HEEL
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.
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.
Comments
but apart form that, yes, tou're right, as always.
the name of the game is and always be penetration.
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.
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.
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.