Deep Diving into Mishima

Forbidden Colors - seems the right reading before another Japan trip.  Trying to wrap myself up in all things Japanese if you please.

A funny day walking about in search of a perch to land on.  A place to do a little writing like this outside of notebooks.  Fewer hooks and crooks to fall in and out of.   Not much writing done after all.  A good bit of walking and talking to the self.

Considering the loneliness of the age.    Life apart.   Breaks the heart.

And of course all the forgotten projects.    Project forgetting and regretting themselves.   The burden of the promised to do.

A delightful Dog Eared Castro reading with Minnette.  Friends and celebrations of solidarity in queerness. 

A Twin Peaks Tito Martini and after an Orphan Andy burger for dinner.  The perfect Castro evening.

Writing on Performance/Riding the Performance

Describe the actions/actors.  The scene.  The mood.

Dissect the scenes.  Pull out the themes.  Break and un-break the things by writing within the thing.

How much of the experience is the aftermath?  The after after all is the future past perfected.

These queer Irish performers.   This queer Irish performance.  So much of the experience unknowable without context/history/language.

The performance still unfolds in the after.

A schema of crema.  Fraiche ideas for beutiful boys.

They tell me white on white colonialism is even more fun.   Absent a racial component the oppression/suppression is unobscured.   Pure in its architecture.  The personal prefecture of power.

She asks if it is possible to be both pure and sullied all at once.  I answer taint the saint and she'll still save ya.

Oh mary mary quite contrary do you love me so?

A small pattern of pain marks the border between past and present.

Her nails curled up and peeled back from her fingers revealing nascient claws growing from her bloody finger tips.  She shook her hands violently tossing the molted nails and blood aside.

A museum of cunts.  The cunts in the basement.  The base of the museum.  A foundation of cunts. Cunts under the mews.  Cunts the muse.  Guardians of the partriach's gates.  Through the cunt they all must pass.  Man and woman to enter the corrupted temple to Rome.

A collection of cunts clamoring at the gate.

Welsh sex workers unite the miners in the land of love.  Emerald smiles.  Desperate whites.  All pats in play.  They kill the Leprechaun.  Take back the Zombies.  An ontological Gaelic.    The colonial experience all in white.  Gwelga.  Walk the imaginary line. 

Undo the erasure of the body from the language.  Unmake the church and state.  Property and borders become extremes of dark and light.  Saint Patrick, a Welsh sex worker, came back and fucked the island into submission. 

Composition Marks, Methods, the Notebook Problem and a little on Performance

Neeli Cherkovsky talks about the magic of composing poetry on the computer.   He writes ideas and sketches in notebooks but never poems.  Poems he writes only on the computer.

I wrote through the nineties and all the way through the oughts on a computer.  Sometimes even on something called a Palm Pilot which was about the size of an iPhone but had this amazing fold out keyboard.   Then something changed.  I became more and more interested in writing on paper, in notebooks and increasingly very specific types of notebooks.   Japanese notebooks for a long time were my go to place to write.  Then Belgian Atomo notebooks with their solid spirals and special binding letting the pages be taken out and new blank pages put in.  I am again back to Japanese notebooks (or at least those from Japanese stores as some are actually made in Vietnam).

I am not sure exactly what drove me back to paper and away from the computer.   It may have been a shrinking down of the scope of my writing.  A return to more poetry less fiction and performance pulling me closer to the page.   It could have been the intense digitization of my life (along with everyone else's).  But the notebooks are a pleasure and a problem.  The writing stays in the notebooks for a long long time.  A problem I have talked about briefly before.

I've been asking myself recently what it is I am interested in.  Obsessed with.  And by extension how to engage with that interest/obsession.   Ironically what I am most interested in is Performance.  Something that I gave up formally a long long time ago but something that inhabits my every day and very being quite intensely.

I perform constantly.  Usually short improvised pieces riffing off a phrase or bit of language that infect the place, situation or my mind.  These small performances are impossible for me to stop.  The happen almost out of control and with some risk or danger.   I have no idea what is coming next until they are done.

Airports Argue the Colonial Questions Persist-A Stain of History

Engage and enrage.  Foreign laughter sounds like an argument of rolling roiling Rs.

A chuckle, the knuckle he’ll buckle under.  Thundersome drums of beaten hands, bruised bodies begetting Bambi dreams and screams—Oh No!  Don’t glow—irradiation sweeps the nation in a fallout of signification.  

