There's an allure to the flogging she withstands, the all but inocuous gestures that my hands stains to her trachea in the blithe the common eludes, the dreaming and woe-begone depraved of the subterranean lustre. Somewhere between our bodies was not only a burn made from the shifting friction, but the lost pagentry long abandoned for mechanics, biology woven irregularly into the strophe, the antistrophe, the epode, a luminous life between the flesh, incidental spawn from our pores. Of no avail, our fluster could not be defeated and we surrender and lie restless upon one another beneath the white flag that is our submission. Twice she surrenders, twice she is defeated, into an indentured servant, then into manumission of the harlot who dares not enter the doors of the magdalene asylum. After our minute deaths, we were back on the elliptical to our deaths in opiate euphoria. She slept naked as the earth left bare after being brutally assaulted. I make a whore of her, then build the magdalene for her reform, for her salvation, until such time the blood in my veins begin to boil for touch and I'll visit her in her dorm, amongst other repentative whores, and make a whore of her all over again. That was her hell, the virtue I handed to her, her only keepsake.

She refers to me time and again while in refractory as her "intellectual disaster" or "the most haunted mind in all of man."


Nora gave herself to feed herself, acknowledged the primitive method to feed the other. There was no shame to be had in her humanness response- none to my own. Finding a meal, being on the verge of collapse was not the ally of a student- the mind begins, as the body, to disintegrate from hunger. Begging begins to wear off in appeal, few friends she had saw her as a parasite, the one who collected the scraps after having lunch, a lunch she couldn't play for. Even in the modern city of Madison, she resembled the transient on the road, always lying face to face with indigence, survival an instinct if she was to continue to soldier on and go forthright into tomorrow. She thought not of the future but of the presence, time depending on the next meal. Too much competition for thrown out scraps in dumpsters kept her way from the bum-ridden straights and corporate-owned restaurant that would rather throw food to the dogs than feed a human in need. There was no time to become a victim or see herself as one; survival kept her quickly, drastically climbing the incline while her contemporaries survived off of family, scholarships and the planar.

Nora was beautiful in my eyes, not stricken, yet stricken, with the time to go inward and only think of herself. The ailing with having to cope and stay afloat was the buoy she clung to. While parties went noisily throughout the night, she was out, as a vampire, searching for food, knowing while she had a full belly, while her intestines drew in the nutrients of the latest feast, it, hunger, would revisit and overstay its welcome until it was extinguished once again.

I think of Nora every time hunger begins to sink into my stomach, when I think of the rolling black hills of South Dakota. I think of the humanist condition impelled by this insatiable yearn, the transitory fix of a simple meal. I think of Nora.

[Woman of the Earth]

If woman is not on this earth, then it will be no more and every woman after, will be lost, find herself afloat, aghast, marooned and never find herself, even that woman who has left the earth.

In the body's space, time is inalienable, even frightening; her eyes will open to desolation, see nothing and feel joy, joy to have come into a new age, build a tower identical to Babel and see the vastness of the emptied world. It is then she'll begin her descent from the tower, open her womb to repopulate the earth with the asexual fissures negated by the push/pull of gravity, allow her hand to move in great gesture, in great length without broken sequence. She will dance in a motion unbroken by the interruption. The distance between herself and ignorance will never exist.

And in this new land, she will exit by desire, a virtuous will be  and not become, falter and fix herself only on self-titillation and orgasmic birth. The tale then would be never-ending, the gesture finite, the loins regenerated.

In her singularity, a single constant will persevere, only a single, and in that constant, with her eyes to the new world, she stands, high and tall, in a terrain invented by her mind, a landscape not of abstract but of nowhere. Time passes alongside her, the flare of life subsides in that life and if not, it is because she has become unwilling to risk her life.

In the beginning of nothing, there is too a mind apart from this new world, given only over to the presence, the future may never come to pass but it isn't a thought that occupies her, only fruitful reproduction of the likeness of her, created in her image, from her rib, her flesh, her mind, her heart. She is privy not to the limits which the mythical man has succumb to, she concerns herself not  with his past, nor consorts with time in the sense that it is her deity..

The only limit she may find is the limitations of self- with discomfort, discombobulation, comes again the earth anew. With each phenomena, there comes void, a break in time, in space, where the will of things may arrive timely, fashionably lethal and if the world is to end, it ends because it has in her.

There is then immobility, a reckoning of what is and an ignorance of what is not until it in itself occurs naturally from the kernel of the earth itself. She may wander of the spring and wander onto the equator, lose the northern lights and great northern brights and come into the southern hemisphere and as she roams, the world inside of her begins to renew itself in lapse and cycle.

She finds the end of the earth but there is no leap into darkness; light is much too alluring for her, more than coexistence that bolts the door to the new world she is bound to discover.

But she moves against gravity, in alacrity- to be, she must seek what she knows is something that is unknown to her and in that process, she finds the fever to be, finds that she is the epicenter of the process of becoming, that she exists.

Her portrait painted, masterpiece before there was perspective- she is born as a woman and births woman. There lives no period of the infantile for she was set on the earth already upright and all beneath her feet on unbroken realm of latitudes stretching deep into the oasis, deep into the abysmal space.

The sojourn, however fruitful, is fruitless, in paradox of her body that sees vision inasmuch limit has and cannot be reached. Only within her can she meet such limits and if she does, she'll walk till she is again anew. Death comes not. The end comes not.

Within the womb is she , inside of her womb, the woman, in amniotic stroke, moves with purpose through a stagnant Lethe, quieted for her very endeavor.

Understand that she is the world, the earth anew, the world in her womb creates a depth that lives, there and as apart of her, knows no limits.

