SECRET GAMES
A BOOK OF ANALOGIES
“I suggest a new language be found that really expresses the psychical phenomenon similar to, but not identical with, dreams – those dreams which, though still opposed to external reality, have long ceased from opposing the dreamer’s life.” Ghérasim Luca.
“I fire a gun beside a wire-gauze cage in which I am rearing my menagerie of females in the open air. The explosion produces no result. The illumination continues, as bright and placid as before. I take a spray and rain down a slight shower of cold water upon the flock. Not one of my animals puts out its light; at the very most, there is a brief pause in the radiance; and then only in some cases. I send a puff of smoke from my pipe into the cage. This time the pause is more marked. There are even some extinctions, but these do not last long. Calm soon returns and the light is renewed as brightly as ever. I take some of the captives in my fingers, turn and return them, tease them a little. The illumination continues and is not much diminished, if I do not press hard with my thumb. At this period, with the pairing close at hand, the insect is in all the fervour of its passionate splendour, and nothing short of very serious reasons would make it put out its signals altogether.” -Jean-Henri Fabre
“Sight does not perceive any visible object unless there exists
in the object some light, which the object possesses of itself or
which radiates upon it from another object.” Ibn al-Haytham
There is the passage of light, not upon the object, but through it, always through it, and with glaring abandonment. He is the forge that enlivens the parapet, while she is the haphazard glow that escapes the hammer of a furious obsession. She outshines him, bathing like a crime in progress––a prism that spreads its light from her mouth...
*
It is not so much the cylindrical aspect of your gaze that always tempts the steady bombardment of irascible characters, always tempting, always playing the most unsettling tricks in full view, but rather, or strangely analogous to, the very thought of that woman whose only justification for being in the presence of memory are the sparks left flint-chipped on the edges of things when she leaves. The knife blade knows your pleasure better than anyone. Her smile: a reckless gamble.
*
The rain out of earth ignites in you a starry chasm of irrational twilights, when you hunt for entrances, swim for absurd balconies that open on mysterious air waves, plunder with exquisite exiles of pure disparity all the gargoyles in every Tarot reading ever devised… for the promise and boomerang that brings back evidence of prophetic light. You, yourself, are the reflection of phantom limbs, phantom body, phantom mind and phantom earth flowering in a phantom dimension. The object of being, an acceptable plumage, a very dark river of light that precedes you.
*
In the observatory there were brilliant and obscure clarities in the presence of evening, when she refuses the illustrious purity of his solitude, takes control of the fastidious alignment of sudden fears, and with only a slender thread that joins them for a brief moment in gravity, shares with him all that separates them in the forest fire of conscious singularity. An aberration of spirits feeding. She touches her own illusion, grooms it for his enchantment and encircles the reflecting light of hypnagogic templates... splendid gears redirecting the heavy prisms of awareness between the shipwreck and the incantation.
*
She pawns in close, a gyroscope in squalor, and nudges the difference a mere fraction to the side of injustice, tilting on the axis, filing the wind down to its bones, bending the light into inexplicable torments, spilling the harmony of an identity forgotten amidst the endless babble of noonday statues, and with every sense of prurient recourse she resets the gauges in the most desirable manner.
*
In broad daylight the tunnels are visible manifestations, and the landing sites and encampments are overgrown with lilies and forgotten lovers. It is necessary for the perfection of the art, for the camouflage of secret and parallel lines, or parallel lives, following no precursors, of perturbation, of startling disparity, her reflection that follows her everywhere like a curse, or an imperative grace dressed in the mysterious evasions of Catalonian witches when cornered in impossible situations. A certain provocative gesture, perhaps an obscene word whispered…
*
A sense of defiance unleashes a constellation that makes all the difference in the world. The jeweler sleeps, dreaming of a woman as old as a diamond, who sparkles in spite of her flaws. Priceless is a word often used to describe her rebellious alloy. Her shadow is a perfectly executed knife blade.
