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Tel Quel

je sais bien mai quand même

Tag Archives: Art and Lies

I have been away for longer than expected, but I owe nobody explanations. Between the familiarity of pages and irregular pagination, I remind myself that it is my handwriting that gives (my) memory a voice, not this Georgian type-face; a feeble projection of the binary-coded decimal.

It’s been unsettling, the past few nights. I wake up, mildly lamenting my painful inability to have bearable dreams, much less brilliant ones. Mendeleyev dreamt up the Periodic Table, Lederman conversed with Democritus in the dreamscape of Fermilab’s Collider Detector Facility… I, on the other hand, was more inclined to hover between life and death situations in my lucid dreams: reversing the Euclidean condition and the accidental discovery wormholes, conspiracies, the Venus Project, the cognitive asylum between the humanist and the futurist, the scanners, the All reet! All reet! of Bester’s mad android, and in particular the neanderthal child. As usual, Asimov had the most influence on my dreams (the last time it was the Blood Daubers by Kosmatka and Poore in Asimov’s Science Fiction however indirectly) and I’d wake up with a queer feeling of physical and mental displacement that lasted well throughout the day. On one occasion, I solemnly watched my lunch travel from one end of the table to the other. These dreams were wearing me out and I could feel it.

Nonetheless, I earnestly swear by Asimov (and Bradbury, and Sturgeon). They are immensely enticing and horrific but I suppose that’s the fundamental premise of science fiction – hypotheses as infinite possibilities, the existence of the multiverse; the spiritus mundi as a thought experiment. Every night I found myself walking into Schrödinger’s Cattery, surrounded by cats and un-cats alike.
I can barely tell them apart sometimes.

xx

Piece by piece the fragments are returned; the body, the work, the love, the life. (…) And which is true? That is, which is truer? Memory. My licensed inventions. Not all of the fragments return.

It was an irreparable vacuum of every other farewell. I turned towards the source of stillness so that none may see my face but you called out, like a wreath cast into the ocean. I let you take me in, coaxing me with an unspoken promise before releasing me once more. This wasn’t freedom, I did not want a choice and you didn’t give me one. On the contrary, we remained as lovers in a quantum entanglement; never one without the other, with the variability of motion and stasis in the same breath of logic.

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Five more days.

I am a dreamer. It was said that one day I would lose myself, and everyone else to (my) dreams. But did I not dream you into life? Or was it you who dreamt of me first? It’s hard to believe oneself immaculately conceived from dreams alone. Dreaming, alone; dreaming alone.

Let me see your face. You face lit up by twenty centuries. Who told me you had stars in your eyes? Let me see your heavenly body. Star-proof I am not. From a hundred billion others, you hurled yourself down in gassy form; no definite boundaries, no fixed volume. You could have filled any space but the space you filled was me. I saw you drop from the roof of the stars, and in the moment of your falling, you began to be defined.

I picked up the flickering body, frozen in crystalline form, kissed the place of your face and the solid geometry of each limb. Five points you; legs, arms and face, a pentagon of hope, and me a talisman at your hand. Revoke me; You do. Call me back and back through the wastes of time, here, there, nowhere, carrying white roses never red. Not a dead poet but a living love, and if the words I bring are dusty, I will renew them in your mouth.

But I am also a realist, brutal on my own fodder of Truth/truths, savage as any uninhabitable space. In my dreams I give you the living word, not promises but the living word: let the blind lead those who can see but cannot feel.

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Every movement necessitates an overwhelming sensation. The air grew cold, and for a moment, smelt of Melbourne: careless, sleepless, tireless; free. That particular street with the imposing french windows and screaming typography on every pane beside the quaint cafe with cheap pots and skull-warming heaters hung aloft, the same street where we walked until our feet hurt our pockets empty but our hearts full of purpose and possibilities and eventually we bought a pair of pumps each, in feeble surrender. Those were the nights of milk and honey, and cheap cigarettes. I had so much less of everything then.
This is my fourth night, completely clean.

And here I stand again, waiting in a different time and place, where all of the little rights and wrongs dissipate beneath the lights of a false, obscene winter in quiet contemplation of aesthetics over ethics; like Winterson’s Picasso and Sappho intertwined. Why are we moved? Because there is an excess within our lack thereof(s); a thousand things, people and events at any given time for which and/or whom we have no language for.

“Why do I long for another turn of time? Why do I want the clock to go faster when my life depends on holding back the hands? Why? I want to kiss you.

Kiss me with the hollow of your mouth, the indentation of desire. Kiss me with the pulled-apart open space, demolition of propriety, rebuilding of a place of worship among an upright people. She kisses me. The words that there are, fly up from her lips, a flock of birds cawing at the sky. An engine of wings migrating through the world but she makes her home in me.

**

Love me (…) through time, beyond the clock. Help me forget my life.”

They say the heart is a weapon the size of your fist,
(but how terribly small)

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