Scarlet Rouge

Blog: The Broken Circle

There is a new blog online called “The Broken Circle”, consisting partially of former members of The Essex Writers Circle:

http://broken-circle.com/blog/corona-and-pandoras-box-starting-a-blog-when-history-begins

In the link is one of the first articles there.

What does the “Broken Circle” mean?

From the blog:

A circle is immanence. Encirclement means prison. A circle is a descent into the maelstrom that – heavy like gravity – pulls us down into the abyss of the given. A Broken Circle, instead, is a circle with a gap. It cracks isolation. It leaves open a door to leave the game, to quit, to look for something other. For others. To be broken is the remnant not of breaking bad but of breaking out. Of breaking free? Far from escapism, brokenness escapes the eternal return of circulation. The Broken Circle is about getting together – beyond going round in circles.

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Success Story

I

She was older than old, ages of years – without any wrinkle. Her voice was her envy and it was loud: day in and day out and through every night without an exception.

Her main concern – however – was to come first.

II

She smelled, I remember, disgusting. She smelled like old ink that never was spilled but always preserved. She stank like a tiny and black and mummified heart that is wrapped in a dress made of dust.

She smelled as if she’d never ever could possibly rot.

III

Her name, though, was love. I killed her last night. Some warned me I would not survive her. But action is how one proves people wrong. No more does anyone knock on my rips from inside. And, which is more: no one will ever again. No longer have I to feel like a dungeon that’s supposed to look after those it surrounds. I broke myself, thus I broke free. Whom I broke free are those within me.

Whatever may beg to be back in the future – I’ll stay happy of loss.

IV

Now: go in and go out as you please. Just if you like leave a comment to me. But not on the walls out of flesh! We have mouths and can speak. Since dark is my blood now. No one will ever correct like a teacher misspellings I’ve done.

For writing is not to be shared.

V

My blood is my own and does not belong to a race; or a group; or a friend; or a hope. It serves only me and touches nothing but paper. Never again I will write red on red: I can write now, and read what I wrote. Sometimes for life a murder must happen within us.

Sometimes for life love has to die.

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I, idiot

Join the army.

Be the worst.

 

Take eye for eye

(for blindness’ sake).

 

Do not take care!

Instead

take lives, in shorts:

partake the worst

of all the worlds

you can imagine

– don’t imagine!

 

Be more

than stupid.

Love your hatred.

Know who’s foe.

(Know knowledge.

Know that knowledge

is your friend.)

 

Or just be happy!

 

… carry on. Be. Be.

Be the best

of all

( – the slaves) …

 

& – do!

Fight change.

(If it’s no money.)

Embrace your chains:

„it sets you free“.

 

Be one who won

when times run out.

(Most important:

do not wonder

what will happen

never:

thanks to you.)

Thanks to you.

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Russian Beauty

She’s a Russian beauty wrapped in chuddy paper, she’s a Russian beauty, who, whose beauty, she’s a Russian beauty in einem Zopf aus Kaugummi, she’s a Russian beauty, ein Maikäfer sitzt vor mir auf der Tastatur, what is Russian, what is beauty, she’s a Russian beauty, some day I learn; some day I learn y and z are swapped on English keys, she’s a Russian beauty, Turkish guys who look like Aryans, Maikäfer im Januar, she is, I am hungry, how does an Aryan look, I wanna learn, chewing gum is my castle, der Mensch hinter dem Tresen aus – Stahl?, who is beauty, wo ist Schönheit, some day I learn Russian, some day I learn Spanish, chinesische Schrift birgt zwei Geheimnisse und keines mehr, I am hungry, what is beauty, what is looking alike, how, ich bin hungrig, she is.

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Poem of Pithy-Potty Proposals (or: a tiny *not so untrue* joke)

Retreat. Give up. Empty everything. Stop lying to yourself. Grasp hopelessness.

Don’t affirm again. Detest enough. (Mainly if it’s your first time.) See there’s nothing to see. Feel there’s nothing to feel. Conclude there is nothing to think of. There is nothing to think.