*
Springtime is an obscure alphabet for the bathing bodies swimming through night, and haunted by the intersection of sudden dreams that detach the strangers from their phantoms, without a scent or trace of hemlock, impeded only by your refusal to sever the black mirror from its bride. While she sleeps, conspiracies undermine the brightness of unnatural acts. Only the sublimely hidden recalls the necessity of a lost gesture, an intimate touch. She is playing, perhaps dreaming of her death, or her birth, with a detailed vengeance comparable only to the phases of the moon…
*
She spreads her body of dark ages and splendor in the physical radiation of crystals that reflect the cities into which are poured the marvelous manias that never fail to awaken the poppies, the black ones, for the voyage home, and the sinister red anemone with the poisoned eyelids, for the winter solstice. She draws the fluids out of your dreams, like one besieged by desires of broken Flemish porcelain. Silence was her Mercurochrome, or her twin sister... She loved you because of your despair.
*
The flow of light through the body of evidence follows the path taken at random by the sleepwalker down the stairs and into the face of a dangerous moment in time, where great risks are nurtured, and the moon provides the color of your blood when it flowers in the garden and intensifies the sense of fear, or loathing. There are no moral principles comparable to pleasure worthy of violation. Absolute recklessness prevails.
*
The pure fruit of an emergency landing, is a last ditch effort, a glowing hunger strung up by its ankles from the rafters, and impersonating the sputtering compass when it loses all sense of direction, kneels and licks your precious feet... then dashes off, exhilarated and beside itself. There is humor in the word: “precious.” The fruit is a night-light for the children who walk in their sleep––and therefore, the night is a narcissistic diversion... an act of irony that makes for intimate conversation between total strangers, when hidden meanings are always appreciated... when no one is present.
*
Reality is the amorous disruption of the wedding night, its fables and narratives in the black glass of the zookeepers’ promiscuous twin, the leopard’s robe of ingenious escapes, and the promenade of wonders...
*
She is a presence of ferocious libation, and her eyes are never the same color or measurement, nor is her fiction more intense than its absence. A triangular absence that amuses you, when you find it, conversing with desire that objectifies and offers its reality like a pair of wolves in the fountain of awareness. The transom is a fire set to the mumbling of stars…
*
The converging point of eccentricities is the catapult of unlikely events, where the distance between your preamble and her swan-shaped cruelty is the network of veins and arteries connecting the archipelago of an evening stroll to the empty corset of a questionable gesture.
*
Death and life have the same features and share the same cellular harmony as that of the fruit rotting in sunlight, a sensuous decline into shadow and mystery, beyond recognition. A simple hallucination. The sound of gunfire in the forest. The unintelligible screeching of a sorcerer in unison with his ravens. Amulets tossed into the lake at night. She is loved beyond reason. The blind man’s ecstasy destroys the city without remorse.
*
In the distant forest there are waterfalls that whisper your name, and brush up against you, sometimes becoming you when you are distracted and taken unawares. Shadows are always delivering startling messages that, when read from behind, illuminate the background that becomes the foreground, like a studied veil, remote and yet strangely familiar. The filigree is a burning tree like a long forgotten ancestor. The fire, soft and alien, aligns its bright cubicles in triangles of dusk, one upon the other.
*
It is common knowledge that the First Matter of discontent is the water that lives, and it unravels the solace that grinds up the desperate landscape that long ago became luminous with the sense of imaginary beings meeting for the very first time––before they became real. She does not hesitate and releases her red pearl, while he, delirious with fog, conjures up the spirit of forbidden ceremonies. A reflection of thirst is offered, like a spell...
*
An introduction to the discourse of the lunatic, when he sleeps in the form of a triangle at odds with the nighttime scent of secret flowers and forlorn passageways beckoning to the swimmers… His deductions shine with a brilliance only he can endure. The pain of movement is the pleasure of eagles in midair. When he speaks to his mirror the words exchanged open up new vistas that extend far beyond the analogies of fiction and nonfiction. He sleeps most peacefully when engaged in the most dangerous activities...
*
They stopped to mingle with the others, in a space and time that resembles a courtyard in the shape of a dream, bright with fog and arousing to the touch, but secretive and forbidding. She nonchalantly caresses the sexual ambiguity that exposes its silken threads in the depths of the forest, like fool’s gold in the memory of a river. He is uncertain, as always, and yet tentatively plays with the spokes of the great wheel, its velocity frozen in the crux of a blissful short-circuit. An impending checkmate allows them the chance to exchange places, amalgams, fuses and radiances.*
Transparency is the state of being violently opposed to everything.
