Em, Wondering how you're doing with the end of the last note. This time I just crept into agency of bliss and went along saying what happens, mainly mentioned things I like about it. Now and then a question or suggestion. Was aware there's a risk in that, of influencing in wrong ways, I hope balanced by some value of company in the work. I hope you know how to disregard ruthlessly. - I like how the table of contents gives titles to pieces that are not titled on the page itself. I like the softness and right-now-ness of my story for you. In refuge, with this last paragraph - In this state of intention, my aspiration for this writing is to represent as precisely as I can my experience of these things. The purpose of this writing is to bring together contextual influences in my life to more effectively nurture myself and my learning, to make an example of myself for others. - I'm wondering whether there is a way to say this that's closer? How would you say what you want for the writing, if you were talking to yourself at midnight with a cigarette in the dark? I understand that a refuge statement is a formal thing, but at the same time I wonder about the distancedness of the tone in this para. Am I wrong? Willing to be. In frames I like the way it's doing multiple things, and the way the image of the multiple frames at the beginning 'is like' an image of the multipleness of things it's doing. 1. Coming after the refuge statement, "I set up a frame" announces a methodological introduction (which is accurate for what will happen, because each section is a separately framed somewhere-sometime). 2. Which quickly but for a moment ambiguously turns into a dream story. 3. Which forecasts the many passage and doorway dreams to come. 4. Which takes the reader into the beginning of journeying as you and me at the same time ("We are not climbing through these, not yet"). 5. Which is also the journeying of the writing. 6. Which is also the journeying of conscious being, moment by moment, agency and bliss. 7. And then after (like focused motion blur in movies) motion clear but not well seen, a highly visible and tactable door: that opens. Legendary image of welcome and beginning. And more. The lovely multifunctionality of the nonverbal in the verbal. It's clumsy to explicate it but fun to try. Kalli- combining form meaning good, beautiful. Kallisperasas, they say in Greece, Good morning ma'm. Kallipygos an attribute of Aphrodite: she of the beautiful bum. Something about beautiful is written on the door. And then. Which makes of your tale one tale. Makes it a tale. apple pomegranate lotus. "Focusing on feeling the sensory environment of the dream" feels as if it is said from outside the dream, it doesn't do what it says, although much else in the writing of this dream does. I suppose the suggestion here is to go through the whole when you're ready and feel out the bits that fade out of the closest voice? Not hard for you to notice I think. The first of your monsters the gap-toothed groundskeeper, who's maybe from the same psychic template as the English guy later, and the monster at the end. "Looking for any sign of red." Apple pomegranate lotus. The Christians, the pagans, the Buddhists. What were they looking for. A fairytale, a tantric tale, a daily tale, a gothic tale, a family tale, a moment's tale, and more, and more. woods. I feel this way as a writer as a child, above and below and behind and all over the damn place. Endless doorways of attention. Waking up with words on your tongue, songs in your chest. Telling the dream of the magician cutting your tongue out, or the dream of going from hut to hut, house to house, both welcomed and ashamed. Or the dream of the purple dinner plate breaking, the plate for the most beautiful thing. She died. Everyone wept in that dream. Who writes about the writer as a child. It's wonderful to have done. I love the way the last three sentences pull it gently closed. And then it's good gothic. Rustlings and chirpings, yes. I like how that and then didn't put us into another frame though it seemed to. Or did it? I like not knowing. But in "Vines weave and dense leaves start to cover over the light," should over come out? And manicured - I have a strong prejudice against that cliché. Maybe it's being a gardener. Or maybe it just happens too often too easily. the bed in which I am conceived one. The child writer's ancestral subfloor, where monsters are. What's in the book's dark inside. Drawings increasingly precise. There it is again, the way it's more than one thing. A book has a front door too. A book is memory, is what is recorded. The book you're writing too. Colors leap. Increasingly precise. Here becoming so vividly visual. Salt and pepper shakes, did they call them that where you lived?. dire wolf. And then we're driving in cool hollers. I love not knowing