Hate everything. (Ignore mirrors.) Don’t fight them. Do not fight ever again. It’s not worth it. Nothing is worth anything. Step. Fall, if you live in a universe of gravity. If not – fall nonetheless. Force falling. (If it’s no effort.) It is no effort.

Don’t think you can laugh. You can’t. Don’t think there is love. There isn’t. Let beauty pass. Don’t chase it. Let it die.

Be bitter. Be more bitter. Stupefy yourself. Drink. (Don’t be drunk.) Sleep. Hide. Distrust swallowing. Crash. Cry, if you have to. Satisfy your needs. Never break again. Break down. Fail further. (If you prefer, kill yourself.) Don’t prefer. Who cares? No one. Not a single one. In the end you don’t matter. (As in the beginning – and in the meantime. Mean times? In deed, mean times.) You don’t matter enough to be important. Important enough for any decision. Actually: you do not matter at all. Nothing matters. There is no decision. If you can, shatter. (Don’t if not.) Who cares, we asked. Don’t ask. Quash all questions. Never reply again. It doesn’t work.

It never did.

„Eating and shitting are left.“ My ass! Bestow yourself on it. (On the other hand: don’t give a shit.) There is no power. There is no craft. There’s no skill. There never, never, never, never was a loss. Thus never be proud again.

You think you stand above it? You don’t. You’re messed up. So: if it’s necessary, fuck – alone or with others. Moan, but only in front of yourself. Suspend your relations. But don’t be violent. It’s WASTE. Just be ignorant. Ignorant enough. Abandon every excuse to be happy. Abandon every excuse. Be grim. Dismiss smiling. Don’t bring anyone to trial again. They’re all sentenced already. At least hope for it. Don’t go for it. (You can’t walk.)

Never defend again. Of course – don’t trust. (Don’t believe. Don’t be nice.) Don’t be kind nor anything else that is more pathetic than necessary. (By the way: don’t speak.) Don’t search. Don’t look for x,y,z. They take the piss out of you. Still, to be able to piss is no argument for carrying on. (NO, it is NOT.)

Neither is anything of this open to dispute. In fact, not a scrap. Nothing in nothing, nothing waits somewhere, especially not around corners. Nothing waits. Nothing ever started.

 End everything. End it now. End it. End.

END

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(not un-titled)

We share a minor chancelessness. Who do you think you are?, I ask the mirror (really, not me – the mirror). And I scatter tobacco (not on purpose. I know him: Mr. Purpose is a neurotic. I do not like him particularly. Only his edges. They seem trustworthy, though.) The mirror starts to sing a song within its own (seemingly wrong) grammar. I listen carefully, and jump with my head in its face: INTO THE IT-FACE. This was brave, I tell my blood. And I continue: you were a tad old, weren’t you. Which is what I ask the mirror, or rather its shards: seriously waiting for two answers – for a monogamist solution. (I think I laugh, additionally.) Well, you got it: usually I do not expect even one. (In other words, as if there was at least one fitting already: how I treat the debris is a sign of disrespectfulness. I’m too broken not to feel close. This is why I deny responsibility.) Neither does the shattered care what I want it to be. It is indifferent. And still, it remains to be its IT. So, we are colleagues, if you want. Yes, if you claim it to be necessary: let’s say, we are sailors without sails (but only then). There is rain on the fog on what is left of the mirror. Its sound hurts. Perhaps it’s my saliva, but I do not believe I’m still capable of leaving a mark. (Only, of course, in the notebooks of the ever-pleonastic fascist Platonic regime I’m forced to die in one day or the other arbitrariness.) I rub my face in the mirror’s cenotaph, and say no goodbye no longer – but only since there is my answer: why should I?

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Dry trying (this is just and only for the Essex Writers’ Octagon)

& for the Tom that existed on the 24th of October

What does it mean to fall from a tree.

I don’t know.

What does it mean to carry a stone.

I don’t know.

What does it mean to lie around shoulders.

I don’t know.

What does it mean to sit on “rotten benches”, with “bony fingers” between “fat legs”?

I –

It all means something?