*
There are always cities underground and secret societies, but not everything secret is hidden, nor is everything hidden always a secret. Crisis is always imminent, no matter what the cost, and passion is always near, even when denied.*
A furious debate causes their reflections to become disentangled from their retinas, as they all lean in closer for a portrait that makes their arrivals and departures all the more puzzling. Bioluminescence lends an aura of paradoxical delight to the close proximity of distant adventures. What manner of fiction most closely resembles the reality that masks her sinuous dance with her own metamorphosis? What is the strange pathology of her gown filled with fireflies?
*
Your face seeks that half of shade most propitious to the character of a cinematic sense: an avoidance of spectacle, yet a precise quality of mystery, to be followed, to enhance by boldness, but studied and penetrated. The photograph leaves a questionable taste, although seductive enough to impart a sense of myth, even sorcery... Important prerequisites for peerless adventure. Her face always a luminous lure, a feathered hook, an invitation to a forfeiture of misery, if even for a few delirious moments. A caress that always leads to permanent scandal. A message of marvelous weapons laid out in decisive measure against a blurred backdrop of tyrannical mothers, flesh-covered flying machines and ghostly cypress.*
In the center of the city, where the Dark Ages is unlocking the great doors with the keys of night, and the warmth of summer raises its delicate bones in the fashion of intricate and shuddering spires, the gryphons of least resistance pantomime the signs of the zodiac to encourage the inspiration of scholars writing feverishly to invent new histories out of thin air. Meanwhile, the couriers from Belgium are arriving daily with news of fresh distractions…*
The rain-deer in the wolf-mirror greet you affectionately under the feathers of your cloaking device, your incorruptible desires.
*
Sometimes it appears to be a shroud of soft moaning, the angle of her departure... a plurality of endless delays... and at other times, there is violence in the sheer hissing of midnights’ pulsating larvae, when announcing the secret wedding, the solar wing of attraction and repulsion. In spite of her silence, the motor of dreams continues unabated.
*
The iris opens and closes like a Bird of Paradise struggling with archaic pigments of light. She touches the hand of the dramaturge, who begins to fade and, out of remorseless habit, reattaches himself to the rain that enchants the window of her predilections. Under the incandescent stones of the horizon, a reversal of roles takes place between the raven and the wolf, when a slip of the tongue prevails, a marvelous shade of emerald is climbing out of the furnace made of claws and feathers, and a predatory shape unfolds in the act of flying, in place, unattended and daring... the singular object of a fanciful theory of consciousness. Marvelous weapons burning bright...*
In each resistance to whatever would seem, even in the slightest, to betray the pursuit of a sense of brightness unlike any other, the anarchy of the bridge-tender is elevated to the level of a truly magisterial wonderment. The slow decay of the walls of knowledge, at this point in time, is captured in the varnish that indicates a high degree of gold-making refinement, and like the portrait of an exceptional woman, or a mystery, exposes a flaw in the fabric of time. An inner glow that is cast far and wide... Her face becomes a shimmering reflection of all that is unknown in the spark that indicates the exact center between one and the other, like an immense clearing lit up by a storm. Between each scapula, a loving interlude in the garden of electrical currents.
*
She is more Latin than Roman numeral, yet her countless threads confound the bathing of her shadow as it passes this way through the equally black chamber like a cymbal for the King when he sleeps. An awkward movement throws the guards off balance, until it’s much to late for regrets. She is proof of the paleness of the sea, and in return, her cruelty is especially resplendent. She loves him, there is no doubt. His discontent is beautiful when he swims. His night is filled with the passage of stars and the lunacy of her waves destroyed on the shore. He counts them, one after the other...
