i began a pile of words today in a folder reserved for the mess of the avant-garde (it may not be avant but it is something that wants pointedly not to be mundane) to rage in CAPS about someone’s story of a plant that was surviving but not thriving until it was moved to the shower where it loved the humidity, and everyone was commenting on this writing saying how it had nearly undone them because it showed them that survival is not prosperity (WHO DOES NOT KNOW THIS PALTRY LESSON INNATELY??) and my irritation knew, nay, KNOWS, no end. this writer, in other places, is known to have synthesized sentences that flashily peacock the writer’s originality. so what happened here, with their particular pile? i shan’t (in good conscience) link to it. hmpf
then i wanted to show myself what it was that was not mundane and i recalled this here “Pliontanist” painting by genius Ukrainian walrus of a man, Ivan Marchuk, at which point i began to feel this eye of sauron type frisson at the crispy curls of what it is that he has done to us on this canvas or whatever. what IS this painting. how did he do this.
he does THIS with a PAINTBRUSH?? this with such SHEEN and i am certain that i know this very star, ☼ur ☼wn m☼ther sun
my sobbing began when her eyes were sticks and her eggs were broken
i stopped weeping when i gasped that his flower was a sun
see?? these are the things these eyes want 2 sea. words can do this, too. words can be irradiating.
gods PLZ help me with (by completely satisfying) my craving for words that smack gobs and gast flabbers . . . . . . . . .