Girl-Any-One
(If he were my horse, I'd have him biting the bit all day, until he drooled foam, until he regained his mental balance, lost to his inner sirens, which from within the sea of the unconscious and the thickness of all that has been lived, appeal and "rise" within him against every daily current, to the point where he can no longer find any complacency with our bourgeois naiad milieu or with our good people from the villages, cities, and farms, what a chic countryside!, and our wonderful provincial amusements, so much better than those of the big city full of diseases --- sometimes, I think that anything other than a fixed, icy stare into Nothingness gets on his nerves (K) --- the dimension of the lived in him is tremulous and liable to instant dissolution, and it seems to me that this is what makes him so intolerantly combative, the violent agitation in which he lives is a kind of Nile of angry language, full of crocodiles, where an active intellect of the primordial tongue type flows chaotically, carrying apocalyptic visions of everything and a seductive and seemingly infinite variety of vivid, pent-up, tantric and limitless, yet incorporeal, full of debris of residual meanings, a minimum of matter admitted into its humus of intermediate certainties, oscillating between the immaterial infinite and the metabolic wreckage of an atheistic maturation of reality---it's his haste and impatience in wanting to leap over all of human history and introduce those changes that seem made for an alien world---but not even at a much later stage of social and cultural development can I imagine people living as he wants (in a traditional Hindu or Vedic way, it seems to me, with flying saucers and all): and with all that accumulated malice from a lifetime of sea bathing (with a look that never pleases us in any way), in addition to the constant tone of mockery, full of maneuvers to never give in to the most indispensable conveniences, a dragon watching over a secret life, full of that deep-rooted animosity, of an intellectual detractor of all Western civilization, of a Muslim blaspheming in an airport toilet, while adjusting the explosives in his body, incapable of reflect and work peacefully, whatever it may be --- in fact, this is what also makes his readers impatient, because he truly feigns the greatest affection for them all the time, an intimate friendship of which perhaps only physical desire is real,
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immediately sexualized friendship that sometimes becomes strangely tender or distinctly spiritual, however great the differences and obstacles always are, almost two beings opposed in some or many senses (how difficult it is to get to the point of copulation with them... so why?!, he must be thinking, or not?) --- a fine relationship of esteem in which is produced (according to Dostoevsky in The Little Hero) this ‘’mutual, tender and inwardly nuanced relationship, in which one of them puts kindness and condescension, and the other, love and respect --- a respect that, to tell the truth, has its shades of fear; this fear of losing our worth, for some reason, in the eyes of someone we hold so dear, which at the same time inspires in us the desire to penetrate deeper into their heart, thanks to the merit of our actions’’ --- and I fully recognize: always waiting for the next chapter, in the expectation that it will always be ME --- I loved it when he turned me into a character, with the good taste of not mentioning my dog, my family, my boyfriend or the exact location of my house --- no, I didn’t feel like a puppet in his hands, not at all, but I felt a little less human:
ResponderExcluira kind of walking book head traveling through my own life at high speed, as if it were another person, like a UFO, full of arrow-sharp phrases that I would like to have within me and that I now have --- what an enchanting luxury of words!, like when he puts Proust speaking through my mouth: "since true reality is grasped only by the spirit, we only really know what we are forced to recreate through thought, what everyday life hides from us" --- by being "written" by him, I assumed an artistic form that I had never had, which now exerts a very particular fascination on me when I look in the mirror; I became a student of myself (even though the excess of self-observation often leaves me horrified by this or that in myself), and my life has created for itself a shadow, of the “violent loving unconsciousness of what exists” (apud Clarice in G.H.), a lucid, gothic and secret shadow, cunning as in a language written just for me, which fills me with lust for myself --- “the matter vibrates with attention, vibrates with process, vibrates with inherent actuality” (idem) --- so, returning to the subject, you can imagine what I feel when he stops writing or communicating publicly and disappears ---
ResponderExcluir
ResponderExcluir--- then suddenly my feeling of being “as big as a distant landscape” (G.H.) ends and I am once again face to face with the commonplace and beaten material of life, with which, in fact, I deal quite well, even though I feel my entire interiority reduced to an almost hurried journalism, full of the useless granulations of the moment and of always unwanted, ill-conceived, superfluous and irritating additions --- so, I start searching, gropingly, in what astral stratum his soul must be wandering, to forget me so completely overnight, with the force of a titanic and inhuman introspection, of which our lives full of repetitive social habits have neither the rawness nor the charms --- and even though, at times, I have felt desired and loved by him to the point of orgasming alone in my room, SO MUCH EGOISM(!), so much egocentrism blatant in all those kilometer-long memories, in which so many beautiful unknown to the public, of which no one will ever hear again ---
ResponderExcluir--- and what an absurd amount of knowledge!, as if there were in his time several other times in a virtual state, or even real, each one with a complete kit of expertise --- and if he is capable of recreating so vividly through thought the dry branches of life, as he does with memories, I imagine what he does with the green branches (the mental picture of daily sensations in which they pulse, in which I myself pulse, with or without a break in continuity) --- in fact, continuity is true in Clarice's book, which all my friends decided to reread at the same time, with G.H. speaking towards the end of the book: (‘’One thing I know: if I get to the end of this story, I will, not tomorrow, but today, eat and dance at the ‘Top-Bambino’, I really need to have fun and relax. I will wear, yes, the new blue dress, which makes me look a little slimmer and gives me color, I will call Carlos, Josefina, Antônio, I don’t remember exactly which of them I realized wanted me or both wanted me, I will eat crevettes no matter what’’, and I know why I will eat crevettes, tonight, tonight my daily life will be resumed ---
--- that of my common joy, I will need for the rest of my days my light, sweet and good-humored vulgarity, I need to forget, like everyone else.) / It's just that I didn't tell everything. / Which was difficult: because the neutral thing is extremely energetic, I spat and it continued to be me'' ))).
ResponderExcluirEnd Girl-Any_One here!
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