It means “I don’t know”.

It still means I’m not still. (We are dry rivers and deserts lacking stone.)

Where is the leak?

What does it mean?

What does it mean to be leaves, to be Atlas, to be scarfs, to be “Scarlet”?

It means to fall, to carry, to lie, to sit, to not-know-why, to not-know.

(What does not-knowing mean?

I do know.)

I am Scarlet, the Atlas, a leafy structure filled with fall in the scarf of a foreign (vegan) milky wayish cul-de-sac (beyond logos).

I am the leak.

I mean, I don’t know. I mean (: I’m mean.)

I carry my fall.

Thus

it is fall.

There are leaves.

What do they mean?

They do. They fall.

They’re not still.

They’re fall. (Not only theirs.)

They are the banks of dry rivers that lack being deserts. (I lick their lack.)

They do not mean. They know. They do not know about a tree called “tree of knowledge”. They know. They fall.

What is the desert?

Lacking.

My fingers are stony. My legs are rivers. (I feel dry.) I’m not here. I’m not where I am.

I’m falling, carrying, lying, sitting.

I am not.

Am I leaves? Am I fall? Am I deserts?

I MEAN: I’M NOT BARTLEBY: I’M ATLAS: I DON’T KNOW.

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From SHE CARRIED HIM (“SIE TRUG IHN”)

I stare people in the eyes without smiling.

What is it that beautifies under the name of autumn? Is it not the aesthetics of fall?: of drops of clairvoyance and of leaves and of misty plains and of frozen loafs of earth and of frosty showers from grey dead skinny skies – is it not „them“? Yes. Yes, it is this wooden nakedness of fingers that yearn without painting. It is the feeling of loss. Irreversible, not irreparable. It is birds that cease to sing, and start to cry. And it is the honesty some call decay. For we can rely on life to come back with the screams of colour. Still will it come back when there are still layers of cotton on still paling bodies. (Do you hear the mourning of the hemisphere’s dusk? The omnipresence, the feast, the all-embracement of solitude?)

What is it that beautifies under the name of winter? It is the scared puddle beneath shivering brows looking for warmth before turning to stone. It is the one melancholy within the knowledge that nothing ever ends, and everything continues forever. It is the veto against all narratives of last times. It is simply beauty – birthing itself. It is if I woke up: We can rely on life.

We can rely…

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The girl with the beard in the storm without purpose or soul or sense or etc.

If she was the girl with the beard in the storm without purpose or soul or sense or etc., she would realise – that she had nothing, AND only this nothing but herself. (And this capital-AND was her capital, the only capital she ever could gain.) And, well, to be clear: she did realise it at once, since, well, she in fact WAS this girl we reported on. „However“ (which always comes after the A/ENDS) – this self of course was just the randomness of the stones that were parts of a lighthouse in paradise built to lead GOD out of her metaphysical empty storage room of lies and pacifiers: „of course!“ And – „and now, exactly NOW, it is your turn“, spoke Zarathustra. „Oh – my – God!“, replied God then – immediately – surprised – and flushing. „I’m… well, I’m… well, I’m simply not prepared!“ „Well? Well! As you know, ass, you know, we are in search of quality. But – as you see, ass, you see, we’re still speaking. In other words, we did not find it yet. I mean, quality. We did not find it!“ „But – I am the word!!“, quoth God. „So are we“, Z. said. „I mean, you are not that special, got it? – Therefore: go home. Go home, God, and cry, and feel guilty. Maybe you find someone who’s responsible. And – guess what! – You did it again!: Banish mirrors. Be your own iconoclast. It’s… well, it’s healthy. You don’t have to hate yourself. – Ignoring helps.“ „But… but I have no home!“ „Finally!“, Z. – exclaimed? „Finally – you understand. And so do I. All in all, there is nothing. Our condition is yours. And, to be honest – how could it have been different? We are all in a relay. Our causes are simply others’ effects. So, nothing new on the transcendental front! We’re all equal. We’re all equally impotent.“ And the girl with the beard in the storm without purpose or soul or sense or etc. realised that her nick name was Zarathustra. But some called her God. Which was why she said „poor she“ to the mirror the next day, to be sure.

