Will Alexander
Diary as Sin (selection)

alligatorzine | zine

… the dead woman who rebels against her death.
— Suzanne Césaire 

Introduction: A Vitriolic Prognosis

The book which ignites before you is a galvanizing instigation. A sum which extends beyond itself and becomes invisible emanation. In the deepest sense one can say that it is tragically anonymous though an appellation has been secured as the sole generating agent responsible for its existence. As far as is known our protagonist, Rosanna, was never inscripted with an official surname. Although born and raised in the Galvez household, she was never officially governed by its stamping.

We know of her mother Zomaya, according to confusing documentation. Zomaya Galvez was given three different datings for her birth. The first being December 29th, 1955, followed by November 14th, 1958, and finally, July 25th, 1962. Apparently three separate certificates were issued for her arising. There is a sustaining secrecy concerning the date of her appearance. Because none of these datings seems to have been secured until the middle part of the 1970's. What is surmised is that she was home delivered by an Apache midwife without note. We know she appeared in public with her parents, Edmundo and Catalina, sometime during the 1960's. There are no accurate accounts. As of yet no photographs have appeared, although we know that Edmundo and Catalina sporadically attended Mass, as well as some of the other Christian occasions, and enjoyed for a brief time a delimited local celebrity prior to, and during Zomaya's early years. I'm guessing the reason for such attention was that they always seemed to possess an unspoken means. Edmundo, although officially no more than a mining foreman, gained voracious financial security by covering up a series of mining catastrophes. According to him no human death appeared on his watch. Apparently he was rewarded by a copper company proto to Chino copper for his assiduous inversions of the facts. He kept all investigations occluded. But in addition to this financial intrigue, the secrets in what Rosanna calls the “hacienda” were of no mean significance. Three other births occurred during this period, and like Rosanna, were finalized in secrecy. Oraculos, Esteban, and Jesus were born on unknown dates, and like Rosanna were not officially recorded. Perhaps the dates wrought for Zomaya really stood for the births of her brothers, with the birth of Zomaya being a year or two prior to the 1955 assignation. As for the progenitor's of the clan, Edmundo and Catalina, a fair guess of their births would tend to conclude upon the year 1929.

But all of the above are superfluous readings of a forgotten New Mexico and its ambit. The main concern here is Rosanna, begotten by incest, born of Oraculos and Zomaya, again, on an unspecified date. What's crucial to her character is her emotive eruption from the families' core of occulted dementia. Honed by callous privation, so much so that at an intolerable acme of her resistance to this privation, she is placed in a private Catholic home, St. Catherine's, located on the outskirts of Albuquerque. Sand blind since birth, we know that Rosanna threatened disclosure of the crimes inflicted upon her, unless she is provided with tapes onto which she can record the private vulcanisms of her angst. It amounted to internal blackmail. It worked.

We know the Sister Ornelas mentioned in the text preserved the tapes after Rosanna mysteriously collapsed from exhaustion one evening and disappeared from chronology. Prior to this we know that day after day Zomaya supplied Rosanna with tapes, and though blind, Rosanna was quite adept at placing them in a recorder. We know she lived alone in her room and spoke to herself night after night. It is unlike any diary I have ever come across. I think of Wolfli, or Artaud, or Tutuola, in terms of the energy expended. She uses English as if she were an inspired cadaver. As if she crossed back and forth between life and death. The pulsation of the text is unbelievable. She was an idio-savant erupting verbal fissures as if from another plane of existing. I can truly say that it is a consciousness that I've never had this close of contact with before. The way she says what she says is searing, multiple. It is like she's speaking from an emptiness escaping the gravity of compressed suns.

The history of the text is quite curious. Soon after Rosanna's collapse she is absented from our grasp. St. Catherine's closes, and re-opens years later as a hospice for travelers. A Mrs Gonzales discovers four sealed boxes in a closet with each of them marked by the name Rosanna. When she opened them she found each tape numbered. Apparently Sister Ornelas would mark each tape by number, not by date. Out of curiosity Mrs Gonzales begins listening to a portion, and what she hears is so strange and fascinating that she contacts her friends, the poets, Rusty and Esther Chavos to see what sense they could make of them. They were overwhelmed with excitement, and attempted to transcribe them, but due to reasons of health let them lay dormant for years. Through mutual contacts, John Reeves, a Lecturer in English at the University of Texas at Austin, got wind of their existence. After an evening of listening to them at the behest of Rusty and Esther, he contacted me here in London, with what he called “his spectacular excavation.” After several hours of listening I too was smitten. Her voice smoulders with an other worldly rawness. Relentless, eruptive, unerring, she strikes dumb with her vitriolic prognosis. For her, humanity will either evolve or disappear. For her, there is no option.

I immediately agreed to transcribe them. The tapes themselves were in remarkably good condition, nevertheless I had all of the contents transferred to disk. After thousands of hours of listening I feel I got as much of the essence as was possible. It is at once a naive and sophisticated English full of spectacular repetitions. I found immediate comparison with Tutuola's Palm wine Drinkard. Like Tutuola, the immediacy of her language scorches. There exists an unnerving dignity in the power of focus. She excoriates the Western identity of God, and his central representative on Earth, the Catholic Church. How she knows the things she knows is beyond my comprehension. I can only call her the uncanniest of savants. A lone figure in the firmament.

