Author: l noelle mclaughlin

Ghostwriter for hire.

experiments in automatic writing: this week I

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-somewhere it all becomes l’eggo my ego.

-i wonder if you know the name of the world, or where to go?  i read the book this afternoon.  i think it’s all about the van of a florist.

-who doesn’t prefer the orchids?  n of course, most importantly, the scattering of identities…

-the home of the toy (the tone), n then the blind girl of course who was watching did the same.

-Not Blind.

-NEVER.

-i let her..

-i know.  i’m sorry.  i get so scattered,  like leaves n orchids, playgrounds, toys, noise, novellas, please- i love you today.  the sky has never looked so gray.

 

 

testing video posts

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taryn made this.

(my lil sister.  she animated the faces.  she’s supergood at studying faces.  she knows more about you than you ever told her.  when i used to watch her place in williamsburgh, it was full of these books on how to communicate to others without talking, like in the face.  at the time i figured it was because we were sort of socially stunted children, who needed to read about these things in order to figure them out.  though it was probably just for the job.)

but i have never felt any rest

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in this way i urged myself on to a bold undertaking.  i resolved to fix my dream-state and learn its secret.  ‘why should i not,’ i asked myself, ‘at last force those mystic gates, armed with all my will-power, and dominate my sensations instead of being subject to them?  is it not possible to control this fascinating, dread chimera, to rule the spirits of the night which play with our reason?  sleep takes up a third of our lives.  it consoles the sorrows of our days and the sorrow of their pleasures; but i have never felt any rest in sleep.  for a few seconds i am numbed, then a new life begins, freed from the conditions of time and space, and doubtless similar to the state which awaits us after death.  who knows if there is not some link between those two existences and if it is not possible for the soul to unite them now?

from that moment on i devoted myself to trying to find the meaning of my dreams, and this anxiety influenced my waking thoughts.  i seemed to understand that there was a bond between the external and internal worlds:  that only inattention or spiritual confusion distorted the outward affinities between them, -and this explained the strangeness of certain pictures, which are like grimacing reflections of real objects on a surface of troubled water.

p. 177 aurelia, italics mine

delfica

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Do you know that old tale, Daphne,
That love song that always begins again,
At the foot of the sycamore or under white laurels,
Beneath the olive tree, myrtle or quivering willow?…

Do you remember the TEMPLE with the huge peristyle,
The bitter lemons in which you sank your teeth,
And that grotto, fatal to rash visitors,
Where sleeps the conquered dragon’s ancient seed?…

They will return, those gods you still weep for!
Time will bring back the order of the old days;
Earth has trembled with a sigh of prophecy…

But still the sibyl with the Latin countenance
Is sleeping under the arch of Constantine
-And nothing has disturbed the stern portico.

p. 221 Gerard de Nerval, Les Chimeres, (lil lost in translation, but still)

seriously.

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many times the idea has occurred to me that in certain serious moments in life some Spirit of the outer world becomes suddenly embodied in the form of an ordinary person, and influences or tries to influence us without the individual in question having any knowledge of it or remembering anything about it.

p. 120, Ah Aurelia Aurelia Aurelia