[The Predominance of Art]

It is not necessary for someone to have to know all of the world to despise it. All the entirety of the world can never be fully known by a single individual; it is with academics, travel, empirical research, all fiber-optically connected and thus the world seems to come into focus. The focus is but a caricature; one has to see every space of the world in time space to fully and truly know it- anything less, distaste or love for the world is all distortion predicated on a fragile strand of knowledge.

The world I know is the one inside of me and the one I wish to embrace. Along every shore of Madison lives the fossil of my footsteps, where Otis Redding once plunged to his death, swept away only by immense pressure of carbon. Only from a crisp and deep breeze that seems to dissect my bare skin is my presence reassured; I too am here.

The origin of the world is the origin of the individual, and lost upon the world which is split wide by the individual, is individuation. Becoming, I make of the world a smaller place, by shrinking it, it will someday be fully in my hands, as clay to mold, "the thinker" of Rodin.The ghost is given to uncertainty and an uncertain world, the haunt to the dream that never comes when I am asleep but only when I am awake, my eyes open, rational. Love is temporary derangement; I am always in love.

Of this love, of this infatuation, that is not of bodily form, is the only, for the love in human form has come long ago and gone long before and art, that decay that will dissect the cerebral formation of logic, bares itself down in haven to never again be removed.

Art is a constant; it lives when all else dies, it remains when everyone has left, it reciprocates when it knows it has complete devotion as a jealous god. Prayer is knowledge, prayer is lyrical formation, linguistic variation, self-expression, artistic absorption, and when all is said and one, art gives you a legacy of a thousand years and a death of a thousand occurrences.

Locking oneself up away from the world doesn't mean its cruelties have subsided, just that it has created another guise to to hurt you. By forcing one into silence, into seclusion, it builds the walls that one believes they have chosen to hide in, it beats on the walls in the nights as a demonic presence and soon, it creates the doppelganger outside of the mirror and the omen that is insanity cradles you until that final sleep is about. Emily Dickinson accomplished nothing from seclusion, only the lost days that Walden found. His seclusion was bliss, Dickinson's despair, Chagall's prayer, St. Vincent Millay's seduction. One can only delay their deterioration by refusing to "go quietly into that good night," with seclusion comes defeat, with the artist, seclusion brings one to be twice defeated inasmuch art, there lives no triumph of the individual over art, for the individual is a byproduct of art as sulfites from fermentation.

If there is anything of self that is lost, it is only lost because it has been given up freely, without the battle to possess. The celebrity who hires the ghost writer to produce art in silence cheapens art, the ghost writer, by becoming and accepting the fate of the "ghost," cheapens themselves, the plagiaristic possess no genius nor is possessed by it and therefore must heist art, the singer whose songs are written in their stead is only a marionette on strings being pulled, toggled and turned to a virtue to be forgotten upon their fading. Art is only obtainable by suffering, not by pure fantasy or ideal, not by networking or collaboration, but by the broken body in the dungeon with only a spec of light invading the darkness. That single being of light causes the mock-artist to scream for others to aid them up; the artist writes of its being in poetry, in prose, in essay, in pamplistic novellas, paint its caricature on the walls. That light is what the artist has to hold on to, more would only expose wounds long before they are ready to be exposed to the thin air, to the awaiting pathogens.

Something awaits to be released in the aura of creativity, a story held from humanity far too long. A story is told behind "Saturn" devouring his child, Eiffel's rise over Paris and the Seine, the Golden Gate and its tomb of fallen steelmasters, the improvisation that iconolized Isadora Duncan and Miles Davis, the longings in the songs of Edith Piaf, the poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, Les Saisons of Pyotr Tchaikovsky. The story is the appalling spectre, the allure of this spectre where one takes upon themselves at the tomb of the fallen before them. The decadence of the artist is the likeness of the decay of their person; the two can only coexists so long before one is led to the plunge of death. Because art is timeless, limitless, finite, its immortalization is predominant as opposed to the human body that eventually, even at the lifelong absence of putrefaction, meets the Hayflick Limit.

I submit that for every Picasso that has lived, so has there been a Fante, for every Hemingway, a Kerouac, for every Fontaine, a Segarre, for every Frost, a Celan, for every Portman there is a Huppert, every Formiga, a Sedgewick. Art advertised only brings more fame, more fortune but art in itself is, it is dispassionate, one study no more suffered than another. The art thief is the only one seems to be getting out of his obsession what he has put it, by stealing art and laundering it through the black market, he makes it accessible to anyone with the currency or inclination to purchase it. By doing so, and only by this, art truly gains value, recognition, mysterious allure. By leaving its mainstream, visual accessibility from the curators aegis, it becomes bygone and in art, more often then not, posthumous recognition follows.

In the pertinence of the absentee father and the derelict mother, the artist is then an artist, for descendency may hold importance but it must, in the  face of the embrace of new ideal, be relinquished without caution. The only descendants of the artist is art itself, the dominant gene that imbues the self-destructive mechanism. This self-destruction is measured only by the activity of the artist. Publish or perish, produce or be reduced; the moment the unknown artist sits idle, they are forgotten, the moment they naively choose to separate themselves from art, they descend into madness and narcissism.

Take the 1904 Opera version of [Madama Butterfly] by Giacomo Puccini that saw the tragic suicide of the heroine "butterfly" at her own hands for the love of a man, Pinkerton. From the beginning, butterfly, a 15 year old Japanese bride married by a lonely American Naval officer newly arrived in Japan, was a convenience until a proper American wife was found. In Japan at that time, a woman could be divorced if she was left-handed so it is not beyond any man's deceit to concoct reasoning for separation. Upon converting to Christianity and marrying Pinkerton, she is disowned by her family. After their wedding, Pinkerton departs for a length of three years. Everyone close to butterfly attempts to convince her that Pinkerton was never again to return, but because of her love, her devotion to him, she continues to wait, still sure of his eventual arrival. His return means more to her than just a wife awaiting a husband but of a mother awaiting the father of her child. Butterfly had become pregnant after their first night together and gave birth to a son while Pinkerton had been away. Butterfly awakes in an impossible position; Pinkerton has returned with his new American wife, Kate, who has agreed to raise the child. Butterfly agrees to give up her child if Pinkerton is to come and see her himself. Recognizing her ancestral gods in prayer, she puts the American flag into the hands of her son, blindfolds him and commits suicide. When Pinkerton runs in, he knows that he is much too late.

