YOU ALREADY KNOW WHO, AND HOW MANY DEUTSCHMARKS
– Whatever your game, you've been playing it too close to home – Sabrina said, and Beatriz added: – And your mental health? It's hard to believe that little boy who was writing went through all that unscathed, or with the worst coldness, the parody, as if it weren't about you – Beatriz slipped, inadvertently dramatizing, searching for some clinical picture in the landscape of my memory, and maybe it had been there underground in some lost moment in time. Maybe, I thought, in that back room, six years ago: a canvas on an easel, half-painted, and me observing the valve of a snail's shell under a microscope (Zeiss, 2,000 Deutschmarks, oil immersion, binocular). Easel and painting materials at hand. Fairy-tale horse! I saw a spiral galaxy of tiny horny cells whose pigmentation was the dark orange of a setting sun. Focusing on the center of the snail's valve, I spent hours imagining what waves of emotion, what resonances of the morphogenetic field, had blown those involuntary memories into its red—I was using drugs at the time, "Proustianly," of course --- – and then, offering my haggard eyes to contemplate the voluminous pads of my thumb and the tips of my other fingers, I found again that dreamlike spiral I was looking for to fill the rest of my room and felt that chill so common to medieval alchemists, nagualists, hermeticists, as well as to madmen and drug addicts, and known to very few people who read: that cornered strangeness of feeling oneself on the brink of secrets of the mind that no other has penetrated. “The Adept must remain steadfast, while all else crumbles around him.” – Like every man of Napoleonic ambition, and talents as diverse as those of the men of the Renaissance, I have always had the keen instinct to detect moments of crisis in myself and in the world and to discover within the paroxysms the new beauties of self-expression. Krisis was initiation, a crossroads never so close to the precipice. Self-contained as if, in the most artificial mental circuits, my brain was already recovering its primitive, tantric genital strength, to transmute itself into a ghost later.
Continue in one minute
ResponderExcluirShe understood all too quickly. Although my name had already been forgotten, and the grand idea of the pyramid had dissolved into the musty pages of my pamphlet, I still had three or four copies of that extraordinary document. I will freely quote some excerpts from these TRANSDUCTIONS below, which, I must add, were only partially realized in the form of poems, and I strove to establish a CENTER in them, an unfailing autopoietic pose, criticized by many as wasteful or snobbish, but calm and stable within its own field of decisions. The poet becoming "at home" with the Head of the Night: Beatriz. From “becoming a child” (Christ), or the “giving birth - in Mother-Wisdom”, by Montfort, to the instantaneous self-births (Meister Eckhart) and in animal innocence (Rumi) and in despair (Kierkegaard), plus the Luciferic “bearing” of the Light or necklace of discredit, to “see directly” passes – to give birth to us in the knowledge of the birth of each instant, assuming and overcoming the despair at play, its crucible.
ResponderExcluir"Shocking!" I said. The one who achieved this synthesis with the greatest genius and paradigmatic intensity was Artaud, even going so far as to deny his birth. And that Madness arises with birth. "I haven't been born yet, and that's as certain as a steak and fries." Artaud, not having availed himself for a single moment of any of the comforts of preexisting systems, in the utter indigence that founded the decision, the original dew of language, wielding a veritable scene between the understandings and sobrieties excessively pondered by his contemporaries, including philosophies, traditions, and avant-garde movements. Religions, universities, the press, poems—a report that Gallimard published, proving that it is in the flesh itself that what men call mysteries are fulfilled, in a totally profane manner, as in Heraclitus of Ephesus: starting from an indispensable demand for authenticity and interiority.
