Antinovel theorist & experimental writer. Member of “The Irrealists” (an experimental writing group). More interested in reading & writing than in publication.
A cloud of associations extinguishes nostalgia dispensed at cafés, satisfying their craving for deliverance. To use a new language, they pursue faceless targets desperate for news. Now there is nothing left that stirs their #hiraeth for home and the long summer grass. #vss365
Gilded butterflies accompanied by echos of retained appearances in omnibuses and underground railways are visitors from heaven, tiny ornaments of noise ceaselessly arising like dew. The #savvy mirror writer rejoices: ‘“I am” clothed with light and fed with morning manna.’ #vss365
I emerge from distances deeply sprung to write down his name as an accusation: REDACTED (a noted biogenesis #fundi and saxophonist). He should be blamed for buying out many of those cultivated talents and his obsession with mime plays as spectacular diversionary tactics. #vss365
Heavy water is a formula linking spacetime by gravitation with heavier hydrogen, prefigured in the Book of Job: As stars of ponderous #twilight become dark, they look for light, but won’t find it, neither will they see a dawning sky in which the sun has been made black. #vss365
Space exploration and colonization energized a weariness in thickets of surprise inexplicability. Peace and love: counterfactual idées fixes of the sixties. Virtual reality illuminates complications breeding obsessions ending in a #season demanding change of palette. #vss365
Evil bloated elephants listen intently, working synthetically in the world network gnawing at #gaunt quay walls while simulated beings swarm inharmoniously — simultaneously wreaking insane havoc on humanity’s dreams of a future with red kings thrown down in rough weather. #vss365
A man of no fortune or identification accepts a random assignment at the liquidation desk given the tending angel. Events unfold as I contemplate the ancient dragon story to be revealed in the tiny chapters to follow dictated at the Angler #Bar into a tape recorder. #vss365
Why succumb to the prose of childhood when you don’t know what to be scared of? Years later, when he became a real writer, disregard for the already-said caused his fingertips to #burn. But at thirteen one makes impassioned declarations at home in hack romantic novels. #vss365
The Librarian grasps the huge ring handles. His aged muscles strain with effort. In spite of my comparative youth, I am not certain that I would be able to swing them open. I look up to gauge the height of the doors. I reckon that they are at least thirty #meters high. #vss365
Tao Te Ching 75 concludes (in Ursula Le Guin’s rendering) with: “But those who don’t live for the sake of living / are worth more than the wealth seekers.” The poem lists why “the poor” (the working class) are hungry, rebel, and “hold life cheap”...
https://t.co/ZqHLBbyIk6
A nurse inquired if I’d seen a man swaggering down the street wearing a bowler hat. Her hands fell open to reveal a Tarot card: Wheel of Fortune or Fool? No, Arcana 17. When the Moon cannot fully #block the Sun we pretend to be shocked by decorous pupils of the occult. #vss365
Fordism ensures the green forest depths are reflected as distorted shadows. Even the poor are intoxicated — intoxication and precision divide emotion whirled into rapture for transportation. Shells of people unable to afford cars will dream falsely to #transient music. #vss365
Propelled by sacrifice and distant music from the casino, he transforms himself by returning to his notebooks for #solitude in known arcades, stranded in Gardens of Delights. At times he thinks this is pointless, circular work: the invisible inventions of memory pictures. #vss365
To restore balance to this generative system before complete entropic collapse, predictive calculations showed that the last #band of humans died out by 4001 and gave birth to future humans who would beam signals across the timelines to reshape history in their own image. #vss365
After revisiting those two classics, I’ve just arrived at chapter 16 of Anne Brontë’s “The Tenant of Wildfell Hall” and so far I’m finding it a much more compelling narrative. Wondering why this one isn’t held in as high esteem. Or is it?
Prompted by my recent reading of “The Dreamed Part” by Rodrigo Fresán, I’ve embarked on a reading of the works of the Brontë sisters and two biographies. My first reading of Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre must have been in 1983.