(no subject)

[proximoception]

Comment, and I will write a short sketch of you as a Japanese movie monster in the style of your favorite writer.

(meme creator = wolodymyr)

(Identify your favorite writer unless you'd prefer me to guess.)

Comments

[proximoception.livejournal.com]

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.

[thelican.livejournal.com]

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!

[maga-dogg.livejournal.com]

You are, manifestly, like Gamera to amateurs.