[Madama Butterfly] ends tragically, but only in the tragic predisposition. To me, the act of self-murder was the act of beauty, as Juliet for Romeo, as Abelard sacrifice for Heloise. Puccini's contribution was a magnanimous contribution to human glee. By recreating the tale of the greatest sacrifice for love, one's own life, there is a greatness engirldled in the marvel, and at time, tragic coexistence when love is a weak bond creating a carbon copy. Art by the production of Puccini is the sacrifice for love, in the harmonious chord of life, ended by the sword of that same volition to exist but not live.

Art creates the individual, decays the individual, else art decays.

[Death of a Star] On Life, Death & Individuality

When Albert Einstein presented his theory of General Relativity, he did so without knowing that he was not only explaining the death of a star under overwhelming gravity, but dissecting the human who, in his principle, resembles the stars, as we do this world.

Einstein stated that when a star dies, it leaves behind a small remnant core. In his equation, if the star's mass is more than three times the mass of the sun, the force of gravity overwhelms all other forces and produces what the Princeton physics John Wheeler coined "a black hole." Most black holes are formed from the remnants of a large star that dies in a supernova explosion. A larger star upon explosion, holds the light while smaller, dense neutron stars aren't massive enough to hold light.

If we, individually, are stars, nearing the sun, which represents time, we degrade and diminish without restraint. As we consistently near the sun (time), our mass (what we do in this life) when we succumb to that single moment (death), it is light that we leave in this life, that natural agent that stimulates sight and makes all visible, the electromagnetic radiation whose wavelengths falls within the range to which the human retina responds, that lives on, throughout time, in immortality. The intense interest of the labyrinth of human nature may have been pinpointed in 1915, when space-time was first described by the solo physicist.

Death is one moment, one single moment, never drawn out, delayed as a hesitancy- it is one moment. To all it has come to be feared, it is nothing more than the moment of our physical demise. That single moment, hidden away from us in utter and terrifying mystery dictates, as it should not,  the way we live. But preceding that single moment, are moments available for many to thrive, to liberate and liberate thyself, moments to love, flutter, attempt the flutter and make haste of the deepest of all desires. If one capitalize on those moments, capitalize to the fullest, then that single moment held by death is no longer grandiose, it survives because man survives and must die, yet it is outweighed by the moments we choose to live. Mankind should not be a breathing stone but a shifting mountain that shape-shifts the wind, causes the wind to circumvent, the waters to part, the trees to grow elsewhere. Say nothing of what is to come but only what is, what can be, and what was that is no more.

We are all nevertheless together at the end, separated truly, finely by the way we choose to live in the interstitial between birth and death. We can and cannot, can depending on our strength and our will to soldier on past obstacles guaranteed to us in this life. We can-not from the unanimous defeat at the hands of these beatings, refusal to rise and present another knockdown to follow. In this refusal to rise is the forfeiture of the possibility of a birth of courage, a possibility of will to go the distance, battle this life to the very last breathe. There is the mind and there is the body, one indivisible, if can surpass all, each on its own separate entity, falters and becomes nothing and learn that it is of nothing.

A sense of beginning, one of the end, that is the art of living on one's own terms, dream of a life and toil to create it. And to create this life, everything outside of its realm must become peripheral, else an ephemeral feather drifting bound to depart, or bound, by the life imagined, created and exiled.

[The Origin of Flight] The Origin of the Naked Novel & [Clipped Wings]

When I made the move towards language, it then became the move towards myself, a metamorphosis in me occupied as pretentiously had I reinvented and changed my appearance, my disposition. [Clipped Wings] was a depravity, obscene, an odyssey inward to art. Though speculated as a world of sex unevolved, in the interior, there was no loss to evolution in the introvert, a poet becoming surrounded by the four walls of the night. To identify with [Clipped Wings] one must devise a garrote on their bedpost and commit to autoerotic asphyxiation. To me, it was a self-titillating torture to bare my soul, that thing that can only be found during the night. And in that thing, was the thing-in-itself, a pseudo-hero, saga-narrator bled dry on the posit of nothingness.

During its composition, I can recall no days, only nights, as a scientist who reversed his circadian rhythm awaiting a naked eye comet's return, a man stricken ill with the sleeping sickness who'd become lucid when the world was not. What was seldom in me arose, what was not of my character became, what was found, was then suddenly lost. It was a gradual descent into madness, as Ezra Pound once knew, as Maurice Utrillo and though I shadowed two muses as objects, they too, were only apart of the night in my eye.

That "whore to sex," whom I consistently laid my seed deep in the infertile womb of, all over her nymphitic flesh, was only an object to me in which I composed pages of; It was easier to take her apart if she was just an object, but once you kill someone in literature, they then suffer a death outside of the novel. [Clipped Wings] was the birth of an artist, me, the birth and the maiden naked novel and it demanded the death of the muse.

She is dearly departed now, as she'd been since her hapless childhood that saw her repeatedly raped by her stepfather and his drunken friends. There was no mourning her, the only grief I feel is that I can no longer take her venus as I had before, for exploitation. The other muse, the male counterpart, was not killed off inasmuch he had no identity from the outset. Only a whiffet's shadow came of his presence.

