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Tel Quel

je sais bien mai quand même

Tag Archives: Written on the Body

So I stared awhile and waited for words, the right words, but your head was on my chest and I could not speak so I traced and coloured silhouette hearts onto the contour of your shoulders with my fingertips instead, gathering that this would be more symbolic, more faithful, more promising than tracing crop-circles into your skull, what good would circles have done anyway.

Oh, but your hair smells nice.

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Now autumn brings the beautiful things,
where all you give comes back to you like the crown upon my king.
Your life’s a song, so sing along before the silence swallows you and leaves you like a pawn, watch angels in the morning become a devil’s afternoon,
I will panic in the evening underneath the crashing moon.
So fall in love while you can still hold your head up high,
And pretend that you’re alive again.

You never give away your heart; you lend it from time to time. If it were not so, how could we take it back without asking?

However, when time fails you, so does everything else. The gift economy, the value system. Neither are reducible, or bearing the propensity to be reductive; that is, if I assume I am measured by time alone. Not time, but moments.
I am moment-specific. Does that mean I’m volatile?

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Time that withers you will wither me.
We will fall like ripe fruit and roll down the grass together.
Dear friend, let me lie beside you watching the clouds until the earth covers us and we are gone

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I looked to the sky one day (or night or possibly the momentary awkwardness of Hemera and Nyx in cosmic collision), it was the colour of veins. A rush of nebulous darkness across the radial plain, eventually chasing southwards into an azure abatement and hints of rose madder and sangria across the deep palmar arch, and beyond. My hands, my lightning-incised palms are odd mirrors. A gentle, (perhaps gentler) firmament of an overhanging, collective morality.

Tracing outlines and dimensions, we consume and acknowledge a visual, kinesthetic exteriority. Traversing flesh to bones, my hands are the loci of contact (clumsy but immediate): My hands, not yours. This is my final frontier, my Parthenon, my truth, my perfect eyesight in darkness.

But these hands dismantle, and repair, dismantle and repair. Follow the deepest blue: Princeps pollicis, Digital, Superficial, Deep (arteries), and I/You hold the universe in (my) hand. As far as the eye can see; Ursa Major, Minor, Polaris, α Cen A.
Take my universe.

I am Kepler’s soldier: perfect geometry, imperfect-perfect harmony.


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The lights didn’t take my eyes, I’m still alive, I still know how many fingers any-generic-you are holding up: two, three, four, six, two point seven. It’s difficult to accept reductive quantification. I am a number. Technically, the intransitive aspect (despite the absent verb) invalidates the clause. Metaphysically speaking, again, it’s all part of one giant antipathic cosmic equation. This time, I used antipathic as a derivative noun. Because language is such, as such, that is why two point seven is not blunt force trauma, it’s plain trauma.

It’s a travesty because sometimes I refuse to explain (to) myself. In spite of language being and extending outside of everything if possible, the structure (I don’t like the word structure) of the word as in morpheme and phoneme being the process of sign, signifier, signification is premised on the assumption of one meaning at any one time and space. One suggests wholeness, an absolute, finite and in terms of the Boolean constant: true; the markers of perfection. It’s a simultaneous breath and death in every word and sentence, and punctuation. Punctuations have souls you know? They aren’t linguistic accessories or by-products of academic ignorance, with much respect to Vonnegut and Brian. What they might have liked to imply was its flagrant misuse and misrepresentation instead. But coming back, I know my fundamental logic has been compromised along this paragraph but it’s the same difference between a structuralist and post-structuralist. To use Barthes’ metaphor, a camera lucida. However, it is so much more alive than I can even begin to describe and since I like cats, I’ll use Schrödinger’s cat as an allusion, metaphor and everything else.

It’s a misunderstanding. Language does not fail per se, it is hyper-effective. Dualities are also pretty bogus sometimes so it’s not an Either/Or logic, especially so in this context. Just as I cannot adequately, conclusively process the prospects of forever or use Kepler’s Laws to measure the meaning of always. I am finite.

Yet sometimes I just trust, and feel, in spite of; to just stand within  (and not just to hear, according to Kundera ) the semantic sussurus of the tributaries whose nature resemble the Mandelbrot set, and breathe. I revere them because they protect me, and they protect me inside. If I repeat this number and several other concomitant facts long enough, they will gradually become awkward phonemes and empty sets, all over again. So Winterson is relatively wrong when she said, “As though repetition might achieve what faith could not.” But I still believe her anyway.

This is all displacement, so they say. Ego and Superego protecting the Id from material consequences: just an extension of the continuously evolving socio-cultural mores of modern society therefore law, logic, empirical reasoning for quantity control at one one-trillionth of a scale. I did mean quantity, not quality. Maybe not one one-trillionth because Jung postulates the presence of Synchronicity, or the collective unconscious. It came to a point where the numbers broke my heart: 945, 1216, 2020, 0525, 2.7…, but it doesn’t mean enough anymore. Numbers don’t protect me, all the little earnest love-making pairs of morphemes and phonemes do (and also incidentally reminding me of mome raths)

Thus weary of the world away she hies,
And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid
Their mistress, mounted, through the empty skies
In her light chariot quickly is convey’d;
Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen
Means to immure herself and not be seen.

11. 1189-1194

Apparently Paphos is the Southwest of Cyprus, nice. And if not Milton or Shakespeare, let there be no other. (Also because it is one of my favourite paintings from Vecelli) I have absolutely zero technical eye for Renaissance art, but it’s beautiful in a Shakespearian-Threnos kind of way therefore unconditional, because sometimes I really don’t have a reason for everything. The world spins madly on.

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I feel bad for those who’ve used keyword searches and expected it to lead them somewhere deeper and more meaningful, instead they arrive here; a graveyard of memories both obsolete and freshly dug, but resplendent with occasional offerings of carnations, posies and in particular forget-me-nots. Five petals, one for each word.

This will be the last time I cross the road with my nose in a book. It wasn’t intentional but it’d be horrible to leave my room in a mess like that, and I didn’t even get to thank my mother yet. It’d be horrible, in general. Still, I finished Winterson in a day: that, I was proud of. And it is as her mock staging goes, I’ve ignored their(her) forlorn one-sided repartee, the fact that the naked woman talks too much, the fact that she replaces the center of the universe in the figments of her imagination: the lone sufferer, the virgin, saint and martyr. End scene. No, all that attracts me is “When I try to read, it’s you I’m reading.” It took me one hundred pages to realise that all my microscopic, illegible but fervent annotations at the sides had no specific purpose, no literary importance. The cataclysmic affection of lines, parantheses and curves were a conflation of all the cryptic expressions meant for you to decipher, and for you alone. Or was it for myself for reasons beyond th.. I hear tires screech through my skin and the infuriated click of car doors, sharp as a revolver. I apologise profusely, sincerely.

My favourite chapter is”The Skeleton”. It’s insane, this mental harvesting of words, colour and sound. The Scapula.“Shuttered like a fan no-one suspects your shoulder blades of wings. You are a fallen angel but still as the angels are; body light as a dragonfly, great gold wings cut across the sun.” I ravish syllables and rhythm as they transpose into meaningful cyphers, hiding key and clue beneath the arches of consonants and between the spaces of vowels.

And the last page, may I read it aloud?

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