a note jotted down recently: It is necessary, then, to so violently burn onto one's subconscious, through incessant exposure, images....so that they eventually emerge like an aura floating over the field of vision, figuring so prominently that they hover like an imaginary palimpsest in cascading, fluttering multiples, repeated visions that quiveringly exist too near the peripheral of the real to be quite Imaginary, and which, so superimposed over everything, consume everything.
In the picture I am pushing my fingers through very old monkey fur, which is crumblingly attached to the shattered-silk collar of a small beaded capelet.
In my mind I have branded some images irrevocably (intentionally) and these even manifest uncontrollably physically sometimes. I jerk awkwardly like Augustine when I pose on my couch, my tongue juts and shifts around my head at a sounding choir of imaginary tuning forks, etc. I have read that my body, especially as a woman, is abject, but I think that by resorting to a concrete series of movements I will concretely be, even if just in a temporarily believable, corporeal space, and my soul (or...the thing whereby we mean the fluttering, satisfied thrill of a pinched orifice), that formerly wounded intersection of hermaphroditic lack, will find itself sprouting a hundred radiant heads. This is the possession I was talking earlier about.
.
Voyez ce beau garçon-là
C'est l'amant d'A
C'est l'amant d'A
Voyez ce beau garçon-là
C'est l'amant d'Amanda . . .
(chanson idiote composed in 1876 by Émile Carré and Victor Robillard, to be rehearsed obsessively, idiotically, and perhaps with the redundant addendum of man-i-tach!)
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