proximoception | (no subject)

Commented.

To rise, though his only recourse, though occurring, burst still out of its own unimaginability, endless scarves of vertigo chaining outward from the emptied sleeve of prior expectation, each scarf the newly emptied sleeve of the ensuing. He climbed up something climbing down his climbing.

The event of having risen could exist only outside the water. The dampness of the present threw it forever forward. Could he look, with his merely temperature-sensitive round forehead patch, above would only be seen as a light almost all of which washed sideways, never reaching him. The light illuminated only itself and his absence from it, presented itself to his patch only as the presentation of the fact of unpresence. "As it was to him he must be to it" - the bad math of his grammar - foundered as every as must. And yet the foundered as was itself one with the light. Between the reflections up and down of the wandering water surface was a layer denser than rock, a paste of foundered as more there than anywhere, to be trusted though never penetrated. To be trusted as never penetrable. Trusted as never penetrable even when penetrated, he gently mandibulated, taut with the sweetness of rising.

Wow. I mean. Well, also it's a tissue of different loves of mine, no? Or do I just think that because they all resonate together in my psyche and any one of them will come out sounding that way to you?

I don't know. I was actually stalking the person behind you, sir.

EM Forster does Japanese monsters YES.

Some creatures never examine who they're eating, but Mrs. Megamoto had long pursued a more active engagement. The common practice of monsters was disgusting to her. She installed fine velvet cushions on her lower molars to make comfortable seats and set lamps with delicate shades upon her fangs. The nuclear moon fragment beneath her tongue provided light and warmth. She was able to seat a number of guests at a time, but preferred engaging on an individual basis, even restricting the intrusion of her own exterior members into her mouth salon to a single perfumed eyestalk.

"Do eat me. Your people have eaten away at all I hold dear, and extensively enough, I suppose. I should call it a mercy if it weren't important that my final words convey my hatred. Do you not see how I must hate you?"

"But I do see. Do you not see that I do see?" The narrowing of her pupule at him seemed to indicate consternation, and her tongue glowed unevenly with some disturbance. He softened.

"What do you want of me?"

"I want us to be friends. May we not be? I want to have us friends and to have my friends be yours. To have your friends be mine, if you have any. I want to know you. I only eat you to know you the better."

"I am to be eaten then."

"It is more like a mechanical washing chamber for an automobile. You will see. But only if you wish."

He knew she waited to hear that he did wish. He almost wanted to wish. She set him down gently on the dock. Before returning home they shared a moment of anguished nuclear silence.

<3

Just sayin.

Seconded. Kind of winded, actually.

Guess!

Every night the monster rose from her volcano and stomped flat a coastal village. Though extraordinarily tiny, as monsters go, she had the most remarkably wide feet for stomping. The far edges tapered so thinly that they crinkled in the breeze. They enabled her to stomp, but also to slide down slopes, skate across bodies of water, and even fly when she became hopping vexed, as she often did. Yes, she had the run of the whole world, but - have you guessed? - she was very lonely.

One evening, after flattening an entire archipelago, she skated listlessly home, wishing there were someone she could get close enough to talk with without stomping to death. (She found the other monsters rude and smelly.) Having reached her own island, she was taking her single customary dripping step from ocean edge to volcano rim when she heard a bewilderingly miniscule squeak from her lead foot. She froze in mid-step, unaccustomed to this manner of speaking with herself. The salt water steamed away as she held her foot poised above the molten pool in which she bathed and was nourished. As the hiss of steam died low another soft scream parted it. She turned her foot over and regarded it rather like a questionable hors d'oeuvre plate. Embedded in the very center of her perfectly flat, slightly translucent purple pad was a green turtle, scrubbed shiny as a jewel. Its face, half cooked, strained crossly at her from a delicate, wrinkled neck.

It seemed to cry, "Unfoot me, O renegade slice of the heavens!"

She tried to shake him off, then bite him off, then pry him off with a dwarf pine, but he was stuck. His shell, hard as diamond, had saved his life, but at the price of fusing to her skin in the massive, friction-heated press of her stomping. She found she didn't mind - here at last was a companion!

She held him up just free of the magma and they whispered back and forth through an immense steel straw. On her strolls he nipped at tough grasses and sipped from streams where her feet contacted them. At night he described to her the details of the world's surface, denied her by her too-immense footage. She had destroyed only in the fruitless hope of getting closer to the inhabitants of the land, so this led to a truce between her and humanity, negotiated by the turtle, and eventually to her moving her volcano to San Francisco Bay, which she guarded from larger monsters. She and the turtle watched public television together happily for hundreds of years.

