And, so, she had raced in and embarrassed herself with a bit too much gusto.
Or, so she assumed.
She wanted him to take her dancing where real players made analogue music in a room where people were still allowed to smoke. It would be loud. It would be crowded. And, their lungs would hurt the next day.
⊙
“Sing into my mouth.”
That’s what she didn’t say. But, she thought it.
“Did you really just ask that of me?” asks the voice of consternation. Her version of Jimney Crickett.
⊙
“How would you know ferocious?”
“Perhaps you have not prompted the ferocity in my nature.”
“Hum. It is there. Abiding patiently with a kind smile. To imagine requires a capacity for imagination.”
writing to you as A’ licentious Alice, a chalice, from AL by way of LA origin-ally, with houndstooth donned:
It is the sense of loving the moment. It is remembering the sensation of meta/physical love and then remembering the sensation of how it feels to lose it. That ache. That sense of how many times will they wreck me?. How many times will I play the Fool?
Again and again.
Why lose the Fool of yourself? If I killed the Fool inside to be hip, where did the real me go? With whom do you share your inner fool? Can guarding it be anything authentic?
In this mp3 and streaming world, a mix CD burned,
a cassette tapemade,
breaks my heart right open. Is that why we have one?
This is not sadness; it is a necessary devouring of self.
Here, where the desire to conduct currents raises meta/physical energy in the nerve endings concealed under my skin.
What a waste to not make use of it.
I would waste that energy on you alone.
Waste it in the face of
your silence.
I will howl until you howl back, to punish you.
Does that spook you,
you ghost of the man of May?
Giggle-snarl.
I espied your inconsistency immediately since taking my flight of departure.
Curious.
It was my mistake. I should not have allowed you to let me leave. I thought I was being kind, but I was only being polite. Stay. That’s what I really meant to say or do this time.
I abide still. I stoke fires. I test the limit.
I care for you. That is all. I can unconditionally hold you(,) dear.
My love is not tethered to needing love.
My devotion is my loyalty to my beloved. You endeared yourself to me.
I desire you. Now you must suffer the cost of your own, odd charms.
It is no matter of ‘should’ you, but rather, ‘could’ you
tell me true?
If you could, I hold you(,) dear.
If you could not, I hold you(,) dear.
<>
There is heavy magic in your air and I am magnetized.
Some integral things reduce to simple vibrations, to sounds, to sounds like bays, being transmitted through our air.
I wrote all these words first
in longhand to show you how inane I can be.
How frighteningly unafraid
you could be,
should you so choose, ewe.
Or, perhaps, your hands are tied.
Perhaps you have no choice but to be so.
I learn the record of your timeframes
still.
Deliciously diabolical it seems: both your pleasure and your desperation.
Does it make you forget which side of the road on which you ought to be driving?
Were you just checking out your mojo?
Taking me for a ride in your fast car?
There. Am I impressed?
Hum.
Good question.
Can you answer this: if I told you that your heart belongs to me now, would you hold your head up high in the air?
Could you even if you wanted?
Could you even say if you didn’t?
The difference between ‘can’ and ‘may.’
Simon says he went birdwatching but only saw his own feet.
Not many birds to be seen in that scene?
Just grounded, flightless birds, you adorable dodo.
<>
I saw a porcupine ripping out its own quills,
one by one by one,
by one at a time.
Onlookers horrified at the sight of so much blood.
The porcupine stabs them while they are stunned into stillness by the reverie-stupor of their surprise.
Until three days ago, Parçigal had not slept well, no more than three hours in a sitting. Her mind ran busy moving invisible, imaginary things.
She was not tired. Her eyes unfocused but wide ovals.
Had she dreamt it all?
Maybe she had it confused: was she awake for those three hours, and, in fact, actually sleeping right, exactly now?
No-mind either way. Sleeping and waking became less distinguishable to her a decade ago. There was just lucid and sleepwalking.
She plods herself with aloof-nonchalance that conceals a passionate heart (smart or not). She can look until something appears.
Then the sleep will always follow.
Trivia: she says “thank you” aloud every time she yawns. To remind herself.
What a strange breath is a yawn. Inhalation and exhalation are required to breathe and live. Sneezing cleanses. Yawns seem like alarm clocks to wake you up from real life and let you know it is time to lucid dream. Yawns are the only type of breath that appear to be contagious.