*
Her gaze is the opposite of her breath, and it follows the sidereal molecules of a distant body looking back upon itself with awe and unknown chemicals. Her gaze, and the velocity of her gaze filled with vanishing points challenging the landscape, and irresistible liquids spanning centuries... Her gaze is the opposite side of the mirror, timeless, darkness of sighs imparting the intoxicating flowers of depth and intense hunger... Her gaze... eating its way through stone... Her gaze that circles the scattered elements of a secret game resembling a conflagration of identities stacked one upon the other in the restless cabinet of perspectives, alternating egrets, and solarized pentagrams: your seduction of the mysteries of consciousness reanimated out the glowing particles of the sea.*
The crossbow that reminds me of your fear of heights, quivers in the moonlight like the mask that once adorned the face of the one who shuns the brightness in the center of the photograph. A spectral windup toy attracted to the claws on that mask, positions itself in the flying machine that rescues the forest from its other-worldly prism with the arrows of an amazing projectivity into the wind. You find yourself obsessed with her earrings that inhabit the carcass of that hour before waking, when the only sound is that of the great languid birds that capture her ears for a winter feast. Her tattoo of a veiled mask always recalls those moments of delightful solitude. He remembers the obscure clarity of that ceremony like a painful wound. She was proud of her nakedness...*
There was always the torch of wet fur dazzling under the eyelids.
*
Before the melancholic sand is gathered in the eyes, when the last breath of enchantment weeps its perfect crystals, in the drapery of the city after the seeing-eye manikins enter the season of revolt, for the hypnotic suggestion, under the domes of erotic energy, by the streetlights of unreasonable dwarves and their bridled moths, the thought of having been here before becomes the last rites of the gambler when he enters the photogenic zones of a winning streak.*
The arrangement of the Glancing Table takes its cue from the various interior models that continuously provoke the pathos of unopened letters, detours predestined to intervene, and delirium in the face of adversity. All this resides like a heart murmuring in the background of the portrait... the one with the soft-shoe and the top hat, the mother of pearl and her child, the conjurer, the charmer and the twelve pawns, the Revenge, the orchid’s beloved sister and the great wheel. Behind them can be seen The Tremulous Orchestration, the golden magnets of the wave, the sleight of hand and the magnifying glass poised in the ether like dancing bears speaking tongues for the one who is loved to death. The dream is the guardian, and the sleepwalker is dispersed in the rain. The film is always interrupted...*
She has already departed for another engagement, while he left years ago to meet her.*
Love is subversion of the senses, the negative light of magnetic sensations that cover you with the black dust of wings in the continuous vessel that reproduces your presence, and overflows. A singular plurality out of which are coaxed the drops of poison, of light, or words, a language of dew in the early morning, the dangerous clairvoyance of the body that swims in the bright water of its own two-way mirror. The psychosomatic eggs of an open window. Black honey, a pure black stone with a faithless heart of fire. Illusive and impeccable intervention.*
She is the emerald battling with the ruby: fire and water as a way of life. She will kill someone tonight, and bring them back to life again, just for the joy of it...
*
When the laws of nature intercede on her behalf, footprints are sent scurrying in every direction, and when the coordinates mimic the exact measurements needed to trigger the alchemical vessels that seduce the weather, that whir and hum like simian lanterns held up to warn of impending dangers and invisible locks, she enters the forest from behind, where the spirits speak only Spanish and the nights are without equal. It is necessary to harness these wonders. The minerals of distraction... Molecules of light. When she places her hand on the left side, only the brightness of a sudden recognition prevails. When her hair accidently flounders in your eyes, she is the invisible word of a transparent body. Realities pass through that word on the way to your mouth...
*
Undercover of deception and exacting duplicity, the illuminating anomalies that held sway over the conjuring of animated gloves that interdict the passage of time through your present space of being alive, bring you face to face with the shape of your desires coming towards you, to breathe on you, to mould your malleable elegance, and initially, to assist in your complete resistance to all that does not arouse the perception of what is ignited in your presence. The tiger comes to lick your reflection.
*
According to the Book of Illusions: “The purest means of escape, from one moment to the next, always involves the gathering of witches whose pleasures and patterns of behavior are acute and swirling with every color under the sun, then becoming black altogether like the saliva from a lovers’ kiss in the darkness, and shining in places never uncovered before, from even the simplest, most random gesture, to the radiant moments immediately preceding the hour of dawn, when dreams linger to stir the fountains in the landscape, the brightest flare of a roused red shadow (not unlike a diving suit––or the priceless ruby that once adorned the neckline of that notorious French thief’s bride) leapt up to reach the ceiling, and hung there like a chandelier announcing the festival of enchantment... Departure is inevitable. In the blink of an eye, all is lost from sight.”*
There is a tenderness to the violence that signifies the coming of earth inside the man who tends to perceive the alembics of his presence as the mercury of a spark, where the landscape moves around him and is lighted by his eyes when closed. The object of his language is the great door that opens in the refusal to be signified, as an entrance––only in so far as one can come or go at will––that ceases to amaze only those who fear to enter, or leave. It is the same with the wolf... the same mad and possessive gaze. The same instinct for motionless satiation. The veiled vampire, already filled. Impossible reality...*
When you gather with the others for a defining moment, bathing the fire like rubbing an eclipse for the oil lamp that announces the erotic movement of your shadow freed from your body. The other is not yourself watching yourself, but the other who does not know it is watching another...