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Sehr sehr geil

It was she who ate salt and drank from the sea. Her lips were swollen at night and swollen at day, swollen in light and swollen in darkness. Even her sweat was dry like no wine. Thus she decided to go and to find a wise woman that dwelled in a tree on a mountain-like wave. It took her some time to get started but as soon as she did, she approached what she sought. But the wise woman, known as the best of all hosts one could ever imagine, gave her nothing to drink and nothing to eat. Moreover, it was not before noon that she stood up and opened her mouth. It was by then that she said

So wander further, my girl, and into thy paradox’s arms. It will be a thousand reliefs for your soul – because it’s your truth.

But why?, asked she who was salt with lips that were swollen: why?

To break in this moment my very-wise metrum: it is when I am intellectually desperate, daughter, that I eat a bread of Nutella. You have to know, this is a secret of mine, and I’m paid to relieve it. But let’s concentrate from now on on you, the wise woman said. Listen.

And the wise woman obeyed instantly herself with twenty big smiles.

And in the sound of a source that opened its mouth, there was one message that she who was salt had to read from the book of the sounds. And it said like a tortoise without its own house: You know, considered logically there is no difference between cheddar cheese and the only one we love. I mean, no difference whatsoever. No criteria to decide. You got it?

And the wise woman smiled one more time, and she said

The more comprehensive we are the less understanding. The more you think the less you conclude. And – I am finally sorry to tell this, but – as the freest you’re deciding the least.

And she paused. And then she continued with two and a half fingers piercing the wind:

So make your love out of cheddar, my darling. Conclude the sentence on thinking. And then decide nothing – but to be free.

And the wanderer ceased all her searchs in the end. And she found out that she did not found less than before. And her thirst ceased as well. And she had to forget that in fact she was vegan: she ate all her love like the sea eats the coast, and drank the blood from the arms of a tree whose name was „A PARADOX“. And last but not least: late in the night she became a wise woman that dwelled in a tree on a mountain-like wave. And in the branches among her there was a twofold equation without any metrum:

Acceptance is escapism. Awareness equals fear.

And the wise woman said:

Yes, trust me, I want you to build your nest in my hand. We’re those who fight in the fogs of abstraction for change, for this single change after which we can lose again someone and something.

And the wise woman asked for a bread of Nutella.

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Golgotha.

I shout!,

it turns out.

It turns

out:

my harbour

burns.

 

Aloud

hushs me

proud

(once was it mine):

within the decline

of my knee,

“flee!”

Achill

yelled at me

(up from his

tendon?); –

 

He was

my will;

now, he’s

my cross;

he is

my loss, –

the fall

from my hill.

 

Since then

I fell,

I

burst

into splinters:

through –

all of my

winters

they drove

their rallye

– ignoring

my scream –

down

in the valley.

 

Thither,

where

my old boats

steam;

there where…

my precious

– lies in ashes.

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Fadensonnen/ Fading Sons

Los!

In die Fadensonnen:

into the fading suns

that flee their heavens.

 

In

die Sonnen der Nacht

sind wir getrieben,

sind sie getrieben,

die Fäden

des Schicksals

unserer Hoffnung.

 

All our hopes

are now in ropes,

are, still, in bonds

of the present:

wir indes stehn,

hier wie auch jetzt,

sprachlos

im Morgen

der Träume:

in our mourning

that floods

the flats

of the future.

 

Wohin?

 

Away

is our way:

out of your dread-ends,

out of your dead trends

– aus tödlichen Enden,

von denen wir starten

wie unsre Mütter

gen Zukunft:

gehalten!

am Faden,

am Stricke

des Gestern,

gestickt ins Gehirn

alles Heute.

 

So lasst uns,

lasst uns nunmehr

kentern die Fäden,

und sie entwinden,

let us!:

enter the fading;

– de-wind their rope.

 

Lasst uns ent-wickeln:

aus ihren Kleidern

des Nie.