Apparently she was never instructed in Spanish. Yet the flow of her language seems kindled by its rhythms in complete contra distinction to English as rooted in a Germanic base. In this tenor, I hear in Rosanna's voice elements akin to Paz's prose so electrically kindled in his Eagle or Sun, or perhaps the incessancy one finds in Garcia Marquez, throughout his Autumn of the Patriarch. But ultimately, these are approximations. My sense is that authors such as Blanca Varela, or Rosario Castellanos would be proud to writhe inside her symbols.

In this book New Mexico springs unannounced from the invisible, sending us on a journey which the cosmologists provisionally term the “ad infinitum.”

Oranzio Perez
Early Spring

from Diary as Sin

They tell me I'm Mexican and Seminole and carry the aura of a lean voluptuous beauty. That my face is tanned like fragments of rye, that my waist is a finely spun silver which vibrates. Of course, I have never seen my schema whole on, or witnessed my own profile, or visually tested my own emetics as shadow.

I am blind, my eyes tragically scorched in the womb. I was born as a vapour at the end of a frayed November sun, untraceable, blown about like a seasonless dusk at rainfall. Of course, I've coagulated over time, by taking on the airs of the crucified, then giving vent to personified regality. Now, I'm merely considered as a strange fictitious humming, as an ancient tigress caught in shale. Perhaps I am a terminal bride from a negligible Diaspora, culled from a wavering menagerie in nothingness.

They say that I hallucinate because I've announced the death of my living mother, although she trembles with every utterance of my name. Of course they never reveal to me the context of her whereabouts, or the present procedure of her wayward contrivance.

If I am contorted by the continuous onyx in my eyes one can never tell since my eyes don't blink, and I stare in space like a somnolent in-vector. Therefore I could never be accused of galactic infection, or causing by my motions stars to be sundered so that they rise and explode.

If I am complex, it is because I inhabit an eternal inferentiality, this being my own zone or plane where I attempt to unify the starkness which writhes in my mental gargantua. Because of this wrenching I've accrued a sense of my person so that I sense my enemies when they waver, when they collect themselves and combine themselves in the wake of duplicitous evils. They seek to ensnare me in their wiles as though they had ingested an array of suns fallen from a grave. And this is not based on a false mnemonic, or errata which has risen from my personal debasement. No. It is like an incisive lightning in the wisdom, a engenderment which comes from circling a heightened reptile's hissing. And this hissing, like the psyche of concussive toxins, or a primeval leather claimed from thwarted lynxes.

I am an individual whose movement is like the diabolics of wasps, abrogating, insisting, upon a wild inclement honing, yet with another range of apparitional neutering. In this sense I have surmounted the stasis and anti-stasis of physics, of the spark of its trans-location, even when the fire of evapouration transpires. I have fallen through a world transcribed as erasure, yet always forming in my voice the beauty of magnets in screaming. The ruined integers, the broken entities in my speaking. And because my nerves burn and scatter so strongly, it is useless for me to depict my own jealousies as they seek to ascribe themselves to a baleful or in-luminous counting.

For me, life is a water of circuitous electrical trans-missives carrying in my wake an electrically studded bodice. Because of this I now understand bereftment and waste, knowing them to be the stunning nouns in wicked rural pictures. Given this realia I am inoculated against shivering reminiscence, against a worn genetics, against roving holocaust memorials.

With the aforesaid in mind you could say that I have sworn against my family, against its rotted murals, never once provoking sentiment as a private occultation. First of all, let me weigh my anger in terms of grammes, by existential leaning into torment, drinking down potions from chronic degeneration. Understanding that the blizzard of language is tourniquet, is force field, is armadillo warren, is the signaling of molecules through a curious storm of diacritics. Because, what remains for me is the miraculous embodiment of bitterness, of in-fabulatory osmosis, filtering through my body as vacuum, like an immaculate serpent's light possessing the dementia of remorseless debacle.

This is my enigma, born under the sign of an implicate algetics, yet my body giving off the vapour of succulence and rainfall. I make no pathway to any outer specification, instinctively knowing that I cease to lend my kinetics to the explicit, to the momentary. It is because I have transmuted the sepulcher of panic, the frozen modicum as denial. I only want to express those blank and indivisible tourmaline enrichments, those fingers choosing the most creative and poisoned symmetries which decline and overtly minimize as quanta.

As I masquerade by anaemia, yet refusing to take into account my graft by in-celibate soaking, or the deprivation condensed in my pestilential wizardry. Because of this I've been accused of psychically sprinkling cinders, maiming the very attributes of wheat. Ah, they say, she casts her burning spores upon the waters by making nature vibrate as though expressing an interior ulceration. It's like making an occult vibration in space creating powers imbued with electrical inharmony. This becomes for me a wiry millenarian weaving full of corruptible psychic debris. Having taken from my world a hysterical potion of stamens, then adding a glossary of tainted mineral oils, giving me the power to ransack of an old Dutch crucifix with serpents. And I think of these serpents as being at the cusp of present possibility flying and reacting like mosses under a prior, yet convivial atomization, a 100 million years ago.