*
The uncanny whining of her wing-like phosphorescence is at the root of all things anatomical and timeless, a perpetual rotation that unravels the strange and unfathomable myths of question and answer, fear and embrace, the fever and the fossils of Spring. Morphologically she is both prey and predator wrapped up in the christening vessel filled with useless words. The carbon face in the vice of the jeweler.*
Waking is a scent as pure as a dream when the sun places its candles in the alternating fields of seeing with your eyes closed, feeling with your body in its gradual disappearance, imagining with your blood spilled across the street, and loving with your breath, exchanging ghostly objects that become entangled in the passage of caresses lit from behind... Love conspires with the leopards of lunacy, and a spell is cast that refuses to be broken.*
In the Theater of Chimerical Schemes the amethyst ring follows the black glove of the anointed specter of desire that begins to purr and whimper on the table of unexpected kingdoms. She takes pleasure in this prolonged kiss...
*
The glow of the heretic assumes the form of the dream and offers the general malady of things that fall asleep in the night to the one who resembles the heretic and writes endless notes concerning lunacy and the occultation of things according to the position of the sun, when it turns black, when it fills in the shape of your absence, and in a most delicious turn of events, becomes the veil that leads you astray.*
The virginity of night becomes obscene, and most enticing when it leaves its heavy breath behind... smoldering in the grass, a spasm of innocence torn to shreds. A vision of pure delight, absorbing and reflecting, exciting and transferring. An evening stroll...
*
The astronomer’s prediction, the double doors and the clothing of the bride all serve to arouse the bellows of a secret joy. The number 8 is telling, and yet altogether too soft... but why it reverberates out in the courtyard, on the wing beside the entrance is puzzling. She declares its animal nature, while he professes an affection for the aura of veins that connect the Milky Way to the sound of her breathing when she curses... Their answers balance.*
The interruption of amorous levitations releases the static of conjecture... alternative maneuvers clamor for attention. She moves in close to the mark of thieves, and leans a mere breath even closer, with an almost agonizing slowness comparable to a scene sliding into the dissolve through evening, onto a street filled with rain, in a country not far from the sea that mirrors your movements, for reasons known only to a few select initiates––the playful ones, the ones closest to the decline of civilizations, and those who are forever caught up in the tension of those unmistakable frictions––and when she stops, frozen in that moment, there are beams of light rusting in the wilderness. The intrigue is insurmountable. Consider the cinema of the interminable gaze. The masquerade is in full swing, the way it was many years ago, when you were blind and filled with tremors... The velocity of presence is reason enough to interrogate the spirit of apprehension.
*
You, yourself, are closest to the one who places herself on the far left, beneath the bursting leaves and the gathering light, and yet, you are almost hidden from view. It is your secrecy that attracts the fireflies that attract the curious shadow of the one who loves you for your crimes, your obsessions and the dream that follows you like a river...
*
A starless night, a sense of metamorphosis delivers his head on the platter.
*
She reaches for the key of misplaced objects (above, left) and intercepts the one who secretly loves her (extreme right), with a glance off the edge of the door, like a waterfall surrounded by subtle crimes. The fortune-teller fondles the slave girl (behind, center) to gain access to the mysteries (glowing in the foreground), while the magician remains illusive and sinister (to her near left) and always in the dark. She, as usual, is most playful and prophetic (as she moves slowly behind the wedding couple.) He, on the other-hand, is growing transparent in his desire for her, and dangerous in this aspect of his greed. They all regain their composure, for one brief moment, when the light changes from black and white to illumination.*
She guards the light by hiding it and then replacing it with something far more devastating, more ancient and naked.