About the birth of the artist, one ponders if the artist is born or if they are nutured. For me, it was nuture. I can recall no abstract in my childhood, in that appalling distance I traveled to my adulthood. Miles Davis, the greatest musical genius of our human history was on the contrary a born artist. Speak of Brahm, Tchaikovsky, Schumann, Beethoven and Mozart- all secluded themselves in the interval of months to years to compose the majestic composition that they are known for today. Davis composed on que, on stage, through improvisation. His horn always pointed down to play for the world beneath him, the gift of the music that Nietsche believed gave worth to living life and in time space, it was fated for him to find Charlie Parker on 52nd street, as it was for him to attend Julliard prior, the same alma-mater of Nina Simone. This gave way to another fate, their collaboration on the popular song yet today "My funny valentine," which was another birth of fate that allowed me to encounter their notes whiles strolling about in Evanston on a dull and clear day. I fell in love with jazz at that very moment. This was the maiden belief where I first knew of more than one fate, that one gives in to another. And this belief first appeared from its vast depth during every composite of words thenceforth.

I would have you believe that creativity isn't a void of standstill, but energy I must preserve to continue to create in that void- inspiration exist but only in the sense that it can desensitize and inspire all the same in one flicker of creativity. You have to understood that in all phosphorescence of being, one can experience furtive abortions, feel the miscarriage of single thought and the impregnation of teratomas. Adaptation is botched, the nucleus spill from its nucleic walls. This detachment from one's roots, one's descendancy is a necessity if the world is to ever come into a focal point, crystallize itself.

In all honesty, most my family and friends thought me mad when first they reviewed the completion of the composition. [Clipped Wings] is an inward charter to myself, the maiden voyage to the interior and the only until a month's follow of my release of autobiographical poetry [Self Portrait.] If the measure of madness is to look in a mirror and face the truth of self, then I submit the measure of sanity is the denial, refusal to do so, the craven stupefaction that sets none apart. This is when coexistence is at its most brutal; when identities are lost, or never found or never sought.

At the conclusion of [Clipped Wings] all fear subsided and my indifference to death soon arose in [Black Spring Bloom], in [Unsung and French Cigarettes] I relinquished all desire for one; and that was to wake up to a new day and live out my days in eventuality, in art, in indifference, I found Brahm, St. Vincent Millay, saw much more in the words of Danticat and Proust.

I invaded subjects naively discarded, I attacked and murdered all else folly. Submission was given to none, nor manumission to possibility, I hung my hat lightly on what I built, what I encountered and made my own. The metamorphosis involves freedom, an illicit solicitation of every fiber of the ideal of laissez-faire. The deepest recesses of pain is intolerable, pain is definite. Every page completed in composition of [Clipped Wings] was all pain, all sexual accumulation without the cathartic release. The night underwent the terraforming of my reality, I could no longer rearrange the stars, abduction of thought was frequent, an anguish set in that could only find compromise in the physical congress that saw the muse at the receiving end of a winged phallus swiftly flying low against the earth. Only ephemeral was coitus, is coitus, until it again must be initiated, accepted deep into the deepest funnel that flares furious the hysteric cry of the whipple-tickle. Lace-curtains were torn into shreds, despite my retreat into my atelier, exposure to the under-surface was unfluctuating. Everything was reminiscent of a melange, nothing elementary, all convoluted. Wherein then was I lost? How far had I gone and how far had I fallen?

With the cystallizing of the world, the phosphorescence of the mind, comes a greater loneliness. I was alone before [Clipped Wings], alone in the sense of my mind was greater, and thus a threat. I had a zeal for knowledge as though a demonic possession, it consumed me throughout the days and prevented me from sleeping. This, I believe was the first stage of possession, the impressionism of the mind. When [Clipped Wings] had become, there were no more friends, distant family, nothing left as though its becoming was an nuclear fallout. I knew then, that I would have to become an expatriate to the republic. When one possesses a greater intellectual depth, they are usually envied or hated for it. One has to admit to the irony of man creating the written word and hating the other for indulging in it, obtaining it, living it. Art made me an individual but even if it hadn't, I'd have no choice but to forge myself. For every bit of self-improvement, there seems there is another created to try and curtail it.

So there is no going back, there is no way to drain the floods in the valley with only a cup. Even as those around me are in this dampened world continue to drown, or will drown, I must stay afloat, even if its in the worst way. [Clipped Wings] was my doctrine to that freedom, to the volition, the only of a few principles held dear within me where my soul is not a constant but a flicker. Personal history was collected in retrospect, brought to discourse and became a dissertation to the start of my autobiographical autoeroticism, the opening volume to naked composure and the naked novels that will come of them and commence until such time I meet my biographer or life will end in a sudden instance as not to allow me the luxury of prophylaxis. I mention autoeroticism (immense romance) to signify its life; all things mechanical, as sex without connection, as the human heart, is bound to fail and begin in blots of muscle with an expiration date.

Black Canaries fly high in the sky of my dreams and black Hummingbirds fly low, Policeman's Helmets and Lady Slippers fed on till they wilt and pulled back into the scorched earth. All growth is an arbitrary mystery, an enigma where things stand without explanation and where they meet their demise in the same manner. The origins of the world are littered with humored flexibility that abides if we are to do the same, if the wretched sporadically spill from the gutters into the navel of a gaped umbilical. The other side of me forever asleep in utero is survived from the entrails left upon my embryonic fusion, as today lives on the stigma of a parasitic twin. The here, the now, the present, is the effervescence of what goes into intimacy and what comes from the hypodermic injection. Romance becomes as rebirths becomes, when a death has occurred, when the apart becomes departed, then is exhumed and resurrected on the mountainside where God was said to have died.

