After Meshes in the Afternoon (dir. Maya Deren, 1943)
The movement of the frame, in effect, had been transferred to the objects in the frame.
—Maya Deren
—Maya Deren
Beneath the shell, a shelled armour of an eye, an organ.
A vision, a form, forming notice in states. The states
of man characterising nature built on the character of man.
Locks and master keys, instruments of discovery, of syllable,
invention, an inner ear, a cord. Keep going, keep the dead
pilled and piled as nothing rests mid-air. Nobody, not even
one body simply evaporates, withers as time sways in front
of the image of themselves, in front of this image of self.
The wilting petals of a poppy, or the upright leaf-steams
of an anemone cannot account for impulse. O, here we are
again, in scripts, scripted corridors. The point is immediacy.
With readers construing lines with dashes — creating sides
to an abruptness, a density of notice to be noticed. O, darling,
you are you and you have arrived. Take four strides forward
and put down your hat. Sea and see, you have come a very,
very long way, a long way you come baring cold and simple
breasts and such rye, rye bread to be carved. Into this letter,
into a letter for time — a letter despite time. O, question
the absolute and as days repeat, question it, question it again.
A ladder, a poised form of attack, shifting in frame, in frame.
Twist your shivers into a knot and scratch at aversions
to tragedy over sand, mud, grasses, the pavement. A rocking
staircase, in flashbacks, in frame. A frame, a roar, a master,
a master key unlocking capital of spiders. In ritual in threads.
O, mastery, O, supreme. I am supreme. As vivid as dew on leaf
at noon. As the reader you are sitting in my office chair feasting
on slices of rye bread. Spinning, threatening arrangements
of intervals into the sky. The sky asking for everything, false
steps. In this episode, you have come a very, very long way.
In this self-directed silent film, I stand in shot. I am shot
on a private island, in frame. In shot as I am standing in shot —
just standing there. Gloriously, still against a door crashing
over a mouth sailing into motions, a picture. A door, a mouth.
If you are reading this, you are a lake. The lips of the father
envisaged to have and own a son. Is this a key, the key? The key
will not chime like a chord, a diminished chord from the father.
A father reclining in a chair ignoring an attack of a heart, reclining
in a synthetically upholstered chair and assail. O, sail towards
sanctuary with a latch and bolt. Dead strait with terrain ahead.
Reckless, reckless, if you wail. Will you? The glug, glugging
of love howling, knocking at all doors. Squawking with starving
gulls I would join if I only the gall to flap into squares for a line
growing, growing. Nobody is in order, in order. O, detachment,
rocking staircases. Anagrams of conversation, the voices rant on.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Autumn Royal reads and writes letters of notice.
A vision, a form, forming notice in states. The states
of man characterising nature built on the character of man.
Locks and master keys, instruments of discovery, of syllable,
invention, an inner ear, a cord. Keep going, keep the dead
pilled and piled as nothing rests mid-air. Nobody, not even
one body simply evaporates, withers as time sways in front
of the image of themselves, in front of this image of self.
The wilting petals of a poppy, or the upright leaf-steams
of an anemone cannot account for impulse. O, here we are
again, in scripts, scripted corridors. The point is immediacy.
With readers construing lines with dashes — creating sides
to an abruptness, a density of notice to be noticed. O, darling,
you are you and you have arrived. Take four strides forward
and put down your hat. Sea and see, you have come a very,
very long way, a long way you come baring cold and simple
breasts and such rye, rye bread to be carved. Into this letter,
into a letter for time — a letter despite time. O, question
the absolute and as days repeat, question it, question it again.
A ladder, a poised form of attack, shifting in frame, in frame.
Twist your shivers into a knot and scratch at aversions
to tragedy over sand, mud, grasses, the pavement. A rocking
staircase, in flashbacks, in frame. A frame, a roar, a master,
a master key unlocking capital of spiders. In ritual in threads.
O, mastery, O, supreme. I am supreme. As vivid as dew on leaf
at noon. As the reader you are sitting in my office chair feasting
on slices of rye bread. Spinning, threatening arrangements
of intervals into the sky. The sky asking for everything, false
steps. In this episode, you have come a very, very long way.
In this self-directed silent film, I stand in shot. I am shot
on a private island, in frame. In shot as I am standing in shot —
just standing there. Gloriously, still against a door crashing
over a mouth sailing into motions, a picture. A door, a mouth.
If you are reading this, you are a lake. The lips of the father
envisaged to have and own a son. Is this a key, the key? The key
will not chime like a chord, a diminished chord from the father.
A father reclining in a chair ignoring an attack of a heart, reclining
in a synthetically upholstered chair and assail. O, sail towards
sanctuary with a latch and bolt. Dead strait with terrain ahead.
Reckless, reckless, if you wail. Will you? The glug, glugging
of love howling, knocking at all doors. Squawking with starving
gulls I would join if I only the gall to flap into squares for a line
growing, growing. Nobody is in order, in order. O, detachment,
rocking staircases. Anagrams of conversation, the voices rant on.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Autumn Royal reads and writes letters of notice.