*
The radiance of the saboteur, the shame of children, the innocence of the widow, the lamentation of the wizard when he wakes, the last breath of rain, the embers of her eyes like love letters in the fire, the séance of Summer, the ape’s amazing grace when it unfurls the secret of its own memory in the meager scrapes of charred meat, the fawn-shaped weapon... A sacred tryst.
*
Where exactly within the scheme of things is your occurrence? Where is the entrance to all that surrounds you? Where is the object of your sight when you least expect it? Where is everything that you are not?
*
When Claire-Obscure goes out walking among the shapes and edges of a movingly immovable curiosity, which could for all the right reasons approach a balance of incendiary and useless radiance, an undivided sense of restlessness approaches vertigo. Such thoughts are possible when the mind is distracted. While pure and immoral, even the method of distraction follows a perfumed riddle that simulates a voice not quite your own, speaking in a language no one knows and revealing things not everyone could see. But, she knows, it’s worth taking a chance, even simply for the absolute grace it imposes on the unsuspecting... The drapery of a forest fire forbids a lapse into memory, and follows the inexplicable delirium of stars. It is touching when she kisses your antlers...
*
The difference between what you see and what you think you see is not the only landscape worthy of your attention, or the only distinction. The surrounding objects clearly reflect your absence, and glow according to the rapid disharmony of gears and currents. Dissention and interference as a mode of transportation. The stillness at the center of the storm as a way of life. Light is grinding up the shadows like a feeling of having forgotten something important. Ideally one travels by instinct alone.*
In your voice there are crystals and in those crystals there is transformed the cynosure of lost mariners ladled by the moths of uncanny bearings, leaning heavily on the side of lost wax apparitions, diligent maneuvers and the unbearable lips of wings. Her specter is the waterfall when it mirrors the art of waking your double, the love-coiled mainspring of the tides...
*
You are your own phantom, your own wedding, and your light. It is only consciousness that assails you, nothing less. You are, the mirror held up in darkness, a starry night, like her, an unsettling visitation.
*
Is it only your blood, or the ferocious roar of the sun?
*
There is always a gathering and a scattering that prefers the edge of laconic appearances. The here is not here, and often times prefers to be over there, when the distinctions between what is reflected forward, and what does not emerge from hiding, to engage its will to power and the devastating sense of pure enjoyment. Her tattoos are etched into the rain.
*
An unexpected breathlessness ignites the lighthouse of leopards prowling amidst the bright bones of night, feeding on those intuitive dreams that dispel the terror of seeing through yourself. Pebbles of mercury in the arsenal of days and nights layered upon each other, like doorways bursting with the nature of space, shedding their unnatural secrets like feral skins that glow in the dark. The daughter of the key runs ahead of your passage, unlocking the abyss.
*
There is the whirlwind and the sparks of flesh and moonlight, and the gates of intoxicating movement that intimidate the fear of ordinary wailing in the face of magic. The ship of insomnia follows the sphinx of your language, where fierce water is concerned, where the pigments of incandescent water darken the stone of your psyche, glowing.*
She, as usual, exposes the mirror of the imagination... a vengeful joy of articulate symmetry, that makes her smile, endears her to the beasts that roam the arcades at noon, in broad daylight, like travelers coming and going, like ghosts in an avalanche, like her abandoned clothing, on a deserted street, in a city that resembles the one you just left... She places gravity in the deep waters of concealment, and coaxes out of that mixture an elemental sense of exploding seeds in the fissures of consciousness. She never fails to reveal the imperative necessity of magical decisions. The geometer of imagined realities embodies the relentless circles of absence. The chalk of unrest...
*
Animosity is a sense of movement, and a precursor of revelation.
*
Her flesh of poppies reflects the sun while her shadow impersonates the moon. The history of perversions is the gold of science. She is an endlessly bathing light.
*
The owl’s cape on the throne of the King, where tigers fight for the mirror and spill your royal blood in the afternoon, in the middle of the 3rd hour, in the reflecting pools that pour you back and forth till the riddle is solved in the 2nd half of the space of an ordinary day. A privilege for the yearning that gambles, claws and tricks every groan and sigh out of desperation... The mask that sputters around on the floor like a haunted scepter. The impossible flying machine that attaches itself to your hunger, and throws the switches that navigate the shallows. In the photograph, only an empty landscape where the somnambulist meets another... They bathe together in sleep.