When I first thought to encounter the thing-in-itself, it was only a thing, with anger that raged deeply, to the lowest poles of me to the most northernly. It acts not by sequence, by idiocracy, but wayward, as a boat adrift in the sea. See not in my own eye I cannot, fear not my own stare, I cannot momentarily, with even fall and pull I rest my soul and heart to stop. Take away my life and I live, live in this room, still hanging over this bed, the cat that holds the ghost of no man, no woman, only its ghastly spirit. My exhale beginning to be free of my lungs, I hold captive what has come into me freely, naturally. Vanish into me, for you are what I restrain and force to beg, the halt of air as I suspend, dew falling from between my legs. Beg not, ambience of ambient air, beg not, for you will be free soon, and I too, free to loom in my own vacancy.

In my lonesome, I've found a home, a home that the homeless should find it if they yearn for homes, born into this home, alone. I remain, ever silent, as silence themes itself as my God, broken, it will flee and lonesomeness will conquer lonely and conquered too, will be the windless days, the motionless nights, the woe of the rain as it cries all it may in a lifetime. It is a jealous deity, aloneness, coexisting losely, if ever beneath the wells of wantonness, beneath. And I lover, splayed as a lifeless odalisque in its very phlegm of madness if ever if is it to retreat.

This celestial sphere knows not what becomes of her, rises to all vacancy. In the midday, when the wind rising into the sky in equidistance, as she raises her skirt, one touches the convulsing Euclidean clit of the ecosensual, ecosexual whore. I kiss day and night in their fits of polarity. Her double is transposed, transmogrified, transitory, trasmuted to the chasm of trans-notion, volatile, violent, vulnerable- she may be in every minute mile, to whom all humanity is dreaming to reconcile. She allows one to only enter her only by night, penetrate deep only when the soul awakes, then sleeps beneath the anonymous lover until day to fight the hankering rape.

Time and direction, imitation through the ornament, the filigree accosted by a departed expression

Take words from my tongue and send them waywardly naked be they, be that as it may, may nothing be as bold to direct them through time, time directs, beneath it be me, as I be, a naked stanza, taken by time, directed in time, never there in the delay. Measure the scarf which asphyxiated Isadora Duncan, the drink that befell Dylan Thomas, the Seine that hosts Celan's eternal sleep, the pathogenic consumption that closed the films of Jean Vigo; in that measure, I find no ill-measure.

No algorithm is formulated as I sleep in motion, I am a finished thing, the extension of what was and never before, to exist nevermore in any other facility that facilitates an artificial growth.


We must all suffer from time to time for intimacy; that is the first lesson we all learn but only in the cruelist of ways. And given over to literature, intimacy as a centerfold, the artist must suffer a twofold torture, a thousand deaths into the netherworld where another death awaits. There is a shortage in the blood supply, arteries defunct to this extent, purposeful limbs ischemic. Civilization owns a limit and a set catastrophe to decay but the individual never decays unless in the will of art. The great physical explosion of accidental life sets apart and makes possible the multitudes of physical explosions caused by our own titillation, our self-malformation, the altering of our integration to an ideal of art, ideal of equilibrium, an ideal of posterity, of a specific pertinence. If art is to capture anything, anything at all, it is the sclerosis embedded in our vertebrae by evolution, the lobotomies endured and cerebral decay. What may be faulty can no longer claim its place yet consist only in its inconsistencies. In that night when [Clipped Wings] first begin to take form, I was given the gift of the night; then this too, became a gift in its own.

[The Purple Scarf]

Nothing becomes unless it holds in underlining substance, marvel. A story that holds no moral, a novel with no plot; all predicates itself, its being and becoming on the subsidy of exhumation.

This occurs to me after I encounter by incidence a woman who comes simply to gratify her hunger. I dream then, dream instantly, fall back onto a solid cloud and take form of it.

-but even in this enchanted age, when we know the cruelties of love, it is sought as the darkness that conceals a hideous imp awaiting pounce. The temporary derangement of deep abysmal burrowing, I take to, without a moment's doubt, the bottom holds a thousand pears of anguish..

Her name was Alexie.

She has an inherent tan to her skin, a texture of exotic tint, her eyes were that of the most feminine feline, dark and haunting, piercing even, as though they could know sadness and glee interchangeable in one bat of the eye to the next. Her smile one must admit is a disarming one, becalming even the most raging sea. I could not recollect nor reckon in that moment, as I could not remember anything, as to when the last time a smile possessed me into reverie.

Who was this quintessential being of feminine being? Where had she derived and who was the man calm at rest every night who held her tightly?

She became the muse to a day that was museless, scarce and snowy and this man who spoke for her had suddenly become my arch nemesis who I'd gladly skin alive to be in his place next to her.

This is the subversive action, the opiate inhalation, laudenum ingestion, irrational deafness upon deft monotones, the laudatory monograph features upon the tongue ring for oral stimulus. The turn and smile as she walks away says that she too has taken on the rhythm of mystery, of curious arousal. The trial and error of which I desire to embark is the same odyssey undertaken by Miller and Nin, by Abelard and Heloise, a pretentious coitus interruptus upon the curvature of her spine.

Let it be known that this world is the womb and I, a fetus that must grow and develop gradually, consistently, else be engirdled in calcification as the lithopedian. Gladly I will surrender my growth in the Euclidean for the growth upon her flesh. Let it be known that I will rise upon her as the braille that will rise when first my fingertips sweeps against her skin as the sprinkle to the rising tide. Let it be known that I am another phalange upon her, a parasitic twin with whom nourishes from the arteries, the veins, the capillaries, the sinuses of what she is to the dream. And of this dream, the unparellel, asymetric, askew, malformed, abstruse and obtuse meridian, she flutters with the black canaries into a desolate, glowing winter night where the trees lean wearily in their decrepit condemnation, their branches chafing broken sonnets, fallen hymns from bygone song. Therein obsession is a delirium of transitory genius, a begger quoted by no one upon the abandoned and poverty-stricken earth. Let this dream relapse, reenact itself in a broken language, a cipher, trick of mind and light, a polyp in the fascia only removed upon the full step from this life. Let translation between she and I coexist with a vast electricity, until such times the lights burn bright, then out and all that is left is the synthesis of our naked body.