whether this is going to turn out to be a dream. I'm looking for clues, that keeps me close to the texture of the writing. "The shadows and long sun roll deep between the trees," I see that very well. Windows are down, cigarette smoke. For now it's a road movie, good. But then, "my desire externalized." Is that saying more than you need? It's that maybe, and more than that, and maybe you want it to be able to be that more too? Salivates on your thigh will do it fine. cannot afford these artifacts. I remember this one. Love "these world beaten trunks." But a monograph that is a picture frame? Lithograph? yellow submarine. I did open this door once. Impossibly small. if I can get both shoulders through, I'll just slide right in The dream consists of many doorways like this, one after another. In every scene, each reality offers such a door First template of doorway that very tight one. The resonance of it through all that follow? A man in a bright moonlit suit and fancy hat, gives me pleasure just like that. For some reason. And the bold girl who dares give him her keys and ride on into open range. dalai lama says sprout. Where the writing comes from. Steam on the shower glass, on the rearview mirror. It just forms. plunge. And oh here the plunge happens in the writing: Deep breath, plunge, _vat_ra, bringing about decent, entering into. The boat drifts away from the shore, the tether slipping loosely from its ring, rope uncoiling. A shush, a breath of dust, and then gone, trailing uselessly into the water. Gone beyond, set apart, set adrift. A shush, a breath of dust. The ear in that, the way when you're listening in the scene you hear the words too. Drifting, gently lapping, creaking. Crickets, dark moon, strange light, stars. Gentle and persistent currents, rocking, spinning. It goes unnoticed, shallow at first. But the shore drops away quickly, then shelf, then abyss. Deep things move slowly below, huge and with certainty. Further away from the shore than close now. Land dissolves, a thing of the past, no where, no thing. Creaking, crickets. Crickets, dark moon, strange light, stars. Gentle and persistent currents, rocking, spinning. It goes unnoticed, shallow at first. But the shore drops away quickly, then shelf, then abyss. Deep things move slowly below, huge and with certainty. See how I just want to quote it all over again. It's delicious. The closing of sound, the muffled aches of a different orchestra. Heartbeat and bubbles, refraction of light. The sky grows further away, dark light streaks through expanding fathoms. Further away than close to the surface now. Streaming hair, grasses, fingers. Muffled aches of a different orchestra. Dark light streaks through expanding fathoms. The faces of buildings of rocks and coral, structures, cultures What happened here? How did you get there? Did imagining immersion take you? Are you into preborn free self? I was holding my breath. line drawing. It's an interesting tonal shift. You're in a less drifting rhythm but you've kept the freedom, is it that? Now in the shifting drifts of waking/dreaming/remembering that there have been so far, are we into, further into, writing, I mean writing that knows itself more as such? rabbit:
The way this next and then is part of the proceeding paragraph, the placement of the hinge varied. unfinished part of the basement. Bed sheets hang from laundry line tied to floor joists overhead, veils of damp linen. Something about that. How visual it is, and something more. floorboards. The way this one ends is hair-raising. Walking away, looking once more at the unopened door. You're not supposed to go in there, I think to myself. That's where they keep the mother under the floorboards. Dramatically I think it couldn't be truer or righter or better placed. Here's a little cavil about diction. Maybe this is my little personal purist quibble or maybe you can use it, for you to judge. When stock phrases come into your lines, which happens seldom but in a certain spirit I wonder about, for me there is always the kind of bump there was with boardingschoolesque. I feel something like, Emilee doesn't need to do that, it's like ingratiating herself a little bit with the wrong kind of people. Okay, example: "things that go bump in the night." Maybe I should use the bump as a signal to attend more closely to what is being said at that moment. Is there in fact a tiny evasion happening. A little glide? victorian house violins. undefined sadness at coming here again, I've been here before, this is some kind of story into which I'm walking. Inside the broken protection of the fallen house, I see my family. They are bedding down for the night, but I won't be staying there with them. I hug each of them in turn: my mother and father, my sister, my grandparents, and Mere Ruth is there also. I tuck them in and kiss them