ResponderExcluirAt that moment, my gaze was so cold and empty that I could easily have been anything else, in the hippocampus of that abstraction, of the house at the inn by the sea where the end of this story takes place, like a film (what resonances would enclose the beams and frieze cuts, the joint points, the arched floorboards of an old house facing the sea)... I could also have been just one of those coconut trees, there was a coconut tree (a palm oil tree, to be precise) there, with an exceptional maple whose trunk split into four just a few feet above the ground, and whose stupefied branches and roots, in the months of the year when the leaves dry and fall, have the noble forms of the brain's nerve grooves seen in the surgical projections of the illustrations in those heavy and sinister 19th-century medical practice manuals I'd been reading... I could even have been that little garden behind the house, which almost no one sees—we're all close to the sea around here, right? – the flowers, that summer, had the electric vivacity provided by the salty air, the sandy soil and the fertilizer super-enriched with artificial nectar and mead... I say this because Beatriz made me think about that garden too, to consider it, for the affective effects of the landscape, evoking the past.
ResponderExcluirDormant, but we barely come to know ourselves more than "that." The word becomes rarer than it left, when its noise exhausted and alienated it—a primordial word, too soon appreciated, returns from nonexistence to precise harmony, an ignored civic identification? We await the journey, without East or West, in the OUTSIDE, in the new languages, in the "at-home" in the "nowhere" of Language, in the being-there, a new creation, and terrible that it has been this way, in the most precarious way, for it soon became a problem of considerable proportions in my life. —Too pretentious of me? —Fuck it. Who knows, that scorching afternoon by the window, in the air conditioning------------------------------
ResponderExcluir-----------------------------------------------It was not really the day when the first of the exploded cells would make that mysterious, independent, original leap from one life to another form of life: that leap I have glimpsed many times throughout my life, in other people or in story characters, who were either me or others, or other selves of others. And I even experienced such a leap within myself, an original Ursprung in Heidegger and a rapture of the narrative form of history in Benjamin, cautiously meditative, approaching the Light, the serene wisdom of care, the daily life of an obedient cell, but whose social life, to which Being has turned its back, sickens from the purposes of any decision, poor and unspeakably morphic. A leap from this cell to that, wild, erratic, the life of the weed or the hired gun, a pirate cell growing according to its own laws, a rhizome assaulting the senses, discourses, relationships, images, names, a whole machinery of writing besieging the organs of the world, rich in orgiastic speed, its example constituting an attraction for millions of other cells, for, if the other life is short, it is also free and without useless complications. On the other hand, one might also say it is miraculous in its forms and lines, and here the Poet becomes a realist in an unimaginable way, and, through his mediator (and simulator) "brush," interrogates the landscape.
ResponderExcluirMind, or I wouldn't even be interested in "writing" them. Her impatience diminishes over an uninterrupted hour of skipping, dewy (original) reading through the blood with the mind smelling of salt under her eyelids, a damp pressure of lysergic insomnia squeezing her eyes, Sabrina's softness in bed, in the corners of my mind. I'm in a living room armchair, under a lamp, but I see her hands, her breathing, the creak of the bed springs when she turns (she moves a lot in her sleep) and the pain of the parched root of my tongue, everything in my mind registers its invisible, inorganic colors. For hours, Sabrina is a long belly stretched in light above the lamp's shadow line. Yes, a new day was dawning; I could feel the morning arriving in my eyes as newspapers were dumped by motorcycle couriers and janitors came and went below, between expensive cars. From afar, I observe one of Dufresne's sparkling reproductions (déjeuner --------------------------------
ResponderExcluir-----------------------------------in time of the eighteenth century: a beautiful, fleshy female nude: solid, vibrant, pink as a fingernail, with gleaming waves of flesh: that sings, like Sabrina's body, that has the humidity of dawn. All those colorful Atlantic fish beneath us, leaping over the edge of the cliff-like building, embedded in the sea rock.
ResponderExcluirDoors emerged from the subaqueous depths of my being, or escaped from a shower through the shower glass, questioning the key to all those superfluities erected into symbols, which were now necessary for a more profitable circulation through the world of the living—the market signed that blueprint. Clarification of inquirer and inquired, all our lawyers on the rhetorical trail of the rejected Prometheus-Man, "controversial," skilled in the abolition of time, apocalyptic or integrated, swiftly transiting through half-open Apocalypses in the daily contemplation of ideas, as number and rhythm of reality. Reducing everything to the simple facts of chronicles, the invisible colors of the sentences startled the unsuspecting reader, making it inorganic, controlled from outside, abducting and molding into supermolds the holographic palimpsests for cash – all the prices discussed with the naked eye on the street, and, if the mental space now assumed the form of a monologue, it was as a way of excavating and doubting the words themselves, and, in them, certain realities of protagonism that escaped us in favor of standardized doubles kept raw in their suitcases.
