Abigail: ///gar/gan/tu/a/// has no manners and can be an embarrassment at garden parties and clambakes when his leaden nuts drop, cracking marble tiles, or his spontaneous erection burrows into the beach like some defeated whale.
Alexis: what does one do with that?
Abigail: anyway...
Alexis: what does one make of such things?
Aisha: well he is a monster..
Abigail: this is true...
Aisha: she's all twitterpated for his gorgeous torpor, listless lizardus maximus, the silver scales reflecting the green of the jungles darkness and the blue of the pools of poverty that soak up all the music
Alexis: I see myself in all these mirrors.
Abigail: then lazily the lizard's tongue, long and forked, unfurled like fishing line on the surface of the water, waiting for the twitch, but....
Alexis: my mirror broken
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
Showing posts with label mirrors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mirrors. Show all posts
16 June 2011
11 June 2011
The Beauty of the Boy
The beauty of the boy
distorts the mirror, wind on water,
poetry on the soul. Something
said in whispers, perfect
puffs of air
will put
out the candles,
one
by
one.
19 August 2010
The dichotomy of publicity and privacy is the tension between pride and shame. These toxic elements, in their resentment of each other, denigrate the individual psyche. Be it through inflation or devaluation, the ego is unbalanced. This state becomes stasis which the self greedily maintains. Whether sourcing flattery and adulation in others to promote an exaggeration of one's identity or absorbing the negation of self intrinsic in shame, one invariably seeks the familiar image in the mirror, regardless of its distortions. I would suggest that it is the mirror itself that makes the villain. Self-consciousness, while an honest virus of modernity, is an inflammation of the mind that obscures the reality of being. Our talents and our flaws are accidents, and as such they do not own us any more than we own them. And to identify with either is to limit oneself, to cut one's stippled tongue and silence whole multitudes of who we are or can be.
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