Oh you have pegged me! I would be the stomping sort, I'm afraid. Is it Lewis Carroll who's meant to have my favor? Do tell!

Intention was Oscar Wilde in fairytale mode, but things got long and late.

That makes complete sense. Thank you.

Please, yes.

Me, too.

Beckett? Thomas Bernhard?

(Thank you for the choice, since I've never read a word of Bernhard. I promise I'll avoid the "Vladimothra: We're waiting for Rodan - beat - Metagon: Let's kill each other" route.)

thanks for that.

here via wolodymyr and that is AMAZING!

(not that i'm requesting a treatment, i'm just impressed!!)

Thanks!

rawr

Didn't you basically do your own?

does that get you off the hook?

Corpusculates emerging gabardine
From Mothra-mangled mazes of mown me,
I fall to where bent cigarette butts smile
The secrets streets speak up through still, dead earways

But you hop on. You grab what's bird and go
And planets are your stairsteps past all starred
And watered things. Hibiscus-hatted optics
Regard from every option-self discarded.

Eaten Mothra eats your insides out
As every grandma knows -
In trucetrance between down and up
Insidelessness inverts melt-moulting, as
With borrowed wings you sidle past suppose.

Yes. Proust.

Biting into her wing I pierced the balance fluid sac beneath, and at that very instant a long-familiar taste I could nevertheless not at first identify flooded my attention. My teeth seemed to meet in a sac no longer present to time, rather than that of Zomba with whom I continued to grapple above the bridges of central Kobe. A hospital and park were destroyed before I could place it, I who thought I knew myself so well, thought to have already surveyed to the farthest and minutest utmost that interior terrain lit by no sun but instead the fitful spotlight of the heart's own searching self-interest. And when I placed it I let go of Zomba, who moved off I know not where, while I was instead caught in the embrace of my own past bitings and gnashings, the texture and taste of walnuts in the grove under Gruneuille, of butternut squash at the long Easter feasts at the solarium, of the flesh wounds I made in my first love as we rolled together down Mount Fuji in the rain, every juice-releasing pressure of the jaw and fangs, constituting so primary and nutritive a pleasure of a monster's life, nutritive, too, I now found, of the growth of a different body, the body of the past as a tree in the mind, in whose branches the leaves, autumnal because memory is autumnal, bear a color defying dimension, an impossible hue so like that of certain hands and jugs in Vermeer that step forth, or rather behind, the surface on which they are painted due to their self-withheld identity, their withdrawal from a context they quietly dominate by that very sad, unaccountable withdrawal that is nevertheless a gift, the gift of knowing that there is such a behind. All we have lost, all that we have gnawed, lies there still, in the mud beneath the stream of time, each in its own, different depth in its own nook of warm, pulpy fibers, but not one bit need ever be lost to us, for it is we who are the mud. We are giants in slime.

Oh, We are giants in slime indeed! One need only recognize the residue of the hours and months and years.

I do believe you have successfully translated Combray to kaiju.

Thanks for this!

You are, manifestly, like Gamera to amateurs.

since someone already said beckett, as a lark, i choose early dave sim.

Ha!

How early?

probably not so early that you're just doing robert e. howard, but definitely before he went off the deep end. up to you.

Adorno!

<3

I imagine some special hell for Adorno like the end of Being John Malkovich, where he's obliged to observe all the mashups into which he's thrust by us kids.

While Interpol plays on the public address system. :P

Every destruction, however total, inhabits the conceptual zone of that which is undone. Completed destructions map within the destroyer and witnesses, at whatever remove, as reverse totalities, which, like all totalities, absorb and anchor association. Megalon saw this, but the particular insight of Benafrazu, building on Megalon, was that deliberately incomplete destruction could contain perniciously exogamous mitotes within productive dialectics of presence and absence. The putative observer knows that I have destroyed Atlantis because I leave seven skyscrapers intact, and sees that Atlantis has been destroyed and wonders "why?" If Atlantis becomes an object of true negation, the identity of which is predicated on its nonexistence, as long as it remains present to discourse it will tautologize. "What is Atlantis? It is that which is not."

Benafrazu famously noted, while destroying Tokyo with her blue armpit beams, that there always seemed to remain more Tokyo. The project of destruction must instantiate itself as exactly that, the project of destruction, not as destruction itself. In the words of Benafrazu, "Imma spell how i cut you with the cutz, yoppity-yo!"

That deserves an icon.

And that icon's the fuck awesome past anything.

Hand made for you!