What Parçigal found three days ago:
“The immediate source of Eschenbach’s poem [sic. Parzival] was a Provençal romance written by one Kyot or Guiot. Of this writer nothing further appears to be known.”
Mr. Price Preface from History of English Poetry from the Twelfth to the Close of the Sixteenth Century. By Thomas Warton, B.D. With a preface by Richard Price, and Notes Variorum. Edited by W. Carew Hazlitt. Volume 1.* London: Reeves and Turner, 196, STRAND. 1871.
Capricious as she had not been seeking it. But, sometimes she can see things when she believes them.
Curiouser and curio-user.
*Incidentally, “Of this Edition 500 copies are printed on small paper,
When a pendulum is displaced sideways from its resting equilibrium position, it is subject to a restoring force due to gravity, that will accelerate it back towards the equilibrium position. When released, the restoring force acting on the pendulum’s mass then causes it to oscillate about the equilibrium position, swinging back and forth.
The time for one complete cycle, a left swing and a right swing, is called a period. The period depends on the length of the pendulum’s swing.
In the same vein, “when we hold our breath at the end of inhaling and before exhaling, we experience a state in which the process of becoming seems to be suspended…It gives the impression of a break from the past, quantum leap. For Sufi’s, time is ever recurrent rather than linear.”
P.58 The Ecsatsy Beyond Knowing. Pir Vilayt Inayat Khan.
“What seems to be coming and going is really the result of becoming and manifestation. ”
P.58 The Ecsatsy Beyond Knowing. Abu’l-Hasan al -Hujwiri.
“When the owner of waqt (the instant of time) comes into possession of hal (that is: it becomes a permanent state) he is no more subject to change, and is made steadfast in his state.”
P59 The Ecsatsy Beyond Knowing. Abu’l-Hasan al -Hujwiri.
“Witnessing only takes place when two lights come together.”
Muhyiad-Din Ibn ‘Arabi. quoted from The Sufi Path of Knowledge
I call out for you to breath back and forth against my lips. The light upon light of eyes into eyes.
Be content with the content? Slide your saucerful full of secrets over here?
Disappointed roundtable debators believed that
She had been animal
And mineral
And element,
And Creature,
And Cretin.
And a camællia.
The wandering star gent is part sugar-foot.
A real Achilles heel for him when it melts in the rain.
Sugary sweet
But, highly soluable.
Death and the Lover.
But, she knows him under different handles.
They rotate who leads the dance to each saraband song.
Often swapping pieces of clothes
Endless variations.
Her suspension of choice made him slay her.
What choice?
Can anybody make anybody do anything?
The difference between clumsy, specious interference and kind, capable manipulation?
Fuzzy adjustments.
She lays the pen aside in such a heat of words.
He called her to come to him from an ocean away. In her stomach and heart, she already then felt bits of twine string loosely drape. Cordons that began slithering into knots pulling tighter and tighter.
She felt it and she said so.
“I promise I feel those sweet fingers clasping at my heartstrings. That is all I promise in the right-now. But, darling, I fear I love you.” she said
How much emotional energy, she wondered? She ought not be fearful of loving, but this one was something else in her mind. This man was impeccable.
In love vs. Ilove.
One (N) to the right of (I)
is all it takes.
The difference between loved and beloved.
Fitted and bespoke.
She knew quick that she loved deep. And, still could not abstain from diving head first. No one had ever spoke of weal to her before. She wanted to court him and please him and displease him. But, then her imagination spun some daydreams she presented to him. A bombardment of her ideas presented in delicious, but inexperienced confusion. In retrospect, she shuddered at how giddy the effort must have seen. She felt sad like maybe she blew the idea and made herself look ridiculous. Then she grinned and found a laugh, because at least she tried.
She closed her eyes, imagined he could hear her speak and she said aloud,
I’ve not known eyes like yours, or words used like yours. You are special and rare. The way you move through time. The way time moves through you.
You wear it, those lines, on your face. You will only grow more captivating. I am too old to be this young. You’re so well aged. It could sweet. And even naughty.
The cost of a swoony swoon. The dreams of a romantic mystic. The desires of a feral bitch rising from within. Howling and sniffing.