[On Incidence]

You never know who you'll meet just by sitting on a sidewalk. The world, it seems, passes by, wonder gathers momentum, words formulate from thin air. To wait is a ploy of its own- await a stranger, an encounter, the night. And as the words formulate from thin air, comes someone who initiates their existence and impregnate you with new ideal, a new door to open and walk through.

Something fulfilling may come of what seems dullness to most- the life of the parellel plane can continue on its course or drop radically off a precipice. One can only hope to drift downward as opposed to the free-fall to never again ascend. But this chance-encounter itself is limitless, because at any given time, we are exposed to the faculty of life-being, the arrival of Godot, the fallen leaf from the tree kissed by autumnal seduction.

If anything is learned of the accidental, or the incidental, it is all a revolution of time foaming its trail of its elliptical becoming greater in length as it approaches the sun. If we are unconcious during this encounter, our subconscious in pact with our biology supercedes, activates and causes our attachment to whatever we happen to collide with. Be it accident, the unplanned or mistaken, be it incident, the occurence, it sketches itself on our flesh, forges itself in memory that awakens only when we are awake. Until our awakening, it is only, simply, incidental in nature and definition.

The human body itself is created on various advanced increments of accidents, ancestral bacterium that aids our genetics to generate and create latter generations. And in this latter, the organism is still exposed of gene shift, incorrect trial and error and though it is tirelessly supplied with many endeavors to make the masterpiece of genetic transfer, there is still room for plausible mutation. In any organism an incident becomes, as that of the genetic malformation.

Our entire situs solitus (even the rare situs inversus) is a testament to a miraculous accident, a thesis of the physiological unity of all mankind. Nothing has been weeded from us from the australopithecine when speaking of the accident, only incident caused their demise, incident has failed to decimate mankind today, and thus the accident prevails.

The evolutionist is a consistent student of the accident and the incident, for in the interstitial lies the fauna and flora, the bygone and what has become. The race for arms continue on this seemingly planar scale which is not planar in the mind of one who lives outside of it rather inside as the philospher. It is of note to say that within the human spectra and species, there is not only a seperation of gender, male and female (xx and xy) but the seperation of the common man and the artist- for the common man is the accident and the artist the incident that has become of him. And by this design, the common man holds the fitness to outlive the artist, who by incidental design and an upward trot not supported by gravity, lives meagerly, merely and usually dies young at the expense, not choosing but having no choice, but to live in the abstract of this life.

The incident, then, as art in the individual, grows slowly and matures in spatiality, as the world is the womb and man the fetus, begins as nothing and becomes all. This is the event of the teratoma taking its first breath upon coming into actual life, coming into actuality. It is not as simple as how the philosopher thinks or the religious zealot believes, yet it enscones itself within the question as why does Halley's Comet arrives when our life is at its very end, or why does a mother gives birth to a child and bonds inseperably and births another and decompensates from it?

Nevertheless, a poem is made from the incident as it comes into body with the accident. The will of good nature or the constant of evil plays no part in the accident nor incident (inasmuch both precludes its own accidents and incidents) and relies on an inevitable conclusion.

Embrace that we are the master of all things, in mind and in action, and much understanding may come to fruition. And even under the influence of understanding, it comes with the price of endeavor, a price every person must purchase with time and every artist with blood. How else does the artist confidence to measure the atmosphere becomes arrogance, fearlessness?

If cameric-expression could capture truly life-expression, nothing would be left for us to decipher, no conundrums left in the wind as pollen spores adrift. Nothing stills or distills this time we are visitors to, even deja vu precludes with the vision of future, nostalgia is a conscience, present yearn and the dream subconscious tatters taken apart and given in specs six seconds within unconsciousness.

The first to be born is the accident and the last to be born is the incident, the poet is both. A writer of all things metaphysical- it is in the Euclidean that they make of all accident, incident and coincidence, poetry. What is seen as simple to the naked eye, they describe its intricacy with their abstract one. What becomes of the vision then is calcified in a womb of limitless space. While seated on the pavement, Dan, a good friend of mine, observes the symmetry of a student, a brunette in inherence and says "I'd spend the night in jail just to smell her up close." What is more brilliant, more sacrificial, than a man who is willing to give up his very freedom for the sake of close-encounter with beauty at its barest? When I hear this, I am reminded of Sir Walter Raleigh, a man imprisoned in a tower for thirteen years, crosses a sea in a mission handed to him by his captures, fails and returns, under no duress, to face his death. In equation, Dan willingness to give up his freedom is similar to Raleigh's voyage to the sea, to behold beauty, if only once, if life is to continue to be an inclined stage we all perform on improvisation amongst an ambivalent audience.

The incidence is the view of this unknown, brunette dietess, the accident, her walk onto the side street into the view of Dan's and mine.

Moments after, a roommate of Dan's walks up, half-drunken, speaking of his comatose state that followed a bottle of Irish whiskey. We speak of the world, of women, of the sun and the god. Coincidence; a bee lands on my notepad. I grab their attention and discuss the madness that old world philosophers held for the representation of female dominance and the collective. Dan's friend approaches and in one quick suck and gulp, almost a simultaneous motion, inhales the bee into his mouth and swallows it. It is an impressively cruel action but it splices the character of him. He then became all old world philosophers in my eyes, with an attempt to devour all omnipotence of woman. Then, he is stymied and sure the bee had stung him in the throat and again, I know that the endeavor of man to rid himself of female predominance is an endeavor at best, an anomaly that never becomes paradigm. The incidence of the female bee landing and the accidental encounter of Dan's friend was an ironic feat, a coincidence that the leitmotif of feminine defeat in disposition, in genetics.