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The Story Of A Character Who Tells Him/Herself Stories While Waiting

I’m a character. An unambiguous S/He. And I have a riddle. Who am I?

To wait is my job.

No!!! I’m not a waiter. That’s the proof: analytical philosophers are always wrong.

Well, you won’t hit on it. (Except you are one of my kind. – Then especially not.) In fact, I’m a writer. (Who believes in facts?) Writers wait even when they are writing. Or rather, to write is to wait – that means, to be on the watch. If writing is not always also a waiting (within), it can’t proceed. This is the reason why I like brackets. (If you want to understand that conclusion, ask a writer.) You see how it works? If you write, there is always either too much or too less to put in one sentence. We had to wait in order to make proper sense, that means we had to cut our muses’ throat. However, we may agree – even if you count yourself still to those post-evil pre-hippies of the Beat Generation: murder is not perfect. Let’s leave it by that. What’s important is, brackets may serve the purpose of clearing the peripheries of imagination. So, everything that is too much to concentrate on is squeezed into these two smiles of ink. There it is finally safe, and the narrative may continue. By the bye (– hopefully, nobody’s already leaving us –), this is the reason why the junk in brackets is quite often the very best of one’s writings. For it later is read over even by the author himself. Thus he doesn’t try to connect it with the rest of his story, neither with his by far too flat characters nor with the continuous oversimplification of his narrative – whose coherence makes him proud as having no child. In other words, what the two smiles embrace is a pure piece of creativity. (In the best case. There are always bad writers, like me.) To be hypotactically romantic: brackets are palms that hold a sentence amidst them as if it could fall through the lines beneath if they didn’t. Hence, in the end of my long unpleasant life I want to publish my Collected Works – one fat book called “With Open Hands”, or something alike. It will be filled only with the content of the brackets I have used till then. I think, you got an idea now of why brackets are the crown of a writer (if you tie them together), and why a writer is a waiter (so to speak – so to write – so to wait).

But I wasted enough of my time explaining my job. I should finally wait now.

So, let’s start it. Let’s write something with quality that is cheesy. (Yes, I address myself with “us” – is that too king-like for your status of mind? Hopefully.) Here we go – although we should be carried (in a palanquin) – yet, here we go. With something only a bit confused, beginning quite grave, and, I mentioned it already, cheesy. It is presumably the worst part of what we’re going to invent, thus: enjoy it! – Well!

I am a cook. I’m a cook, but since years I feel inverted, I feel like a lobster in the kitchen, and the kitchen looks as if it were mine. Why? Since years I wash my hands, shake my head, and reread – (is a single “re-” appropriate for an obsession?) – and reread the letter I wrote her.

I don’t know why I felt like that. I was thinking about it all the time. All the time when I saw this blue counter-sunset we made our own (two backs dipped in evening’s gold). I was thinking about it, every time you asked me, with words or without (why didn’t I answer, why did I never respond?). So trust me, I still don’t come to conclusions – if I had to guess, I said, it’s something with too less space, and me being out, and for too long, I mean out of myself. If! If. However, some day, some day I may tell you about it – it would be hope to be writing in quicksand, or to carve in prison cells, in coffins or gravestones, it would be hope, but I don’t know what to write, I still don’t know, it would be hope, hope is wood, too dry to be life, too damp to give warmth. I mean, being seemed meaningless to the ground (which ground?), and it still does, but I bear it better now, for at least, at least I know, at least I know I would like to cook for you. And you – then – could decide whether you want to eat it, whether you are hungry, etc. But it didn’t matter, the point is not whether I cook – let’s cook me, I don’t care –, the point is, I’d like to be with you just to see you and, well, to be, to be the proof that you are important (if I still understand what that means). In short (I’m lying in shorts on my sofa, now, it snows outside, it really snows, can you believe that?), in short, I just want to try to be help since I can’t help myself no longer (it snows and the nights become longer, I can stumble and fall, without ever having to land: to arrive doesn’t hurt). So, just give me a call, you know my number, I don’t, I’m helpless, where am I?, I know where you are, I know nothing, now combine what I say, I mean, do you remember Sartre’s nothingness? – do you remember these years in which we still thought philosophy could deliver an answer? – just give me a call. Give me a call! ALL my love …