ResponderExcluir"Such is the irresistible impulse in my books, greater than that of success," I said. When the subject of success was broached, Sabrina endeavored to coax from me a more explicit formulation for my phenomenal "success." By way of reverent reply, I simply said: "Fe dois tout à celles-ci"—though that's not exactly an answer. My gesture revealed in me a humble and detached speech, ------------------------------
ResponderExcluir------------------------depersonalizing, before her, the man I wrote and thought I was. Suddenly, I had become pure Zen haecceity in the city's pranic hippocampus, transfixed by a wind empty of any image or thought.
ResponderExcluirAll your books are enigmas of questions, suspicions, distrust, tracking down and conflicting versions, crypto-financial debacles, Danish impasses of language. "The profound disagreement," you wrote, "but dancing on a tightrope." A sinuous thought that doesn't easily yield, or even a systematic thought-proposal, of questions that emerge (mutatis mutandis) in certain forms of poetry, narrative, or translation—TRANSDUCTIONS that, by MAGIC, transfer themselves to the moistened paths of economics, politics, and culture—like animals on a hunt for Logos: archmage of vectorial orders, thaumaturgical results, waves of numbers and epistemes—SPHINX BIRTH!—a baritone voice and manner employed in maieutics.
ResponderExcluirPost scriptum
ResponderExcluirI would say that it is from this text in particular, derived from a larger version of 2013, that my literary work - despite its lack of commercial virtues and bovine concessions to a dumb and illiterate Brazilian public - begins to stand out for an absolutely disgusting erudite virtuosity and an intellectual snobbery as superb as it is invincible in the rhetorical plane of any human, divine or demonic subject.
ResponderExcluirPost scriptum
ResponderExcluirTRANSDUCTIONS: AN OPEN BOOK IN THE HEAD
ResponderExcluirThe open book in my head may have gone too far. I retreat, trying to retreat, but I can't. I take a deep breath, puffing out my chest, so that the pack of cigarettes stands out in my shirt pocket; my forearms flex, as if pulled by my veins. I want coffee to think faster; this open book in my head contains an immense and inexplicable enigma, more than any other discourse. But, in any case, it's not a book, it's not in a few scattered pages that one must seek the mystery, but in the Zen Void of the Heart, when your hand is willing to write it with that singular language of images and hieroglyphics, a totally different poetry, of which only obscure obviousness is perceived by those who randomly encounter it. Noster Deus IGNIS (PYR) CONSUMENS EST – in the infinite absorption of that Fire, I learned to converse with myself in other terms, immersed in something profound that shone beyond Time. It made me organized within, emerging from the room of nothingness, an act in potential, a fearless germination of the faculties of being, between announcements and predispositions of movement – always the surprised exile of a moment, of its mutating saliva.
postscript
ResponderExcluirfine-tuning the speech with some poems from 2017
Straight water
Every ocean day
I dress in straight, invariable water,
What I asked for, the space that devoured me in front of me.
All wet keys in the marina
I know each state of my joy.
El Greco
I doubt that there was rest in El Greco's paintings.
The harsh, closed timbre of the ambush objects.
The sky opening into craters.
The rock oppressed by mud.
The Mozarabic chant of hidden chapels.
The echo of the stone, vanquished.
The movements in the Zocodover.
Maximum intensity in the minimum of space.
Apparently without measure.
Apparently distant from the world.
A bare study accustomed to the demands of the desert.
The organic element of Toledo in the muddy Tagus.
The plastic style of Castile uses dirty paints to treat its dry physiognomy.
His self-portrait shares his separated mineral matter.