*
There is an intricacy of somnambulant detail in the wilderness of a sudden encounter, when desires are exchanged, and auras are passed through walls... from mouth to mouth. A furious salutation.*
There is always a gathering and a scattering that prefers the edge of laconic appearances. The here is not here, and often times prefers to be over there, when the distinctions between what is reflected forward, and what does not emerge from hiding, to engage its will to power and the devastating sense of pure enjoyment. Her tattoos are etched into the rain.
*
She, as usual, exposes the mirror of the imagination... a vengeful joy of articulate symmetry, that makes her smile, endears her to the beasts that roam the arcades at noon, in broad daylight, like travelers coming and going, like ghosts in an avalanche, like her abandoned clothing, on a deserted street, in a city that resembles the one you just left... She places gravity in the deep waters of concealment, and coaxes out of that mixture an elemental sense of exploding seeds in the fissures of consciousness. She never fails to reveal the imperative necessity of magical decisions. The geometer of imagined realities embodies the relentless circles of absence. The chalk of unrest...
*
Carbon pigments. Gold toned divisions and multiplications of closeness that mirror the double and the triple of screens and sheets that betray the sense of spontaneous combustions. With each step in every direction within the domains of love and desecration there is the moment lit up by its particles, burning in the air, a million light years flowing through your lungs, in isolation, through your veins, deep into your phoenix of illusive qualities, in chemical equations, darkrooms and underground passageways, where the totems of awareness begin to whine and screech, begin to speak, to separate and congeal, and lay eggs of frantic anticipation. You begin to wake again... Your eyes reflecting secret diagrams, or hallways in the desert, and you fashion sparks on the anvil of migration.
*
The oracular spinning-wheel of blinding sighs lifts up her reflecting profile and drags the owl’s helmet into full view... There are pronouncements of sinister beauty, for the sake of beauty alone, unsettling and pure, to soothe the travelers of lost doorways. There are landmines like grand pianos, and celestial flowers spreading chalk-boards everywhere scribbled with covert invitations.*
Life is the shadow of something real: Its dreams are flesh and bone.
*
At the precise moment of ignition, seen from the voyeur’s encroaching forest, anything supernatural will have loved and foraged through the disguises of illicit seduction and conquest, in the scheme of adaptation to within seconds of being that light of stars before you were born. There is the discrepancy of hunting and gathering, the bloodbath of infinite space, sparkling... the wave of opening eyelids, the flickering smoke of dawn, the pharmaceuticals of shadows joining forces. It all dissolves when you lapse into sleep and into the spirits that precede the androgynous fetishes of your return. The glowing solvent spins its tales, pouring back and forth into itself. The antimonies bursting with claws and rattling horns... The rider, the watchman, the messenger and the pale boatman follow with joyful apprehension the slender threads of your subversive courtship.*
“I have given much thought to the notion of your whereabouts, and have come to the conclusion that the attraction of opposites, or the aberration of antimonies in constant motion, follows the slender thread of decisive invention. I have recorded the whispering of natural phenomenon, and balanced the stones of lingering doubts with the disquiet of unrelenting obsession, and found the transparency of erotic embrace clothed in the uncertainty of a language impossible to form or speak. To destroy and resurrect in any other form would be the touchstone of impossible moments setting fire to the hive of thinking and being water, in the séance of earth... The presence of you, in your absence, dispels whatever questions I have formed, and the air, glistening and circulating, keeps your position in close proximity to mystery. A paradox equal to the bodice of a train-wreck. The continuous droning of pure silence. Thus, I become the river of your undoing and the impetuous fountain of your appearance. Your scent still coming from medieval urns follows the parapet of unexpected blurring and the rubbing of hands on the surface of things as they require. I know for certain that the elements respect your invisibility. I kiss your reflection and make love to your shadow...”*
Henceforth, there is only the feverish conjuring, the secret art of a glance that stops at nothing, the throwing of knives in hopeless situations, the curse that strikes gold, the phantom caresses in otherwise phantomless places, where what is known cannot be seen and what is real is without form... But, for the sake of the unsettling storm, there is lightning in the blood when molecules collide in the mirror and darkness is disfigured. You are asleep inside dreams of waking into the light that becomes soluble. The violence of a dance like water in the bestiary of perception. A precious alloy.