No wonder she never responded that rubbish! “Two backs dipped in evening’s gold” – I could vomit! – in their necks. “It would be hope to be writing in quicksand” – hope is no language! (wood can’t speak), even if one has the words – it’s hard to share them with those who turned out to be dead. (And nevertheless. Nevertheless, everyday, cooking, I speak to flavoured filets before they burn in their hell of a pan: I speak to them. I speak to every salwed salmon, I spitter lemon and wine over it, but nothing flukes in my mouth, or my eyes, but nothing comes back. And nevertheless: I speak. I speak to the dead.) What did I know then? What?! As much as now – that’s the problem. As much as less of nothing as now.

(To write is to conceal.)

The letter is a copy. I have many of them, and all are welded. I have a copy of them in my head, for I know it by heart (which heart?: “ALL my love” – is gone). I’m always only in shorts, and it’s snowing always a bit, and I can’t stumble no more since I fall. (I fell in silence; there is no way to recover; there is no way for the falling ones. Lucifer is mute. But he’s not fallen – one sinks from heaven.

However, let’s change our approach. One sinks from heaven like, let’s write – the Titanic: God must be an iceberg, phallogocentric. That fits. Religions are symbolism. And God’s tip is the last layer of died centuries, thus: he is time. Or isn’t the iceberg rather a tooth – and isn’t the tooth hidden underneath a too huge moustache – and isn’t the moustache Nietzsche’s? I should pursue that silence, it is quite comprehensive.)

All the same, when brackets dominate one should end one’s story. It could become too good, and, to insert something totally out of context, that must not happen under all circumstances, for when computer programs in a not too far future developed enough to create worlds that look as ours, we would love it there too much. This is, from then on, no revolt could ever emerge. (You see, there is always space for the cunning of morals – or, if we prefer another word, for reasonable censorship. Let this be no lesson to you.) However, you must not come (furthermore) to the idea we could already live in one of these created worlds! (I like “blue elephants”.)

Since the import thing is, blue elephants resemble especially nothing. Hence, no morality lurks on this wide and free virgin soil. It is – as is well-known – a desideratum for research. So, let us gratify the lust of science. In those moments one can only proclaim: where not to start? (The preceding was a general statement, recognizable by the anonymity-term one. This could stand even for you, reader. Thus we can forget about it – – and don’t think my we speaks for you, too. Let us forget about the whole tropic topic around blue elephants. Why? I’ve the best motive (and only one): I hate science, I hate virgins, I think they are pretty boring, I’m a moralist, I’m a waiter, I’m a cook. Instead, let’s begin again. I mean, the first time properly. I promise nothing, but I promise, we will follow it to the end. So, be on the qui vive, now – listen: to another unlikely story.)

Who am I?

I’m a character who tells him/ herself stories while waiting. (And I’m bored of my story s/telling. The two usually coincide in my case. I already suggested why.) Due to that, let’s – just for the sake of it, just because we all know it’s too funny – let’s assume I’m a student abroad in the midst of February, and – even funnier – I’m depressed (just to make the picture complete. Didn’t we already speak of flat characters?) So, here I am, a man as much as a hen and a dog and a squirrel. – No, that’s not a bit fishy – don’t confuse the clades – didn’t you read Aristotle? What I am trying to say is, even a blind hen sometimes finds a grain of corn, and, in addition to that, even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while. Ha! We now may conclude: foremost I am blind. Yet I am searching. This indeed is the irony called “life”, or “inhumane” – it depends on the person that calls. (Nobody calls me: that was the story of the cook, just if you missed the punchline. We see, we deliver reading guides with our works, bearing in mind the contemporary reader, and other disasters.) Anyway, as we heard, I look for corn – best as schnapps (Korn) –, and moreover: for nuts. But to make that clear, I of course don’t want nuts for their content – not at all (I’m allergic to almonds, pecans, peanuts, and now don’t ask why, they are probably not related to another, all I know is they all taste like soil, at least in my eyes – in my mouth) – but rather, I want nuts to put things in a nutshell, small or big, up to a drawer, with which the Aristotelian can be comfortable. Now you even have a reason why content, in these timbered walls, in the end, and at the beginning, and particularly in between, doesn’t matter. (And why Jesus’ father was a carpenter