Gendering the probable pronoun of the unblinking from forming the inversion of the smile seen around the world—And yes that is a sexual term without and within hetro normative discussion/digressions on the homosexual experience.  

Sodomy is a such a quaint term—hard to believe its mention could cause a lady or the impacted lad to faint—a feint of no consequence for the sense of a crushed nipple—a sticky ripple the small of stipple—an adulation sweeping the nation.  

Go on then…tell me some more magic tricks or better yet of magical tricks—horny hicks, raging pricks and pretty dicks—Detectives one and all.

Boarding/hoarding.   The flush handle matches catches the decorator’s eye.  Emboldens the designers desperation, sweeps the nation like a broom—open up the tomb—bury it like a womb man—cross the span as another Iran—so far away only a seagull can say hey hey we’re the flunky—a they of delicate identity and an impermanence  of binary.

Cobal is a t short of colour—sing the true blues of bludgeoning, then bring the right red to bare the knuckles under which he buckles.

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Skylines of clouds—the louds of ice dreams in silky fluffs of snowy down.   An imagining of inter dimensionality—the collapse of the narrative into a single story structure.  A Flat running through with possibilities—an impossible assertion of one dimensionality—if only a line could be as fine as wine—age gracefully—unapologetically with wonder—dreams of thunder—cracks in the façade—hard as a placard.  Drive a vintage Packard.  Pretend to a characteristic heuristics—the math is difficult to parse with the promise of a/the missing integer. 

Her digits designed to beguile all the while—something pretty to defile—a characteristic blemish—A story told in Flemish.  A Dutch treat.  The little Dutch Boy—Taller than all the rest.

The Colonized Indonesians, kept for their pleasure after the loss of their treasure.   The locus of the pleasure, the focus of the pleasure all in terms of the colonial Cock—a doodle doodle do—An al dente noodle pent up the rent—over he goes stopping as no one knows how or when or when.  

Any incidental pleasure the Indonesian experiences is considered accidental and unforeseen.

The accommodation of the Colonial Cock is not easy for the Indonesian.  The Colonial Cock is insistent/persistent in its penetrating way.   The Indonesian must give over to the Colonial Cock all it asks and more. Give over the power and pleasure as it were nothing and every thing.

The Indonesian’s pleasure is profound.   Unexpected, the pleasure reclaims and tames the Colonial Cock.   The pleasure is a power, a potion, a notion of magic making—no faking—the Indonesian’s orgasm rocks the Colonial Cock to its roots, shoots its evidence everywhere sticky and stuck the Indonesian holds the Colonial Cock hostage to its desire,  a captive cock begging for release.  Just a little more grease.

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Mineral and metal resources extracted as part of the occupation paid for the costs of the occupation.  One nation under godless corporation, the peninsula prevaricates over its own fate.  Asks of itself existential questions.   Wonders of its wonders slipping from its soils.   Coils in repulsion over the occupiers compulsion to comport themselves in Colonial costumes while buggering all the boys.

Surely native attire is more appropriate for local fornication—regardless of the nation state or fate of the buggers and the buggered.

Assumption is a kind of consumption of beliefs belying the boy bottoms turned top notch buggers, butts bouncing happily in the air as their Colonized Cocks claim the frame of the Colonizer’s ass as their own. 

My how big you’ve grown.  If only I’d known.  I couldn’t possibly…

Oh.  Oh.  Yes.  Yes.  I…I… am.  Oh god.  Yes take me …Oh… Oh, yes.  I’m yours.

Those white men are just whores whose snores disturb the sleep of the keep.  A reckless lot they’re not got a lot to offer save the proffer of a position perhaps far from home.

The relations between Colony and Colonizer is complex.  As relations shift and evolve the interdependency blurs the lines of power and prestige.   The raw materials are transformed.  Values added.  Ideals attached to entanglements.  House boys become house holders.   Property turned to property holder, of property.  With property.  As though with child.  Without expectation.  Against and for expiation.   An explication—explicitly implicit in the arrangements for sleeping and keeping.

Affectionately called bed warmers by their keepers, the local boys expectations are greater than their keepers imagined possibilities for them.

A Continuous State of Failure

This blog and even the idea of this blog is an imagined conversation that barely happens...

My propositions of things to think about and write about linger for days...weeks...years.    Waiting for the time that never comes.

And so here again as I say I will write of Colonialism and Stains I take a piece of writing from a notebook and publish it here as an answer to that promise and bid to break the continuous state of a failure to engage.