One cannot make known the great worth of an incident unless one has experienced it first hand- neither fully, neither astonishing, it sits in personal, motionless, set, as its ghost, the tale, lives forward to the life of the storyteller, the lives that have taken it within. The incident has taken life and brought it about, forfeited life and returned it and as the incident becomes the accident, or the coincidence, it takes away the control one feels that they have over their lives, makes myth of the destiny and replicates life twofold.

[The Seduction of Modigliani]

In a syphilic night, where clouds erode the sky and opens it in a French fashion, nothing much is left to seize other than the thought. The stillness is a remnant of the erosion, all are temporarily dead to the world, or temporarily dying at the spearhead of coitus; in continuum, coitus is the formula that expressed the finite of the body, the gesture of the painter to imitate.

In every epoch, there is one who is determined to attain that prime existence of wander; it is in that, where he detaches himself from any culture, brings limit to that culture and attribute to its eventual decay, whilst still holding on to his forebearance as an heirloom. This brings us to the numbered days of Amedeo Modigliani, the conundrum of Leghorn devoured by the lights of Paris. An artist who immortilized Rapheal, it was in the language of art expression itself that gave outrage to the being of Modiglianni.

Rapheal divided mankind into three genres; those who suffer helplessly, those that dream confusedly and those that are entranced by supernatural things; but there is another, a fourth I believe, and that is the one who scours the dream only to squander it. Descartes was unknown to Modigliani and thus art was not the only that needed to be when all is forgotten and discarded for its sake. And on his death bed, he still proclaimed in the words "Cara, Cara Italia," his love for Italy and its entirety in his heart. Though  he left Italy, he was never a motherless child or one illegitimately concealed.

To live amongst the likes of Jacob, of Picasso, to survive the fledgling flourish of Parisienne aura, Modigliani arrived with Italy inside of him as a woman who carries the whole of the world within her. It was of the most pristine, the most Florentine Italy that the Italian-Jewish painter represented, the Venician Republic before it had been plundered and fallen under his fellow Italian countryman Napoleon in 1797, after one thousand years of independence. It was not the Italy brought by Chirico, nutured by Greek myth and German philosophy, it was a portraiture of his own reflection.

The cubist were intent, driven to reduce the human and its form to a simple structure. When in all regards art was accumulated in Paris, its accumulation meant the burial of Italy, of Spain, of Germany, of Russia. When the artist arrived in Paris, they soon became expatriots with no true nation of origin, for it was buried in them long before their arrival. It is in the portrait of Lunia Czechowska that Modigliani makes an endeavor to paint the way he breathes, resurrect and save his nationalism in the levant, picturesque display in the form of the woman.

It is in woman that Modigliani expresses his anti-descartes, anti-cubists forum. It is the symmetry of woman that seduces man one moment and renders him powerless the next. To indulge in the cubists notion that aimed to distort the human, in lieu the woman, would pull Modigliani not from his scouring of the dream but from his native Italy, which to him was the woman all together. The woman wasn't the vice it was for Picasso, Rodin, Simenon and Miller, it wasn't the vice alcohol and drugs were for him; woman was the means to his end, the art that would become an obsession, a harbinger behind their nude bodies, his eventual decay.

As poets of the 18th and 19th centuries demand much of the readers, Modigliani demanded nothing of the one who took into their eyes his caricatures but demanded more of himself. His posthumous fame, which came at the cost of his self-destruction and the self-murder of his wife and artist Jeanne Hebuterne, who threw herself from a fifth floor window from the grief of Amedeo's passing, taking the life of their unborn child with her. The stylist harmony in which he approached the female body, capturing in large part the seduction and charm that has long made men captives in their own creation, came with the cost it would for the old man who saves a city and in turn, is resented for it.

` Everything was deliberate in the work of Modigliani, even that of his own self-destruction. The incidence of woman becoming on his canvas or be it the coincidence of the much admired 1906 death of Paul Cezanne that coincides with the year Modigliani arrived in Paris, the true subject, the naked body, never elluded him. He was a born portrait-painter and what he saw in flesh was all the deliberation he took upon his gesture to recreate it as best any man who is a devout student of the female form could ever, or will ever again.

It was the naked form of the world that Modigliani wanted to truly capture, a world that no one man can ever fully see for himself, but borrow visions that sketches the world out into display. The nakedness of woman before his eyes gave Modigliani that complete vision of the world, authenticity, a rationality so painful he took to alcohol and drug abuse to self-medicate and dilute the weight of it all and if given the chance to breath again, to be resurrected, I do believe he would again inject the opiate of woman, the scent of her skin, the texture of her light and being, and self-destruct all over again.

In the nights, during the long walks deep in the winter of Madison, along Lake Menona, I visualize the portraits of Modigliani, a man after my own, who knew he owed the world a price and dealt with it best the way he could to pay it in full. The chaste brilliance that has become the memory of Modigliani itself is the stigma of the woman of then, the woman of now, that in their very birth, with their very becoming, is the homunculus of the world that unvaryingly demands in cruelty, if not in subtlety.

On The Transcendence of Sex

Once, there was a vacancy in my life filled by a woman named Stasia. One could say, with all conviction, that I loved her. Not in the sense of romantic notion "love" but lustful, sophist love, an all consuming passion. Stastia found me in the worst moments of my life, or I may have found her, I'm not sure of the sequence of incident- nevertheless, she was the flower that any man could ever dream, the flower between her legs that all men desired. In the most humane manner, her matter was one of complete instability, as an alkaline, dodgy she was and her untrusting nature took into me all the mystery i've ever wanted to seek anywhere in this world.