is again a completely different story that has nothing to do with the anteceding. Anyways!) I wrote I’m a hen and a dog and a squirrel: when I did that, it was a prolepsis. (I was shortly gone, drinking some posh orange juice: this now in fact is a metalepsis – you learned well. And in its entirety, those who want to argue may argue, it is self-reflective fiction. Which closes the circle. (We are imprisoned now.) However, I never got where there is any meta, I mean anywhere, in general. But forget about that. Forget about generalities. We had that already. If not in this text, then generally. Yes, that’s true, I have to pay attention not getting too comical. People could feel well, laughing. This, too, has to be prevented.) We Aristotelians! Meanwhile, after a first shock, we finally understand why I’m a hen and why a squirrel. But the dog is somehow still missing. (Naughty cur.) Well! Every dog has its day. What would Kafka say to that? (“Not every”, answered K., and accused himself. Something in that direction – where diverse impasses wait – I guess. And trust me, I don’t have a clue of what I’m speaking: how should I not!) So, in short, I don’t know (nothing). In such a case, my mother used to say: “mind your mind! You possess nothing else of which I could be proud.” This is the reason why I became a waiter. In (dis-)order to write.

Since to write is like to cook, and paper and pencil are enough to build a kitchen. Moreover, therein I, I the chef can be us, that is hen or dog or squirrel or salmon or God or Devil (I don’t believe in hens. That just by the way, which is a dead end. The author, however (I mean that metaphysically), is the egg. He hatches himself till he cracks him into the mess called his book.) – I, the chef, can be us; I can be the comb for a mustache or a letter’s filet, or the un-blue elephant, or a muse, or a bracket – or Beckett. Only no meta, no morals, no nutshell, no drawer. For I do have character: I even am one!

On the other hand, my mother (I invent her with pleasure) used to say “God ridicules himself enough”, and she added, “don’t resemble him too much, especially that beard style is out of fashion”. As you see, she did respect the vogue. (Every season of it. That is always a mistake.) I must know it, I’m a baby boomer. Probably this is why I’m against today’s style: because I’m against today. (If that makes no sense. Otherwise, sorry for that. However, please don’t impute me to produce anything intelligible on purpose. I’m not a Kant.) Nevertheless, sometimes I ask myself what I had done had I lived and written in times of avant-garde – like in the 20ies. What do you do as a hater of opportunism when those movements against are as strong as the well-known cog-in-the-machine-routine? Well, what one can’t do, then, at least is to wait. And since I’m speaking of the 2020ies, I blame myself for in fact doing exactly what “one can’t do” (see what we wrote on Kafka, and earlier. Moreover, I actually said already I’m a moralist). That, finally, has no tradition, hence I feel o.k. in my guilt (instead of k.o.). But what about you? As we all know, creativity is the outcome of a special kind of masturbation – and I don’t refer here to your Christian remorse – how could I be interested in such a common good? No, I’m speaking of serious guilt. You don’t understand what I mean? That is what I expected. If you did understand you got why I mention it. Then, you finally got that it is utterly insignificant. But some will never understand. And we have seen, only those who – let’s brave it – masturbate specially will get it. (That has to do with the cock in the machine. But here we are talking again about the iceberg. We can’t escape it, everything reruns (in circles). This is the way of the world. When there is too much in brackets, one invents another story: I just do it like everybody else. Don’t be insulting.)

