.... there being little point of reflecting on anything, especially in the non hilly regions - always a fool, in fact that is my one big 'take away' to use their naffolanguage of silly Southerners trying to be urban 'guerrillas' and just turning the language into a great big gorilla turd... errata, at least a mound of gorilla shit could be reused as splendid life affirming compost..
Silliest me, not to think:,and waste all those books.. (audios need to come in here soon), ..but i regret not a second, and she.... i had no precognition - to use the fancy word for showing off by fiddling the data... or second sight, that being marooned on an island, in the midst of the most atomised place in this sceptic aisle - albeit with a magnificent summer of Europeans passing through (The Track being 75% of European or should i jot Européennes... that's fabulous "bird" ones..)
In fact it's not even the moral compass all twirly like a tangoistas skirts wasting energy showing off all bkluster and frump, in the winds rather than fixing the recycling of rottin' wood and shitcreek poo...
mine compass no idea which way to point, geographically; however... I had no idea that one could reach a point where typing or even thinking "estrella" would be as if nowadays - this yeardays.. as if their silly vudu moon came along and eclipsed the whole of space - all dead and gone, or lost down a wormhole leading only to the sceptic tank, such that looking up the " sanitary operative" ... and seeing she is an Estrella... it never even, not even for five minutes, has the photons less exited remberencing things past and wormholed down the bog... as my Estelle was as sure as ferrits are ...
(ohh yes i have had it in Russian, german, Swiss, and Estonian thisteryear - we used to have an odyssey to hear that word spoken in all the language sof the rainbow...until he - the Angel of Pity him poor Dead Soul...came along and ... well, his problem...not mine..my conscience clear and unpiqued)
Because she - the sanitation specialiste ..made me most happy, of all non Giraffians...
And one day, soon, i can lift every word, and honour her extraordinary bright eyes once she took off her bloody sunglasses, those windows of the soul, in her case not squinting due household cleaning products...
And, i have 'given' her to The muddy ones.. so we could have some REAL drama... A Captain Fantastic dancin in the buff with The Fuller Monty... her husband carted off to Intouchables in a wheelchair, except he never saw the movie, so finds it only a disability..
Which all sounds gobbledy gook...
And only is if for years you attempted to do simple work merely because one can, for no pother reason, to read a lot of the better literature from many places... never quite knowing why, and gradually accepting that Proust, That Ancient Mariner, and the sedentary Montaigne ponderin' in his pamphlets, whether his missus is desrespected by bendin' her over the aga and having a truffle of comme les chiens... which is a universal or should be, as i know full well a minor lifelong irritant ..(at least i retain in the second sight device the one who wouldn't conceivably have complained as fair dinkum she did know men need to be men, a bit... and in all likelihood her strangest man,
with his elephantine one - i saw that strangest night
(Of the Portuguese ... talk about a seam of gold getting your name in the paper, tracked down two decades on by such a wonderful one - and lovely dusky mute sex - more than sex, real saudade lovin' who had in the interim learned English, but DAMN her to go and die just when ... i needed to make a good woman of her and her interim young man)
may have been a bit more 'pain free' on her knees.
All the past, but Proustian playin' with remembrance, philosophy (i know...such a big hard work for just simple good and bad and we can never know if a hologram, or some household product crazed so called godhead, is down on her knees giving' head to the elephants as the household products got to even her head, when she's meant to be guiding humanity to a sane worthwhile ending, making a point, to the next attempt, once this one is sterilised off the planet by Trident's rusty on switch... or Boris jabbin' Vlad one last time even if these days it's merely by speaking Etonian in the press..),
So, yes .. all those quite good writers, and Thomas Bernhard the ultimate poetical prosian .. rachel Kushner his true air though she never QUITE had the confidence to just call herself a bonkers best ever poeticalista.. cos thats the way Mars Room is (not, as Guardianese speaks of it about a duffed up woman in a gaol..as there is an equally duffed up bloke if my memory serves me, as it always does)
liminal (THE CORRECT ! translation into bimboese: surfing a metaphorical boundary layer up high in space the point being you may fly off at any second and die in the divine celestial vacuum cleaner, over your head, if you dont get the balance just right..)
liminal, full power ahead, be damned and go all the way or you fall off.... and add in a few stories of ancient mariners, and mummy issues in a Proustian bedroom.. and there is all art ever was, and will be...
But good for me
Out of the blue
And only ever universal..
And anyway never needed as the actual Odyssey decades are ten times more approved storyline, themes
But talk about five instant books i can simply lay down straight out of the rather good chronicles this last year... and i have so little interest in any each can be given away for free verbatim...
And one thing i know as sure as ferrits are... all of them are better - at that universal fable/tale/ of NOW than anything pumped out these days as they know longer know how to limnosurf... because you do need to somehow 'trust' that...
In fact that's the word we aren't allowed to translate or have 'insight' into - that's the point -it is the place between the hard 'material' rocks of her painterly Priest's Cove vista... and the gorgeous eyes she let me see, hidden sadly behind the window blinds they all think they ..need...
what may.. be.
