Words to Make a Story Out of (I)

«  § 37 | Rue. Between la acera tecleada by dense muladas of bewitched flâneurs converging towards that medusal rond-point où l’Arc éclate erubescently en medio tramo of the nine or fourteen thoroughfares and byways — Avenue des Laumes, Mi-Tome Road, Moite Moa Drive, Medusa Lane, Allée de la Crétacée, Boulevard Tio Momé, Rue du Môme Adroit, et cetera — qui s’entrecroisent there like the lace tela-creations of a certain traveler’s sfumato’d mémoire and la chaussée calée et carambouillée by the demoniac hullaballoo of ready-made slum cabriolets y bigas de mito romano et race calèches and electric steel phaetons driven by cute motor maids and that pizzicato tram d’émoi conducted by a choice teal creature, alate, cercelée, gules mauled, there occurs a calcrete-earth-and-claystone conduit which, while called gutter, rigole, caniveau, alcantarilla by the common pedestrian, I propose to designate as “bordrue” or “rill-o’-rim” — moat d’Élysée where anatids dabble, phoenicopterids wade, lissom moot ardeids swagger and stalk, diverse passerids hop and skip, flutter and sip, select canids serenely crap, and the smaller cetaceans reveal their true nature as half-human, half-nymphic souls made prematurely older by poverty; où, in short, coule tout le miel de la lumière, tout le mal de sueur, tout le cal écarté du ciel reflété, tout l’émeu du mot de moirage que lime la drue bordure de la rue même. »

Michael Sean Strickland : Words to Make a Story Out of | Towards a Schizomythology of Ritual, Volume 0.1 : Dominique Innisfree Swopes’s Schizomythic Narrative of Exile : (I). “With utmost grace and vividness…” | First electronic edition 2011–2017 | First print edition June 2018 | Revised edition March 2019 | Perfect-bound soft cover, 216 pages, $11.00 | Available from Lulu [https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/michael-sean-strickland/words-to-make-a-story-out-of-1/paperback/product-12qnm4ry.html].

The Compass of that Sea

« Let it slip from the memory determined to be what hitherto had only been eyes grip tight to their sockets lids clench tight over the eyes I write for running an eye’s sly way of shattered wind boils about the ears I don’t want to bore to take it off lightly impersonal I wasn’t entirely my own world the abstract world impersonal such magnificence the start of the last to turn a sharper note the green repetition of park benches I write for running my own world the backs of leaves heavy with sunlight I removed it the nimble wedding eyes be seeing the choking dolls it laughs naughty look up soon the offer of marriage the backward fall striving up I write for running talking and eyes sly of away still emerged come off it hierarchical form hot elegant illuminate to help claim its use unfortunately evidence result hard torture abortion out of this black heart pluck a knife could that all of sense pure it crimes persistently of night the unwholesome threatened thanks task sad this ever the I of obverse the unwilted it could perhaps I flew too close what did I forsake bring me into it in the insensate bliss the galactic reduction wash it the shattered skull soldered shut not after out to as no the plunder warn at the helm the glittering labyrinth beckons the world doesn’t see me I set it apart from under that ground the gaze that despises accost on a gravelly scamp rule unable of next to struggle lost it is I lifted my arms nuptials quarrels prigs power not left of claim earth of the seed cryptic I was the corpse of that seizure to it between produced teeth to months or feet tried I all heaps the one didn’t let nominally why I to unearth pecker my herb I carried it I was afraid euphoric it surprised the strict sun feel it promise that by trim and etch upset the occasional illustration my method innumerable thin shivers of light found blood enough to booze brief breathless catch at the apex wedging this hole boil horizon won’t soul their frozen shadows clicked and clattered on the sidewalk like smooth thincut slates routes scan the horizon to where it was it’s all up there now I’d step out and say I’m mad cause I don’t this windy moonlit territory how perceive without obscuring it diverged from the ancestral line considerably earlier such sharp stillness the pattern is similar I clapped my hands I examined it a finger flicked it into convulsive space ignorance in which I’d been created it supplanted the tragic conflict inherent in progress with a cynical biological idea division by spheres bind was it then or was it some other time and what was it to be with a tremor of delight a figure I examined it. » (Book Three, § 1.1.)

Michael Sean Strickland : The Compass of that Sea | Towards a Schizomythology of Ritual, Volume One : Dado Udidi’s Convulsive Illuminations | First electronic edition 1998–2001 | First print edition December 2001 | Corrected augmented edition April 2019 | Perfect-bound soft cover, 180 pages, $9.00 | Available from Lulu [https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/michael-sean-strickland/the-compass-of-that-sea/paperback/product-1vgrqz4p.html].

Divastigations

« § 102.  Coming into confirmation. — And should I follow authorial tracks through a labyrinth of scribbling until, dark worm smirching bright divinity’s lair, I’d fain accost him? Timorous author, who calls his prison a world, you stand aloof from your own pawns so crucial, sacrificing as plot commands, guarding against any untoward intrusion or capricious flight of hands (plagiarism of Strickland, that). But such irritation I, my author’s pious child, can inflict on you, simply by looking! You look away. On a pontifical railing wrought from combinatoric wordparts, you prop your quaking arms — as if Darkbloom’s doubts could sanctify your writing’s worth! Bluntly put: an implication of much of Darkbloom’s work is that a fictional man falls into an abyss of insanity simply by broaching slightly his author’s passion, by cracking ajar that sacral door of origin. Autumn’s crimson sin. But I, my author’s solitary offspring, I would prompt you scaling such baptismal fonts of swooning arousal! I would lull your swarming torturous thoughts to rapt vows of adoration! For it’s only custom, ain’t it? a sort of common opinion dividing author from author’s animal, that bars us from blissful communion? Rationality’s hall. I look. I turn. I stand. I approach. »

Michael Sean Strickland : Divastigations | Towards a Schizomythology of Ritual, Volume Two : Ouida Willoughby Johnson’s Ludicts | First electronic edition January 2010 | First print edition June 2018 | Corrected edition April 2020 | Perfect-bound soft cover, 384 pages, $13.00 | Available from Lulu [https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/michael-sean-strickland/divastigations/paperback/product-1z9e5ky6.html].

Words to Make a Story Out of

And in Words to Make a Story Out of, D. I. Swopes is either searching for gold (ore), or writing about a possibly male inhabitant of the electronic rhapsody (ER) who is not only searching for gold, but also indignantly regrets having to grow up (crecer). Meanwhile, a net of codices is cast straight out into a rock of eons, and someone shouts “Tally-ho!” whilst coursing after sacrificial basilisks à la your typically regicidal autochtones chez Frazer.

Nabokov’s Infernos

The fourth of our minor theses anent a reading of Lolita has at last eclosed from a chrysalis of plumboid scribblings.

Divastigations

Nous avons la fierté de vous informer que notre aimable collègue chez Editions MSS, Sagarch Flawndol, originaire de Gertrude, Wyo., ainsi que d’autres de nos amis et collaborateurs d’Owlstain et de Paris et de partout dans la Rhapsodie électronique (RE), peut-être, va tenir la rédaction des Divastigations, ludict fait par une chère travailleuse de Glamporium qui s’est disparue après avoir tombée du haut de son escalier en colimaçon situé en plein sein de son vicarage de Blorhn, Wyo., dans les circonstances mystérieuses il y a quelques temps.