"When Rimbaud reached Paris and began to feel confidence in his magical powers, a great change took place in him. There was a sudden growth of self-confidence, a sudden blossoming of arrogant pride. As a child and as a youth he had been considered of no importance; he had been under the complete control of his mother; he had been pushed hither and thither, slapped and cuffed. From his earliest years he had been told again and again that he was no one, only a child who must do what he was bid, and that others knew better than he what was good for him. [...] Now all that was over. Now, all at once, this humiliating condition - doubly humiliating to a youth of Rimbaud's pride - came to an end. Now he entered into possession of riches which no one could take from him; he was a chosen being, set apart, and all the heavenly regions were open to him. He was to become the channel for the voice of the Almighty. His pride was all the greater since his importance was not recognized by those around him; he could imagine that he was a divine voice crying in the wilderness, whom the common herd did not hear, and whome they persecuted as they had persecuted Joan of Arc. Like Faust, he no longer thought of himself as a mere magician, he thought himself the equal of God [....] he even enjoyed the life of a God. Rimbaud reached the same arrogance and pride, though he was, later, to believe that this had been only a drug addict's delusion and megalomania...."
- Enid Starkie, Arthur Rimbaud
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by Lucas Edwards
- Table of Contents
* * *
Son of Sam's surrogate stalking me started in the kitchen at the restaurant where I was working and writing my unbridled, long poem, book-length and including all kinds of notes of my surroundings, details important to Edward Lacie, major poet who had just finished his first collection of poems, Bouleversement.
It started in the kitchen, the details I wrote, adding them to my poem. Later on, reading newspaper page one stories, I'd remember something I wrote in the kitchen. It would make me think I knew more than I knew.
The story Gary was a regular at the restaurant, a closeted gay man.
Wheels once round,
unshapely now. Unshapely
or unseen and saw me
where so much rubber
gluons groan. I
wonder of the still point
at the axle's grasp.
The motion makes us sick.
I'm the easiest gold to fire.
Melt me, make me drool,
the impure spit tastes of me.
These weatherings are sore a-
gainst my wounds, soft-boiled or
less, but anything but raw. I break
in the future, the wash door tight.
There are pages and pages of that kind of unreadable spinning of the wheels.
"As a young boy he had asthma," Bill Kurtis narrates on Court TV.
Here it, here it, here it doesn't remember but has taken notes in a journal and will remember when the time is right to write.
I remember now!
It's all about magic.¹ Magic is a disorganization of the senses.
The upstairs reminded me of the place on 6th Street lived in by Michael Carr. Edward rented the place with an un-mentioned fellow college student who moved out as if overnight when he found out Ed was gay. Ed is gay.
Ed dislikes being called "Ed" just as much as he dislikes "Lacey" instead of luh-SEE, don't let him kid you.
The house was the center of a vortex of bad energies and Edward has never been the same since the demons there slept under his bed.
The Hacker's career is a tragic example of ultimate waste.
Imagine an on-line novel which is changed daily in some aspect or another. The novel is offered for free and must be downloaded by the reader one chapter at a time. Say there are sixty chapters and the author makes constant changes to the novel.
Which reader's version is the real version of the e-novel? How easy would it be to create a fake version, totally contradicting and disproving the original version's meaning and events?
Would even the author be able to recognize an authentic version of the book and a version slightly altered by the reader and then misrepresented as being that of the original author?
At any time, an "official" version of thousands of copies could be printed and prepared. The next day they would be immediately obsolete.
Edward Lacie doesn't come 'round much any more. I wonder where he went.
I take it to mean that Harar: Taken to Twin Peaks is either finished or abandoned.
(There is a version of this e-novel in which the above paragraph is in italics except for the title of Edward Lacie's narrative. There is another equally valid version of this e-novel in which the only italics in the above paragraph occur on the title of Ed's narrative. Likewise this paragraph once appeared without the parentheses.)
Also, Une Saison en Enfer was not Rimbaud's working title. He intended to call his "book" The Pagan Book or, explicitly, The Nigger Book. By "nigger" he meant social status only, not race at all. Throughout the text he refers to himself as one would to a slave, treats himself as lowly and exalted simultaneously.
Hacker insert: Have I mentioned text here is a series of garble, specifically 1,016,064 random Xs and 0s and 1s in no discernable pattern. This "text," despite no pattern, when plotted onto a screen 504 pixels wide, display a message in a large serif type with a drop shadow (the 1s). The message reads, "The hands of the writer are as valuable as those of the plowman in the field. - A. Rimbaud" and the new couch is comfortable.
This is a pipe dream, dreamt and smoked
by the Hacker.
Coop looks like he hears the call of the Black Lodge.
"The trial ended in a hung jury."
I'm watching "Court TV" with Jim Post again, but he's napping.
End of episode.
The old rules don't apply. A is B,² I swear. I'm not all right.
The Hacker has been hacked by the head Hacker, the way it seems. I hate this.
Maggie's.... Ali's.... Jim Post's.... Coop's....
There must be some other way two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty one or bust.
The Head Hacker did a rare deletion here. I still haven't figured out what it was about. - lme
It's about trying to separate the translatable from the non.
It takes work. Ayn Rand's career is a tragic example of ultimate waste.
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