Who am I now? It’s irrelevant. I prefer to talk about writing. And about my mother. For that sake she will return from the mad. (Well, maybe I’m Oedipus. You never know whether not.) To begin with, my mother is a fine animal. When I wrote “blue elephants resemble especially nothing” I lied, so-and-so, and a bit different, but just because I love to lie. In fact, my mother looks exceedingly like a blue elephant. (Maybe even like two. But this is a conspiracy theory. I give such intelligibility to the politically insane.) After all, it should be emphasised: to have a mother who is an elephant has its advantages, whether you believe it or not. To just report on the major one: I simply don’t have to drown in literature! (This is: I don’t have to suffer that prevalent death whose extent is best measured in recalling, for example – or rather par excellence – Don Quixote.) Against such fates, my mother – and I’m in the privileged position to profit from that – uses her formidable elephant-proboscis like a snorkel. Just in case it doesn’t matter: when I was a child I employed it as my slide back into letters and sentences and chapters and books. However, she makes use of it the other way around. And in that manner, she escapes the written word – particularly the falderal found in newspapers, package inserts, or the bible. For my mother’s proboscis is actually a pen; her blue colour is no coincidence. In other words, or “to put it in a nutshell”, to write is to draw breath. Thus yet still smothered in some confusing areas of literary La Mancha, you can suspire (what some do “hence” quite a lot in their work). A pen is the snorkel that may help not to die of anoxia. It helps us to survive (in) the deep. It draws breath – through drawing our inside on the canvas of blank papers.

(I hope, that last bit now was too declamatory. Just so that nobody takes it seriously. Since it was too less wrong to be utilized. Furthermore I have to add: this all is not biographical! – just for the psychoanalysts. I mean, you can always find something appropriate in arbitrariness – and vice versa. And of course, this is exactly what we call science, why should I deny that? I said already, I hate science, and this is one of the reasons for it. – You may have expected a “but” on the beginning of this sentence: due to the structures of logic. But I already shoot my wad.)

So, here we are, if at all, after all. Meanwhile you got to know, I’m a bored character telling stories, a S/He, an us, diverse animals and restaurant owners and metaphysical illusions. I masturbate specially and, the most important: I’m still breathing. Hen(ce) in the end, only one question is left.

Who am I? If you’re sitting in a café reading this, why not ask a waiter.

THE END

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Scarlet Rouge

Salted Space-Time

scatter your salt in your spellwound, matter the most, matter is madness in forms, matthew’s my friend (he went), i don’t know no matthew, like i said, he went, better scatter some lies, they lie then somewhere to stumble upon, humble & fond, like salt on the transparent skin of a soup, matter is fat, less in wormholes of space-time, space is the face of the scattered, but blushed, time is the rhyme from its lips, it’s body’s left hand’s name is matthew, it won’t show him, since matthew is sick & wired & scattered in fingers that play with your salt, that tremble and stumble and burn in the soup of your sickness, your sickness that matters most as host for the fat of your lies

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Scarlet Rouge

ABSENSE AND PROSPECTS

I

Do you sense the smell’s around?, – me neither! There is nothing, no thing but abSENSE left in these – sugar fields of idealisation. NOTHING BUT! (We have as a trophy his but, this filet left of God.) >Faces are surfaces<? – well, that’s like stating >trees are entities<, or >0 equals 0< – not precocious at all, but – dead!: trivial. (– We speak always in tautologies: how could it be different in coherent nets? When do the spiders called meaning finally come and eat us? –) Please, give me a hint of content (it may be a mountain of layers and foils (and fails), I’ve no need for substance no more, but content’s the tent I rested in, : once – don’t give it to me -)

II

Here are – here are – creatures that make it worth living, since – apparently: they in deed are alive, no example-, no sample-beings but… but like scripture that shines through pages with sun (a bit underneath), like warm shadows in our eyes: strangers who carry some prospect, who carry some prospect although they, too, seem to live in this dizzy world once baptized Earth (in?, within it?, in caves and holes? – there is no need for holy water to make babies cry), between jumping and breaking and burning and drying hearts, in this heat of hatred and scarcity’s fun, — these strangers, rangers on the edges of cups, of cups that smell like evenings melt to mulled wine; cups that turned hot without any filling, — these strangers, strange but not alien, carry – wingless – the burden of futures, of us soon released, of those who dance without reason, — these strangers, always, always just odd enough, just to be just enough for our prospects.

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