Posts Tagged ‘Céline’

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And now for a word on my creative process.  As published in the Head and the Hand.

Tracks w:Black Frame

 Art.  Fever.  Heart. 

It’s  the difference between night and day.  I spend my last waking hours reading exquisite writers.  Céline if I’m in the mood for raw and racing prose.  Pablo Neruda if I’m in the mood for aged and oceanic poetry.  Camille Paglia if I’m in the mood to split the difference. She’s a deep thinker whose sentences read  like acid-guitar licks.

In the morning, I kick-start my brain with junk.  I read spam.  I read celebrity gossip while ogling pictures of starlets in see-through gowns and micro-bikinis.  I read crime reports designed to put me into a state of apolexy:  white collar scams, crimes of passion and murders by bored kids.  Then, when my mind is catapulted into the chaos, I  fight to regain the lost chord.  It’s a fight to reconnect with the vibe that I carried, like a lullaby, through my sleep.  Nothing else makes me feel at risk of losing the  writer’s vocation in the jaws of media over-kill.

Coffee.  Nicotine gum.  These are my concessions, like steroids, to the need to compete at speed with the Big Boys. Of course, they exacerbate the over-stimulated, over-accelerated,  over-the-top rush that I get while coursing through the inter-net.  But having worked as a helmsman in the Carribean and priding myself as a cosmic navigator, I do a little yogic breathing to keep me right on course.  All of which reminds me of a passage in Michael Herr’s “Dispatches” in which an US Army LURP took a mix of pills to make himself “right” before long-distance patrols in hostile territory.   Amphetamines to give him down-range vision and lethal tension.  Sedatives to give him lateral vision  and a soft float through the thickets.  My co-option of the method could  be an author’s conceit.  I don’t care.   It’s my bullshit and I’m sworn to it. 

That’s my method.   In the darkness of night, I read authors who suit my character but arc above me in talent, stature and mojo.  They take me  into dreamland. In the light of day, I read chrome plated, tinsel covered, rat-tat-tat glitz that foils my imagination.  Tweeked to the point of insanity, I fight to find my center.  An inkwell in the eye of the hurricane. Or, the heart of my fevered art.

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Kitchen Sandwich

 

Dear Ms. Janelle-

Uh oh. I must’ve insulted your ladyship.

A woman’s estate is herself! That’s the cosmic truth that I tried to  tickle with my cockiness. The Diva. The Goddess. The Dominatrix. The Earth Mother and the commanding housewife. They are all variations of the same self-possessed being. And your own lofty aplomb is absolutely tantalizing.

Man comes from woman. An  inner-pocket of genesis, a self-sacrificing  host to a kickin’ parasite, and an irresistible fleshpot in the round. It’s  this inherent magnitude that makes even hard men feel impotent and defile females in porno-films. Meanwhile, their better adjusted brothers write poems about a woman’s unassailable mystique. I know. You deserve the latter.

Mea culpa, mea culpa. I’m open to direction.

Sincerely-
J. J.

p.s.

Here is Ferdinand  Céline’s take on Feminine Mystique.  As an opera singer, you might be interested in death-by-dancer. Ballet dancer.   Obviously Céline is a over-the-top when it comes to a woman’s leg.  He was also over-the-top when it came to Jewish tribalism.   In fact, the following passage is taken from one of his “anti-Semetic” screeds.  Bagatelles For A Massacre.  Funny, how I get pulled into Céline’s  work as if into a woman’s crotch, and become intoxicated by his salts, sugars and earthiness.  I experience  a blind-ecstacy. His  preternatural glut of Parisian pomposity  and barnyard flavor really excites me.   I know.  I know.  It’s nothing to be proud of.

In the leg of a dancer the whole world, its waves, and all of its rhythms, its irrationalities, its aspects are inscribed!… Not simply jotted-down!… The most nuanced poem in the world! …moving! Gutman! Everything! That ineffable poem, warm and delicate which is a dancer’s leg in balanced movement is in touch, Gutman my friend, with the soundings of the very greatest mystery, which is God. Which is God himself! Quite simply! That’s the gist of what I’ve been thinking! Beginning next week, Gutman, after the end of the term, I no longer want to work save for the dancers… Everything for dance! Nothing outside of dance! Life has laid hold of them, pure…has taken them away…given the least impetus, I would go off to lose myself amongst them…for the rest of my life… scintillating…undulating…Gutman! They are calling me!… I am no longer myself… I give in… I don’t want to be tossed away unto eternity!… but unto the source of everything…of all the waves… The reason for the world is there… nowhere else…

To die by dancer!… I am old, I am going to die soon… I want to crumble away, keel over, dissolve, evaporate, turn into a cloud…in arabesques…in the void…in the fountains of the mirage… I deserve to perish in the most beautiful way… I want her to whisper upon my heart… It will cease to beat… I promise you! See to it Gutman that I am close to the dancers!… I want to pass away well, as does everyone, you know…but not in a chamber pot…but by a wave…by a beautiful wave…the most dancing…the most touching...”

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