*
At certain hours when night becomes the witchcraft that passes through her system of weights and measures, there are the earthquakes of restless gowns and shoulder blades that arc and weld in the miraculous dive of desire. It is the liquid of the doorway in the harmony of subversive exploits that bring the elements of surprise into the ether of your own disquiet, your obscure portrait, your cloning with ghostly oranges, the desperate letter from many years ago and the fictitious shadow that gets closest to the reality of that reflection not your own. You become real in your absence.
*
She never speaks without warning, with a wedge of crisis between swimming and sleeping, where her magical points of dislocation resemble the flowing morphological water burning into structures of cocoon-like and fugitive images, half in and out of reality... moving among philosophers and snake-charmers, like cryptic handshakes and slips of the tongue. Escape is always eminent, with its throttles, slip-joints and false evidence... She would meet you on the other side of the family portrait, where transparency rules and throws off the scent. Absolute clairvoyance.*
And lucid pyramids of peculiar light, by imaginary friction, force the black pearls of your ancient voice into words that begin to burn...
*
In the city that surrounds the dream, the mechanisms appeal to the least common denominators. The assignations are sputtering and spitting out languid armatures of desire, arcane whirring devices and longhaired valves of ill-timed exposures. The arrowheads of immaculate indiscretions...*
Guarding, hiding and replacing goes on endlessly in the days and nights that follow the wishbone on the sundial of Druidic threading machines, in the window that passes you, on the crest of the wave that authenticates the bright whispering seeds that germinate the wheels of twilight, once again, through the doors of an exquisite restlessness. On film it remains a forest once populated by wolves and their female companions... a place to generate forms of endless pleasure for the windmills of exhaustion.
*
In the morning the two-headed jackals groom the sleeping Hierophant, and the twittering Priestess carefully releases her veils from their cages. Out of perspective, the mythical creatures of satirical harmony, horned beehives of light-shaping minstrels more feral than feline, and in the shadows where your reflections come to play, tall, slender and mesmerizing spyglasses that lead the way with antagonizing grace, with eyes of distant storms, and bustier gowns of snarling manes and lightning rods arranged in pairs, as if by magic, each one offering a systematic approach to the lost continent and the marauding symmetry of the wedding night. Daylight conjures up its familiar forms, bursting at the seams. Love shares its body with the phoenix.
*
The intrusion of quicksilver bear-traps dazzling in your bed.
*
A gyroscope in the female form is always the sign of dreaming pilots.
*
In the center of the city, the flesh-covered menhirs of time are the long-eared threads of the love-stricken seamstress turned into stone. The sexuality of numbers misuse the mathematician whose naked calculations far outnumber the obstacles in his dreams––so memorable and delicious––for the woman whose eyes torment him beyond measure. Magical alliances. Strangers meeting every other moment in the tall grasses.
*
“My dearest and disheveled, I am never as you see me, although I am always present even when I am an empty shell, a recurrent theme of excess and extinction, when I am lit up for you in your sense of joy and abandon. There is only the sea and its lovely assassins ringing for service in the middle of the night, when I enchant your name, in the hour of your metamorphosis. They say it is love unequaled, and magnified. I say it is the ultimate revolt and the crosshair of colliding dimensions, where the starlight rises from the carcass of your intoxication. It is a poetic decision that rivals the desperation of consciousness glowing on the staircase, in the windows flooding the theatre, and the coat of arms fondling the corridor. You, my endless gaze, are the last frontier and the savage pollination. I will always bathe in your perilous luminosity. I am the virtuous eclipse.”*
For reasons of transparency it was necessary to increase the area of darkness, but not for the sake of illusion. Vision assumes its own nebulous ignition of shapes and spinning levers, and learns by the schemes of adaptation. The candles of ascending water follow the poisoned darts of curiosity when there are no rules and no unfinished certainties... and frequently she can be heard consulting the hybrid iris- costumes concerning the phases of paradoxical departures. When no one is looking, you release the far-flung halos of dark matter, those abusive kisses, freshly cut from the sense of wonder and defiance.
.........................
Excerpts from the book