Then she heeded the call and he was the Genuine article.
Arriving on pins and needles; visiting on tenterhooks; finally
She left slain.
Embarrassingly taken aback by how he puts his hands in his denim pants pockets. Adored. Astir in wonderful calmness, he made mere moments eons with just a bit of string or a yarn to spin. Captivating her wonder. A dream of an artful life
She could recall none other that spoke to her as he did.
In fact, he spoke to her about those things most amazing.
He spoke of passions because he knew them too. His laugh endeared. And his smile was usually close-lipped.
She returned home. Visitors at her home. A small party. A confusing dissonance. Time fell strange.
Three days after returning home, she knew with certainty that she wanted to return to him. She wanted to be by him. Partners in art and crime.
She wanted to
Suggest it might…
Concede it must….
Surrender her nerves with a hard swallow
Submit to hot tears.
She wants a new life with him. Silly girl. She knows though, she can do it on her own and feel proud but she could be in love and do it.
Silly. She feels unhip. But, she knows exactly how she feels. And, she knows it may be just a pretty lie she tells herself.
Yet, her intuition just smiles and whispers: it could be sweet. There are so many possible movements to take on this chessboard, that it becomes a real treat when you have a moment where you know exactly what you want and you can accept that it may not happen.
The difference between I don’t think so and I hope so.
Again, alone in her room, she closed her eyes, imagined he could hear her speak and she said aloud,
“I think I see you the way you wish the world would see you, dearheart. You look fine in these eyes. Fingers such as yours come carrying currents. Diligence meets nuanced, indicating well-honed. Your voice, its quiet, clear enunciation draws my ears. I feel you pull slowly on my vibrations. Shifting energetic threads like braiding hair. Bringing to balance the diabolus.
Worth all risk.
She came from a place of dinosaurs.
She moved to a shiny silicon land where lives occur in hands and eyes look down at screens. People speak in hashtags now. A girl 5 years younger laughed as she told her she listens to CD’s in her car. The last physical format to kill off, I am a CD in a digital town.
Parçigal learned, nearly a decade past, the powers of appearance and its ability to manipulate others. Howl, all gals did. The power of pretty and/or style was the source of feminine efficacy where she was reared. What she noticed, but no one addressed, was the long-game. Prettification during youth resulted in an aging-self prettifying to remain relevant.
The true Tao seemed to be finding beauty unmasked. Bare-face. No jewelry. Unadorned. So, she stopped staring at her own reflection. Hair pulled up, with a disregard for style. Others treated her differently. They ignored her altogether. The joy of the crone helped her become the gal she became.
It tasted different on the way back down, wielding the power of make-up’s corrective abilities.
The difference between beloved pronounced with three syllables instead of two.
Parçigal lived her dream of art. She reinterpreted Myschkin, finally freeing him from being misinterpreted as a Christian allegory. Don’t tell the critical schools.
Of course, books are more often quoted than read these days.
She writes some notes on index cards:
The enumerable is now innumerable. Hypertextuality.
Apposition: the grammatical relation between two words or phrases that stand for the same idea.
Your load-stone hypnotizes & I become a loadstone.
…ask if the metric is true & the imperial system/s fake.
If the Cartesian (Descartes had strange experiences with letters on a train) coordinates are true and the polar coordinate systems of geometry that are non-Cartesian are false.
One geometry can not be truer than another geometry.
It (one over the other) can only be more convenient.
Effie keeps a notepad @ her bedside w/ the intention of recording her dreams while they are still fresh. It was a challenge to remember about it when she first began. But, after nearly a decade, she did it involuntarily, it was a natural bodily function.
Like
Blinking.
She had to remind herself just as much as she had to remind her heart to beat.
She records whatever seems relevant in that boundary dynamic of sleepfulness and waking.
Unsleeping;
she does it w/o intending to do it. Reading back thru what she wrote, it was as tough as though
it came from a stranger’s pen
is some other than her own pen.
is not.
Many times, recently, her notes were statements of facts; assertions of knowledge gleamed from some ungnown authority. At first, it was always descriptions of the dream itself.
Now, it was only the revelations reaped in the dreamscape.
The most recent revelation.
Effie is Emory. Emory was Effie. That was before Effie graduated high-school
WrittenCasey 