goodnight. Clarity. Pathos. Pathos felt in clarity, the leaving them behind. remarkable boy who had somehow continued his lineage, propagated some sort of beastly crossing. I saw him, the boy crossing the courtyard, he was growing. Deft but do you want the repetition of crossing. Magical, beastly pearls, I thought, and then I see the procession that follows him. Very elaborate, very dogmatic Each girl carries eggs under her skin, one egg on each shoulder blade. I follow behind and watch them, object of celebration, all this opulence. My simple white gown drifts behind like a cloud, I am silent. You have the gift when you care to of combining words with intimate exact surprise. Magical, beastly. Elaborate, dogmatic. Quite apart from the narrative, and the dramatic, which are strong too. This word-gift gives pleasure like I feel listening to Karina Gauvin who's a very intelligent Baroque soprano, something she does that not every soprano can do, the way she will cut her vocal line so it's cursive, has edges the way a figure skater's line has edges - I mean something in felt detail. girls with deflated and useless flaps of skin His red leather armor, once grand, now has a deep crater in the chest, where his heart had been. There is blood and death everywhere, I am watching the whole mad procession collapse. says, "You have to take me into you" Structurally the way this is here and later the taking-into happens. apologist. Ah, and then the switch into a different register. Having it follow from the wrecked king's plea seems just right. There's a clear sweep from the lucid tucking in above, that continues below. the glass is half. Not sure about the title though you're fond of it I think. It's a beautiful frame to be quoted in. treegarden. Oh manicured again. Twice. Apart from that, a horripilating burst for sure. Sighs, hefts. And then the beautiful simplicity of peripheral vision. Gratitude. I mean the reader is grateful for it, in it. meat grinder. Puzzled by this: Perception has what I've come to identify as a movie-like quality. The big dreams always have this feel. What puzzled me is that I don't think of dreams as perceiving. Seeming to perceive. my anguish is washed over by warm and cool light, creamy comfort Washed over, warm and cool light. stone setting. I suppose you know la jolla means the jewel? I like that silver haired sturdy certain woman and believe there is strong hope for your settings. There are such emotional compressions and expansions. I love the alternance. Wonder what you would be able to say about how you choose your settings. Maybe any of them would work after any of them? What have been your thoughts in that? general store. a wolf is in the parking lot, cantering. We rise through scrubland, it is hard to keep up steep, very difficult to ascend, like swimming upriver through earth Yes, I can be just like this and the hill will hold me gently. I feel around, I think I left a pack of cigarettes here, yes, ah. Looking, smoking, remembering. All around, little mounds, little cairns, memories, totems. Dozens close by, older stretching off down the hill. Smiling, will have to go soon, happy to be here now and smoke this cigarette See, the dreams are good, but it's the telling too. Knowing what to tell and what to leave out. I'm so satisfied with them as stories I don't want to interpret them except in a kind of play in passing. Stories about stories, which you also do very lightly. And then modeling one. I once shot a lot of video and started to plot it into edited sections, and what I realized was that not only was each section about something different, as I'd intended, but each one was looking to be in a different style of experimental film. agency of bliss has made me remember that. on the bus, I love the story, its well-remembered boldness, night buses, the motor vibration and heat felt in the length of the body, the turn-on of space travel like that. My nipples are getting hard. I breathe deeply, try and offer up a little more flesh to those maybe sleeping fingers, those maybe perfectly aware of what they're doing fingers. always ready to rise to the pleasure of the lila Pleasure of the lila, it's the implicit subtitle isn't it. The eroticism of being. The last sentence, though, is it a bit pat? beach lady. In this middle section in the more regular storytelling sometimes the tone shuts down a bit - do you think? Is it a function of when they're written maybe? model two. most of the pieces are impeccably line-edited but this one had a couple of glitches. You'll be able to recognize them. Also a couple of places where you use that instead of who for persons. warrior stance. Love the jump from corrupt America to the nunnery. In the first two paras a rep of squats.
Something about the simple declaration in the context. Then the marvelous door, the door of all doors.