Stastia came one night in arousing pleasure and was unable to cum the next from ennui of what she distasted as ordinary. All methodology to please her was asymetric, bizzare, even to me, but it was that creativity needed to satisfy her that I aspired to. It was habitual that Stastia fell for dishonest men, it is why she loved the artist; she believed us all to be partial, fickle, willing to debase in the sacrifice of art. A muse to my poem, she became my art in language, my art in the night, lying beneath me, her legs spread wide and the other thrown over one of my legs as I thrusted deep into her deep tunnel that held a stricture to cause me the convulsion within me to become uncontrollable. The hysteria of her womb somehow infected me as a venereal ailment, a possession of a demon who lived once for the orgasm and died for it, wished to be resurrected from the dead to suffer, if only once more, the paroxysmal spasm that was the price of that very prior life. The French kiss, venturing centuries from point of origin, found its way to her mouth, to my phallus, Kate Chopin, Anais Nin, both played the ancestresses to the stroke her palm made on a moist shaft created by her saliva.

There were others lovers, perhaps many others in Stastia's life, but she embraced in coitus as if her first time, the only time, her last, she gave everything for the transcendence that sex should be set upon. One could never enjoy the anticipation of her arrival which was always a mystery, but she showed, demanded all accumulation of desire with her insatiable appetite, feasted as an Epicurean beast until she left a skeleton of me, until all matter of lust had been released from me into her mouth. She was nourished on sperm and with the engagment, it may have been all she wanted to be fed. Napoleon, when exiled on the island of St. Helena, in his last dying days, refused all food, all water, and only wished to devour Vin de Constance. Stastia's Vin de Constance, her sweet elixir, her maidera, was sperm itself.

I've only broken the hearts of women who've seen it coming; but Stastia had long broken her own heart in an endeavor to access that ultimate transcendence brought on by coitus. Stastia, as Chagall, sought to destroy the material world and rebuild, reconstruct it from the inside out with the technique of sex and the psychic itself. She brought new fervour to my bed everytime I laid her upon it to resign myself from my formal studies to informally study the nature of her. Sex of the old was of no interest to her; the pygmalion in her wouldn't allow it to take form in her- it was all of complexity, of raw effortful eroticism that lived, as love can't, permanently, somewhere in the flush button.

Stastia was Chagall to me in the most feminime, the essentialist that advanced through sexual revolution, the robber of the sky, the beauty forsaken in dithyramb to conjure all pleasure to fall from some lustful diety in that same sky she braved when cumming, when in afterglow, when the refractory subsided and she again would succumb to the tatters of new desire. Transcendence is an interloper ideal, not defined by definite definition, it is a borrowing of ideal, scrapped-book philosophy, science. Nature itself cannot exist if not biodiversed, if not supernaturally injected. Someone must first fall to prove that they can stand. Stastia stood in a way where she needed sex to be as Monet needed trees, Chagall needed his bella. The body is a mechanism that can never be manipulated quite right, so in sex, transcendence must be the aim which spring forward into what is sensual. If the female autoerotic titillates herself magnificiently, she will be burdened with repeat self-performance, to continue her art of hypoxyphilia, subconciously she knows that whatever magic poured into her blood as an opiate, that drug can be much more potent and that potency is the central theme in which becomes her focal, an irrevocable conundrum that she must solve if she is to ever again cum to cumulus.

Subject to premonitions, Stastia shook the Euclidean, causing shockwaves in the celestial sphere, paled her double in the parellel universe, changed her structure as often a protozoa, restless, relentless. She was the Venus in fur that Leopold von Sacher Masoch spoke of, that "all women are cruel in love," and if that love is cruel, then her temperament should mirror it. A better love comes from pain as a better life is sought after one has slept at the foot of the ladder.

One must suffer in order to attain the full measure of art;  Stastia was that artist, the artist of form, interwoven physiological matrix, a decadent art that pushes one more outside of the present world, a way to subsist in the bland of habitual. If the archetype of the promiscious is that of the whore, then in transcendence, beneath the whore the ordinary world exists, echo again silenced by for her continuum, the anomaly that makes of all men of good intentions, beast, upon their defeat to shamelessness.

Art is measuring the sky, climbing up as far as gravity would allow and climbing higher. In 1971 a man strung a wire between the towers of Notre-Dame Cathedral. For three hours, he walked and juggled along that high strung wire. This feat was repeated again between the world trade towers of New York City, betweeh the northern pylons of the Harbour Bridge in Sydney, across the Great Falls of Paterson, New Jersey, between the spires of the cathedral in Laon, France and the Superdome in New Orleans, nine months after a forty foot fall from an inclined wire that saw him break several ribs, collapse a long, shatter a hip and decimate his pancreas. His name was Phillippe Petit.

In his own effort, Petit sought to measure the tolerance of gravity's leniency, never making a penny, nor garnering fame, all in the sake of art. It is perhaps incomprehensible to many why a man would risk his life for art; art exacts its price. Stastia's tight rope she walked was sex itself, on an incline. She placed her body on the line to live in suspended gravity to reach that transcendence that haunted her from the moment her libido first bloomed. And though Petit died without a legacy to show he ever existed, Stastia's leacy was the ghost in the eyes of all men she seduced, in my eyes.

Women of my life resemble artist as sex resembles art in its most exquisite human motion. However, in art, the female form is only a caricature, it is ever-evolving and cannot be truly or fully captured in its fullness or identical likeness. It is a portrait that can never be, a transitory beauty that makes of the endeavor to capture it, brilliant beauty.

The naked body is the truth beneath layers of many others. It relies on nothing to be told, relies on nothing to be echoed and in its independence, its own individuality, then there is utter dedication to the art of body gesture, of quintessential motion. Art is a gradual and slow growth, then a sudden, tremendous upsurge and one finds a fate that births the next. Stastia's virtue was the door to the fate she surpassed with every instance she suffered orgasmic death and death, that single moment, was the fulcrum fire she danced around to, being pulled centripetal with every flushed convulsion of her body