It shares the aridity of toil grafted onto nature.
It shares a dissolution of the ordinary world.
Armed with an eye of a million volts.
Ink transforms absence into intention
ResponderExcluirInk transforms absence into intention.
The wind from outside writes the book, empowers it.
Writing is formulating my intention.
I wanted this philosophy "whose head was next to the sky" ---- and whose feet touched the empire.
In that instant, I reach everything possible
and the impossible at the same time.
I reach the power that being had to reach
the opposite of being. We penetrate the wind
outside, where I open myself to the absence of myself.
I remember near the top of a page
scratched in blue pen: a refuge I arrived at
after an exhausting journey
through almost a thousand pages of poems.
Contains all.
ResponderExcluirContains all.
Bodies.
Souls.
Meanings.
Proofs.
Purities.
Delicacies.
Results.
Promulgations.
Songs.
Commands.
Health.
Pride.
The maternal mistery.
The seminal milk.
All hopes.
Benefactions.
Bestowals.
All the passions.
Loves.
Beauties.
Delights of the earth.
All the governments.
Judges.
Gods.
Follow´d persons of the earth.
These are contain´d in.
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ResponderExcluirI wrote an old text where I attribute to Beatriz an old crazy father But its caused me problems after the first implosion of great narrative and all irruption of female symbiotes over some important fragments than took own voice and conscience and devoured my brain in a hot stuff of chaotic flux of letters
ResponderExcluirPutting the reader in my stratospheric spiritual ZOOM machine!
ResponderExcluirThere was a lot of game-playing, however, in all those discussions, where the movie tones endlessly parade complaints and accusations, disguising themselves as understandable and friendly figures. Anyway, that distracted me for an entire weekend, until I once again had the turn to repeat under what circumstances the interlocutory levers, with some hint of provocation, would gradually become evident and the conversations connected to them, relevant. Nothing agreed upon, unpleasant, again --- they were once again part of the old forbidden group of stories, projections, divinations. Suddenly, we had forgotten all their importance in favor of the "dangerous positions" in the game of mere life, its high risk premium amid questions like: "How secure beyond this!?" All the notes repeated over and over, until I sank to the level of the most vulgar in society. So many obstacles, and so many possibilities (at the same time) to eliminate them by spending a little money. Virile at first, seemingly effeminate after their poses have expired.
The dilated doubt that the world made evolve in the direction of universal fear, an immanent tendency in need of transmutation, only on the basis of "DRAW AND THEN OBSERVE", which always resulted in a spectacle of displeased faces and grimaces touching the clock's hand with their eyes, without any will, in a certain way apprehensive before the mimetic qualities of life's quotation.
ExcluirI now reflected on how long it had taken to reach the current draft—nine years. Continually edited and re-edited not only by me but also through intimate readings and re-readings. Beyond the strictly literary texts, clear in their form and content, the re-readings of old scrolls contextualized and guided horizons newly opened by the pure practice of meditation, while the living draft of the practice was recapitulated in writing in countless temporary and "definitive" versions—innumerable "definitive" versions, because I always believe I am committed to a definitive version, with these drafts, from the blog EL OJO DEL ÁGUILA, which I shut down, to the continuous roll of paper, most of which was constantly organized and reorganized during the reopening of the city of Salvador during the pandemic. Mondrongo, the publisher, even showed interest in the material upon seeing it on the blog, but I told him it was untouchable and unpublishable—not for now, but FOREVER! I said it was a waste of time to publish a text that was ALIVE, a LIVING DRAFT, an inorganic entity with a face of block letters that speak for themselves, while a new careful review of the various disparate proofs, up to five or six different versions of a single paragraph, tied me to several collections of different files, whose plans interpenetrated and modified each other.
ResponderExcluirPerhaps the real text isn't Bar, nor Hemodelic (I told HER).
ResponderExcluirBarely has the NAME of the text undergone nearly three changes in less than six months, the months that formed the ENCHANTMENT WITH MY PERSON in the bars of Rio Vermelho linked to TOTAL DISTRESS, REMORSE, AND NEUROTIC AVOIDANCE in the end, when finally the text became known as DRAFT (he replied).
