“DE LUXE” SPIRAL N.o 14 – Registered trademark.
Patented process under N.o 29.839
Made in Brazil
be dead or
pretend to be the sea.
pg 45 —
“Pénétrons plus avant dans son monde à lui, puis qu’il est un de ces rares poètes qui allut réussi ce que tout d’autres nous annoncent sans toujours nos offrir [ILEGÍVEL]: un monde qui ne ressemble pas à celui que nous connaissons et qui
s’impose à nous pourtant avec la même évidence”.
“On fait effort continuel pour se banaliser. Le rêve, qui paraît drôle, provient de ce que l’homme se parlant à lui-même cesse de se gêner” (Henri Michaux)
“Rien de l’imagination volontaire des professionnels. Ni thèmes, ni développements, ni construction, ni méthode.” (H.M.)
“…expérimenter les pouvoirs de l’esprit…”
There’s an event that surrounds me, it’s due to me, it’s like me. Is it from outside or inside? It’s trying to get closer. I feel it more like a malaise. I’m sure it will resolve everything. I really miss this time lived without it, where I
became accustomed to a way of thinking, where everything is, for good or bad, in a place. I yearn for the event, but wishing to postpone it, taking good advantage of the day, distracting myself, dazing myself. Several times I felt that if I would stop, it would approach and reveal itself. But
even before going to sleep I read so as not to give it space. But today while I was waiting for the tram that shouldn’t be long, I got distracted and here I am, obliged to look. I don’t know what it was, because before I saw it I already recognized it and without giving me time to
let me ask it-give it a name I kneeled fell to my knees before it, like a slave. My heart was beating and what had to happen was happening. What is it, what is it? asked the wings of swallows because I myself did not have any more courage
That is how the deepest presentiment came to me: not even I am your master. The others knew more about it. Whatwasthat? ask the tree [branches]. And what happened to me answers only for the voice
of space. And if the trees understand, I continue blind, deaf.
Like a child who Like adults gathered in a group talking about a child.
I call this malaise [before] things meditation.
I hate that they wait for me. It’s not out of politeness or fear of disappointing. It’s that someone waiting for me is a fear of not being alone.
There’s a place I go when I want to really think, or sleep or see. If it was [+] close, I would say that it is in the left corner of my head. But it is so much
further, it is much beyond where I end. The worst part is that I am still me. I know that it is taken from the left and it is dark and that one gives up taking anyone or anything with. It looks like a place to sleep, it is between heaven and earth but, heaven and earth are so close and tight that there is only room lying down. It’s there where one dreams. But I don’t dream
of poetry either dreams of impossibilities or of unrealized desires— dreams that are the deepest way of looking, hard dreams, in fact. One goes left, although it is less a direction. After the first time, it becomes addictive. The others
He said it’s good but it doesn’t matter to read one or another chapter; it doesn’t lead anywhere. It’s not a step forward. I can write 10 books and one or another can be read, regardless. That my thing is that I am “disinterested”— that I don’t seem to have basic ideas or ideas, everything appears loose and all my job is to make connections between things that evidently don’t have a connection; that I don’t have interest in collective problems; that
I have no [plot]; he also stopped reading several times, for one reason or another, and resumed from the beginning, because it didn’t matter read one chapter or the other. That I lack vulgarity. That I am not concerned with anything but life in the sense of existence. I don’t present any solution, nor do I start with ideas. He is disturbed facing the book, as he is facing me. Impression of insecurity. The book gives the impression of helplessness. One can see pedaling on the
vacuum. Bored lion. I write well, etc. but one thing is missing. I suggest that I speak without having anything to say— he is silent. Human void. Missing is anything from life.
The impression I got is that I reached an impasse, a dead end, the pure [word], that does not say anything anymore. The impression is that he thinks I’m done, unless
I change. That I’m arid, and meaningless. The impression is that he thinks it’s a useless beauty and a bit precious and empty. He doesn’t know “for what” I write — that’s the impression. It seems to him (I think) that I don’t have neither ideas, from where to start, nor subjects to go toward. In the first book I still seem “interested”, then everything is the same.
You know I’m a person who keeps putting off — what?
I stood before myself again, silly. I don’t know what to do. What am I? Really, I can’t even write how I write. Either I definitely stop writing or write in another way. I can’t keep doing arabesques. If I have nothing more to say, let me die.
Garina Simon Studenic
Post Office box 14
Resende – E; from Rio
(by recommendation of
Mrs. Flor (chicken pastels, pastels [ILLEGIBLE] meat croquette)
Eliane (éclair) x
stuffed plums x 40
cashew nuts x
Pif-paf [card game] x
Drinks — 15 colas and 20 guaranás
Purchase Eliane farm
Flowers Elisa Santa Branca (orchids)
Take Atebrine until Sunday at night
Call the doctor Monday
Sat – 9 – 1
Monday – 8 – 2
Thursday – 7 – 2
Started Thursday 7th
Tuesday, 18th of July
25th – Tuesday – 1 inj. x
29th – Saturday – 1 inj. x
2nd – Wednesday 1 inj
6th – Sunday – 1 –
10th – Thursday – 1 –
Tuesday – 15th of August
21st – Monday
” 25th – Friday
” 29th – Tuesday
” 2nd – Saturday
” 6th – Wednesday