Читать книгу Lisa Robertson's Magenta Soul Whip - Lisa Robertson - Страница 4

(an amuse-gueule)

(because the present is not articulate)

Sit us on Lucite gently and we will tell you how knowledge came to us.

First the dull mud softened, resulting in putrefaction, lust and intelligence, pearl globs, jewelled stuff like ferrets, little theatres of mica, a purse containing all the evil smells of daily life. Then just the one vowel, iterate and buttressed and expiring; leaning, embracing, gazing. With our claw it devised identity for the sake of food. Selves, it says, feeding us, I adore you, you know. Like a boy blowing from a tree, we decided, we were paid, we were free. We incessantly prepared for the future. On the title page, two angels blowing on the trumpets of fame held up a globe decorated with three fleurs-de-lys and topped with a crown. We learned habits and tricks. We were a single grin with lips pasted back. We said we saw Europes of hallucination, fatty broths sprinkled with deer, stencilled eagles, serpents and lurid rags. That was a format of saying, a frayed ligature. We were fading into the presence or absence of food.

Enough of the least. Sincerity takes too long in an aggressive emergency. Also we feel a sense of duality. We wear out the art. We start to modify our vocables – flick, pour, dribble estrangement’s sex. Since it is we who are one, and we who are scattered. We’re this pair or more which can’t absorb one another in a meaning effect. We feel palpitated by daylight and its deliberate plants. We feel this elsewhere sculpt our body.

We would be walking down the street in the city. Gauze would be everywhere. The day would be big, halting, gracious, revocable, cheap. We’d be the she-dandies in incredibly voluptuous jackets ribboning back from our waists, totally lined in pure silk, also in pure humming, and we’d be heading into the buildings with ephemera like leafage or sleeves or pigment. The streets are salons that receive abundantly our description. The buildings are charming. And our manners are software. We feel sartorial joy. We’d be at the river watching the fat water on the blond built part, loving temporal improprieties, the bright trash floating in slow liberation. We’d be applying our makeup at noon, leaning on the balustrade, thinking about a little shun, a little fight, a little sofa. We’d be thinking about hinges. We’d feel for our pen. Something might seduce us. A likeness. A knowledge.

Samesame pouring through it.