Everything in DRAFT that has the title DRAFT, all the details about how you abandoned it and then returned to that ridiculous title again, constitutes PART OF THE WORK, and must be written down somehow (SHE said).
For now, antiquated—more concise than ever, as precise and invisible as a dinner hidden in a crypto-exchange-graphic mirage. My presence in the DRAFT is fully anticipated, with minimal movements of reiteration slightly disturbed by sudden shocks of structuring impatience, cloned two eager cores of their sheaves of verses in bursts. A mere barrage of sentences that we fire at or against another here will contain the seed of a future "definitive text," entirely temporary, as we know.
Fighting mercilessly with FORM again, writing more and more each day and taking new directions, completely uncontrollable directions, which perhaps are directly connected to the shift of our solar system toward the constellation Vega, which means EAGLE in Arabic.
ResponderExcluirRight, I've once again lost the ability to manage the chaos of handwritten, scanned, and printed pages accumulating at the bottom of an old green army backpack that was never mine. No, thank God there's no trace of narcotics use in THE DRAFT, not even the thin, Pernambuco-style weed I smoked during the first reopening, while betting money on Brazilian second division soccer matches and my pocket money multiplying rapidly.
And as for that old fragment of Lêdo Ivo here (SHE said, unrolling a lipstick-stained napkin)
"I vomit life onto the sea that hides this country that this night crosses my sleep like the carriage of the hallucinated... In my face, the flame of contempt celebrates you, oh rotten and beautiful world... I can laugh, stirring up my cosmogony, because you have no meaning nor do you explain yourself, never playing in the infinity that is the light of nothingness."
It certainly fits with the paragraphs above; perhaps we can take turns inserting it into the fire of the DRAFT and watch it grow longer and longer as we type and edit an immense amount of material that continues to grow out of control, so much of it already ready!
ResponderExcluirREALLY READY?
READY!
Stop for a moment, and read me:
in the dark, I tie together elements
of fascination.
Hypnosis in question?
It's clear: better to stay on the beach.
Of Poetry, only its space
of besieged identities
emerging in the flesh, with all the
rock 'n' roll of the waves
freezing the retinas.
Hurry: the photolithography!
Just the photograph, and nothing
that can be said.
Volatile offset tamed
in a quagmire of prints.
Thinking of the loose verse,
no woman points a gun.
Silence haunts, but it is the poet's improvisation, his air of Paradise --- the matter explained
by its own shadow
will increase the spell.
There is so much life in the wilderness!
Don't run away, but rather feel
in your beloved work
all the vigor of the seed.
Matheus Dulci
INGENERATUS
ResponderExcluirIf we had to summarize what Castaneda said, or what, from him, is called Toltec, it would be that the whole business is about perception. And as part of that business, we are continuing it here on the Internet (continued by Carlos Castaneda, at some point I will ponder in a very short time), I would draw our attention to the topic of INTERNET PATRONAGE. To look, etymologically, is “to miracle”, to look is a miracle (precisely that was the meaning it had in the romance of the Iberian Peninsula until the 10th century) and in more than half of the languages spoken on the planet TO LOOK, etymologically, is TO LAUGH or TO SMILE PERPLEXED (hence the word mirror in English that shares the Indo-European root with our look) and that is what happens with this wonderful mirror of the world (that immense book according to Ibn Arabi), of the Book, and of the other book that lies open beneath our opacities (Rumi), and that of the cinema whose screen served as a metaphor for Ramana Maharshi, and this 5th book called w, w, w, which mirrors for us the miracle of perception that does not return a mirror world in which to look is the miracle of laughing or smiling because it produces the effect of IONESCO’s laughing grace and recalls the airs of Daumal’s ON MOUNT ANALOGUE and the power of ANTONIN ARTAUD saying, (60 years before Nisargadatta) that HE WASN'T BORN and that
that was as true as a steak and chips...