And this line with its prebirth resonance: Inside is a lovely hall Wallpaper is one word I think. Word missing in the last para. photograph. Woman who not woman that, couple of times. Little girl who. Portraits of my sister and me not sister and I. cowgirl. A cap thing, the reader wonders why there are initial caps but no caps on the singers' names. her shot is as sure as the sun, sure as the swing of a short skirt Her skin is tan and smells like salt and sun, her face fresh with wind, her hair a hot mess. Your gifts of surprise. Hot mess. the soft pale glow of her thigh exposed willingly to the moonlit sky. glowing cherry arcing through the darkness we stop in the heart of the emptiness. It is big, it is flat, and it is expanding. you teach then. Raises eyebrows, genuine concern: Oh no! he says. Don't get angry, don't do that. If you want woman teachers, you become nun and you teach then, he says. He sees the look on my face, and laughs and laughs, joyful. stars. above me the stars blaze in space, spread like a blanket under which I can curl with all my mortality. Body, mind, stars, the law of fives. Mercury and madness and the fleetness of thought and feeling. Fragments of sentences, slices of lives. I like when you break into something I can't exactly follow. And yes it's the way it is, the fragments, those thin nights sleeping out. Have drunk not have drank. Seduced by a black hole as? Glitch I think. the queen's path. Sometimes there are dark unseen things. Sometimes there are bright spots. Very much what it is, whatever it is. Sometimes a sense of regality, supreme delicious secrecy, long procession winding next to the banks of a glorious river, making way in sunlight toward the ocean, washed in fat gold bands of long afternoon sun. Sometimes scratching and clawing, deep dirt under split fingernails teeth grinding sand. Water-logged flesh, frozen shoulders of a cold, wet girl. Tight thin nights of drowning. Nameless here, though sometimes revealed. Sometimes I let myself be seen. Knowing without words, language the stranger, let me hear you utter. Dear reader, give me your words, urgent now, or maybe slow and sloppy. Breathe them into me, how you call it Regality, supreme delicious secrecy, long procession winding next to the banks of it's what has been happening, yes, that I've so much liked. And dear read one, here are a lot of words, but I'm running out of energy now, will be briefer. then it is there, visualizing something to which I will bow. A buddha somewhere, dull and dusty, the observer of such offerings, bluntly gold and smiling. I love the blackbird dakinis, and as you know the woman with shoulders delicate and strong. Cannot let the lay/lie thing go, though. The present tense is lie not lay - oh is it a lost battle in America? The touching exact story of tuesday. the other mother, the way it starts with the faded purple socks like your sister used to have. I am so gentle with her, so full of love for her even as she hurt me, I am cradling her head and smelling her hair, I am weeping. I am lowering her to the ground, kindling, we slowly descend together It's like a first ending, the coming-right feeling. And then in demoness another right ending on its heels. And then a couple more, the end pages of a codex folding closed. The sky is dark and full of fire and stars. He is coming after me from down this road I wake immediately. (But here, and I am laying prone - oh it's lying, lying prone.) artmaking, subversive, looking for the roots of the roots. Imagining the moment I am born. My mother's pain is bright, my own bewilderment suddenly No choice but to go forward, outward, onward. I perceive a moment of this, this lifetime, right now. In this moment, it is not so impossible to believe that there is love so passionate, desire so driven that it joyfully creates. Who wouldn't choose such a thing, if they were offered Silence responds in disarming chansons, breezing through the trees. What is it about disarming chansons, breezing the breezes in the brain. the bed in which I am conceived two. Make me cry, you. - What was I thinking as I went through. There was a quite inchoate background thought and it was about what's formed and unformed in you in the skills of being in composition. I was wondering how working with this manuscript in revision will form you. I don't mean that you would need to revise for graduation, I mean in your going-on self-creation in writing. The piece is interesting now - I'd rather read it than a lot of Notley - but it's more uneven than for instance she is, or Carson, meaning you aren't always seeing the quality of your own edges. There are a lot of flawless decisions visible in it, but not all of them are that, and that's about experience in revision and self-defense I think. By self-defense I mean fighting internally for your own size the whole time. I'll leave it there for tonight.
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