For Hélène Cixous & Kathleen Ferrier

From where we stand – always in square one – always before the beginning – always before the end – always under the spell – always in the middle of the greatest passion – always dialectically vigilant – but deconstructive – you give me your love – always conditioned by the unconditional – by everything and nothing. We are in the subplot of Don Quixote, when Quixote reads about himself – in Hamlet’s subplot, when Hamlet gazes on himself, how spectacular! – in the 602nd story of the Arabian Nights 1001 cycle, when the king hears about the murderous but desirous king, himself. It’s all about penetration. “I can’t let you be part of my life," you say, while penetrating mine, while doing it all the time by opening a door made out of flesh and bones. My clavicle feels the warmth of your hand like a penetration. My hand on your hand consolidates the magic. – Salve! Orbis terrarum est speculum Ludi. We are X-ing the geometry of the point, repairing the intentional fallacy that left Achilles’ heel without coverage. Spot on, we penetrate the heel with our gaze, healing it, so Achilles can run faster from the time that stands still. From where we stand, we read about ourselves in the most magical of all touches.


lektor said…
too dark and submissive for this time of the year.

but apart form that, yes, tou're right, as always.

the name of the game is and always be penetration.
Camelia said…
Herr Lektor, have you been drinking a 25 kr. wine again? See, this is what happens when you resist me. Had you been here, you would have had a very good 1999 Amarone, almost vintage, with duck in the oven. So, fuck a duck, don't tell me that you're so stuck on seasons and traditions. You shouldn't. But, all right. Let's be merciful for once. You did grant me this: that I'm always right. Only men in love with me do that, or those who are special. Take your pick. On my part, I can never resist the Yiddish joke: two men come to Solomon. One of them says: I lent this man my donkey and its shadow followed with it so he has to pay for both. To this Solomon says: you’re right. Then the other man says: Yes, it’s right that I borrowed the donkey, but I never asked for its shadow to follow. And Solomon goes: you're right. To which Solomon’s counsellor asks: but master, how can they both be right? And Solomon replies: you’re also right.

Now, of course, it's all about penetration, but the sophisticated kind. There have to be nuances, like the kinds that we have between sex and sensuality. So, I hope that if your comment is not the result of cheap wine, then it is not the result of your watching vulgar TV programs like MTV either, which is infinitely worse. Do me a favour: get back in the winter mood. It's so much more interesting. And come over and have some decent drinks, for God's sake. We can recall a church bell concert, as I have the best crystal glasses that you can find on the planet.
Robert Gibbons said…
Love the mark made in paint to accompany the language of the paragraph, each validating the other in their cryptic clarity for those who know intutive signs.
Camelia said…
Robert, as always, you're very perceptive. Insofar as all good writing is always occasioned, it thus submits to the rule of cryptic clarity. Which is to say that while it addresses the many, or keeps the hermeneuts busy, it speaks unambiguously clearly to the one in the know. The potential beauty of it all is at the intersecting point when the many can imagine themselves as the one, and the one can embody the many. Some call this the transcendental power of writing. I call it dynamic geometry.
lektor said…
Dearest Camelia,

I only very rarely try to justify my imperfect words or dubious actions. Tolstoi's napoleonic conclusion qui s'excuse s'accuse makes me accept my defeat and move on.

BUT! This time is different. I do agree that my comment was lousy, but it was not the result of cheap wine! No, by all Gods! I had instead a very languorous and chill tasting moment with a sublime verdejo from Prado Rey, a dangerous ambrosia which conquered my senses and twisted to complete dissolution any remaining strings through which I was keeping a physical contact with this summer-spacelike dull reality. I felt how time got loose, pulsating around me with fearsome rhythms keeping any reasonable thought far from my rational conscience.

And the result can be seen on this page. I am ashamed, dishonored, defeated. Ready to accept my faith. And if I am to go down with a silver bullet in my head, grant oh mai fair Camelia to this repenting sinner the hope that his last dinner will be anesthetized with your stormy, forceful and penetrating Amarone.

The winter has returned.
Camelia said…
Winter has returned, oh, how wrong you are, my dearest. Methinks that the 19th century has returned, which is quite sublime – where the construction of such language is concerned. A lover’s discourse disclosing turbulences, passion, desires, distresses, excesses, and fureur, above all, above all (if we think of Racine.) A book good to read in winter is precisely A Lover’s Discourse – to go also precisely with the sublime verdejo, or the penetrating Amarone – all depending on perception, of course, of course. Oh, such glorious morning – even my coffee in my stylish Stelton mug has acquired the taste of good taste – my taste – choosing lovers who make me laugh in winter, and in summer, in the black glimpse made by a good roast of rare beans in which I reflect myself while my lush lips make the cold porcelain hot. So hot. Mon Chevalier, je vous pardonne.
Camelia said…
Let’s make it even more public, the act of forgiveness for having been presented with clichés. Yes, the above Herr Lektor, is not a mathematician for nothing. He calculates, but my god, how he calculates, sublimely, and poetically, and without the fear of anamnesis which both fulfils and lacerates him (Barthes’ words). In his own literary salon he has just referred to my text as being as elegantly fitting as one of Chopin’s polonaises, and which left him, oh, the words he uses are untranslatable, but quite sublime, indeed. Yes, he is making up for his linguistic blunder that is so lacking in resonance – and he knows how I just hate texts that don’t hit me where I expect them to hit me. So, he is also willing to go into wintry exile while waiting for snow, while contemplating in his aloneness, sadness, restlessness, and uncountable sighs (his words) until I decide to forgive him again, and again, and again. That was 3 times already + 1. Of course, there has to be a plus somewhere in it, always. Those of you familiar with the Romanian tongue will not want to miss Herr Lektor’s voloir-saisir, his will to possess the text, the subtext and the pretext – in winter, when forgiveness and other things are possible.
lektor said…

I heavily flirted with a couple of bottle of Graves earlier today, and I'm again in a real peril of saying something less than perfect.

But I know how to act in this treacherous moment. I let myself to be enchained and deafened like Ulysses. Your verses are sharper than the sharpest Siren tongue, but I am safe right now.

Till next time.

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