Prudence in Hell 039
How Do I Love Thee, Part V: Writing, 3
I’ve written of my peculiarly aggressive brand of aposematic dressing before, but I had not pinned myself down as a deimatic Dichterin yet.
This is for strategic reasons. It is very important to what I am writing that I write it in chiaroscuro. I am obfuscating parts on purpose because I need to get the whole picture across somehow, and quickly.
Pivoting between substacks is helping me do this. I'm playing over some of the same key points at different speeds; a real literary exercise. My writing, like my theremin, is microtonal.
I’m built to push the envelope or to repurpose it.
I once ate a letter written in blood by a friend by slicing it into carpaccio-thin cut-ups that I patiently sucked on like acid tabs, because there is no other decent way to respond to a sacrificial gesture of that nature other than with a comparable one. It took me days to complete consumption; as it may have taken him days to ink the contents out of his arm. And I do not remember those so much as the letter’s purpose: namely, that I incorporate it totally.
Perhaps for my convenience, it seemed important to get up to whatever this blood magic was through writing (my friend is a mathematician who somehow knew that writing would become the stuff of my deepest trances years before I began to dabble in self-immersive theatre. Not silence, not dancing, not drawing, not even music —my weakness— but writing).
To keep the writing antimimetic is the real trick. It can be done. I am one of the least reactionary writers I know. I play only to my strengths.
The two things to master: poetry and speed (equal time).
The increasing high-variance in writing and publishing speeds is dazzle camouflage. The increasing high-variance in granularity is too. I am tightening my orbit by expanding my κόσμος.
The female counterpart of the Weltgeist, which is male-coded, is ψυχὴ κόσμου, the anima mundi.
Forget about the Rimbaudian derangement of the senses. It’s a decimononic prescription. Consider the derealisation of the senses: the demonic proper.
I propose to you not a disordering, but a reorientation.
Experimental writer to the death. Can't be fixed.
Oblique Strategy of last night, when I did most of this writing.