the mirror [or the sentiment of dwelling in dying away]
for Eabha Rose, with a very tum-tum, tum-tum feeling of belonging, with much love
Somebody wakes up at [cloistered] o’clocks today – a little later, endurance is in short supply. A character – dot. [Creature within creatures that vomit up – some mines?] A person–a. Whose confined unreadable transparency I look in – a limit to, there’s a limit to, a limit, there’s a limit. What my hands may not hear out is exactly what her eyes relinquish to – touch. Nothing to trace down but a blank made of blanks, yet stuffed. Of non-power. Impossible it is to unburden herself of that package of [mis]ongoings – to the eyes of. Or overdressed whoops – due to fright within. Acrimonious, this is excessively [or apparently] encased in such a box of […]-many-other-life periods linked to non-said sentences over time-less-time that may have drawn her wonderment away from her envisage into –. Where’s the focus? Overrated. I stumble along this path – it’s already mine.
She has skipped out after failing to get into that stuff. Missteps – springing from pages of cutdowns, shown to have been the result of years of outcries. In silence. Hospitals serve as cages that she shouldn’t make her encounters with. In despair. Jails keep her bleeding when the one-and-only $$$-plin-plin has just slain her. “A foreigner here like everywhere else.”
No apparent surprise to this plot. You are what you don’t. She is what she hasn’t. I am but those I can’t. We – what we won’t.
Across the morning of this crushing into being into holes, it’s not like forgetting the words to your unfashionable song, or unpleasant suit. Uncurious [or unavailing], impossible it is to encapsulate the story of a tear-after-tear marks-against in a single one-page shot. Nothing on it could turn out to be purely retrospective, purely inward-looking as a form of wordless striving to please. Or to screw up overmuch.
But it sucks. It bangs into her ears. And it sucks. Sitting in this chair in front of some slippery-obstinance screen, looking at fifty-one demons of deceit leading her to distrust blatant-forged oncoming lights, the spotlight itself may come up, and the claps seem so close. They want her to smarm her way into a – way of noways for her. And then she rolls over – the printing surface of mistakes considered to be committed all along the way, and after all they’re brought about. By this aching-very act of capturing-then-feeling-then-expelling. All this frantic motion – resting in solitude, made of inner-self ruins. Which have been built and rekindled over tick-tack tormented beats, even whispers, to make her – tear down all the imaginary yet cute cuddly-looking vividness she used to keep inside.
Is there any less sinuous route to her – to chime in with nothing but nothing-nothing? Ok, she often mislays her umbrella. Eyeglasses, idem. And look: the moon is ever so bright today, she couldn’t have misplaced anything. These are ones – events on everything, opposite of all the nothings she would be much delighted at lauding, or silently applauding, or just telling you as hers. Newspapers-and-magazines chain-corporate men and women lure her into – oh, they and everyone else appear to lure her into the everythings. That’s the way it goes. That’s what makes her come out and vanish. Plin-plin they are the most – these “yellows” [or “noirs”] that create her. And box her. And put her – into those desirable spotlights she does not want, she does not need to. But intoned they are for the latest victim[s] of…
And then she feels misfit. Actually, I am – I equal those unadjusted rates of anything else-anything… Where’s the fucking route? Where is it? Where? The fucking – the route…
I wake up today at 7 o’dawn in the clock – a little in lump, delirium is in long supply. A character – dot-dot-dot. [My own mislayers within mislayers I need to vomit up – some hers?] My person–a. A fictionism whose spread-out evanescence I abide by – a block to, there’s a block to, a block, there’s a block. What her eyes may not taste is exactly what my mouth hears out – whimpers. Everything to tell apart, and a fullness made of fullnesses, yet empty. Of control over –. Thoughtful it is to let her pour her heart out to me. As if her myriads of packages but my own myriads of everythings stuffed of ongoings – for the sake of my own invisibility. Or overdosed cries and whispers – due to quelque chose d’absent et d’étranger et d’inconstant within. All this prays me away the fucking desirable route. In a double motion, however, it also puts me into. Her envisage into –. My sight on. Where’s the focus? Lost at any vain attempt in the middle of the way. She stumbles along this path – it’s already mine.
And it is full of. Walkings down. Cryings out. Eatings. Lookings. Gettings married. Beings fucked-up. Clappings out. Writings down. Workings out. Givings up. Buyings stuff. Dancings. Copings with. Goings back on. Losings senses. Wakings up. Stoppings. Distressings over. Startings out. A limit, there’s a limit to. There’s a block to. A block, a block, a…
And the nausea – still here-anywhere, dancing on the everyday, concrete-pavement-floor streets, viaducts and avenues… When she gets to see it, as I feel shattered to engorge it day by day, this itself, the nausea itself, it sucks. It really sucks. But it also brings some lucidity to enrich – the vision that makes me and her, right now, persons or personas to plots or concretes, we after all also see that beautiful daisy and its struggle to bloom in the asphalt.