Therefore, any truth that I seem to capture can only be tested as a force across a stunning parallel dimension racked by duality as voltage. Thus, I admit to focused thirst, to sunlight formed by gregarious erasure. Again, I am like a sun powerfully quartered in mazes, speaking of a light weakened by bickering. And by bickering I mean the tropo-pause of bickering, strangely structured by a seeming anti-harassment. Thus I admit my rambling affliction born as Zomaya's deadly and in-factorable secretive beast. Of course I am not speaking to myself as a scattered memorial, but attempting to square the dice in my forehead with dialectical gestures inside the circumstance of fire.

Everyday the nuns seem to whisper that I am buffeted by scorn, governed less and less by the voice that rises from rational accommodation. To them, my voice explodes like short-circuited pyres. Perhaps this is the result of my struggle for existence, for my existing as a less monitored substance. And what I mean by less monitored is the inscrutable in life, those rays which escape the contagion of a death induced consensus. The nuns say that I am traveling along spoors which hallucinate, which describe themselves as biological remnants, as atomic cryptography. They whisper that I have surpassed restrained ideals, that my behaviour has been distorted by declivitous sensitivity. Yet I exist to myself as that hierarchical witness like a bird soaring off from anonymous blue shale.

For instance, I call myself the blinded bird who maintains herself by the ingestion of photons. Or perhaps I am the kindling of flawed emotional emergence, my weight not unlike a mimed or feigned oracular furnace. Or perhaps, like an echo in plaintive crystal spinning in the stupor of old heraldic waters. Because I speak from this osmotic principia of sound I know by my hormonal whispers that the life I've known has been surrounded by feckless cretins, who raped me, who then proceeded to parade me around the chambers of their damaged villa. My mother, Zomaya, being the empress of damaged gardens, having me, then passing me off to the jackals, Oraculos, Esteban, and Jesus, my uncles, who used me over time in their stunted outreach for the erotic. To them, I was an ashen tower, a bleeding wintering grub, who has remained for years self-scornful and disabled, writhing in the wake of villainous scorching amidst in-transcendent neurons deployed by self-critique.

This is the acid from which I've evolved, attempting through my voice to rectify disability. I being blizzard as model, as curiously rising anti-persona, as failed and unenviable harvest from Chaldea. Thus, I am a radical absence, exercising worlds far beyond the grasp of the human spectrum. For instance, the soured iguana that I am, as the holding stable that engulfs me, knowing in my blood the challenge by embodied enigmas. Not the cells amassed by observable decimation, but a chronicle of seeds rooted in a cloudless ochre prairie. Then sensing from these seeds a strange blaze of camels roving deracinated high ground, my challenged perception running as a link through curious barriers spurred by in-doctrinal persistence. Because my voice has never been tied to a plotted chemical foundation. It is no longer prescription for condensed glass, or splintered bread, or what the sighted would concur as a sea inflected wine. Therefore, my voice perceives that suns meander, that poles split apart, that snows re-configure by splendiferous abandonment. Because of this I am not of the race of entropy, not of the race who dwells beneath the form of copious chastisement. This is what Zomaya senses, this being the spark of her interminable stealth. She understands that I am not of one persona, not of one mystery, but arrayed with intransigent neurons and timings. I remain offspring as quanta, daughter as calumny or adder. And because I persist according to genetic malfunction I have evolved no tolerance for acquittal. This is what Zomaya configures breath by breath, thought by thought, step by step.

I persist in her thinking, always forming in her mind as welter that's evolved from 3 different suns. Of course this remains most prominent in her nightly waking disorder. Her confusion forming from my articulate declaration, ringing in her sleep as a ringing clavicle ministry. Perhaps an assiduous but crippled dazzling, yet this is what the momentum of honour serves to enhance. Keeping my soils enriched by dislocated spasms of the Sun. Because with these spasms a portion of life ceases to conspire against me. I possess in my calling something outside the contortion of the era. It's as if I were brought to the equator in the year 4297 facing massive doses of rays, testing the limits of my form by means of ultraviolet transmogrification. An energy outside the human backdrop possessed by unknowable integers and spells. This being my present evolutionary cipher. This power to ingest and re-form rays. This is what Zomaya senses in my blindness.

She seems to think that I'm carving a symposium as a core, holding a conference inside my own wisdom, bringing to her doorstep cacophony after cacophony as un-cleansed indictment. And she is right to riot inside her skin. To wander around her lakes of rancid ore, telling herself that the incest occurred as a random act of slippage. That Oraculos goaded her in her sleep, that each subsequent encounter took place in the midst of the hypnopompic, that she was the victim in this circumstantial blemish. But how explain the use of my body by Esteban and Jesus for a period which lasted over 27 months. This is why she remains riveted by my surviving. Therefore, the scope of her outlook, acidic, schizophrenic with constraint. Of course she fears the nomadic ether in my speaking. She does not know how my whispers coalesce, how my disadvantaged scruples convene to open her by means of my stark interior emotion.

Because I now respirate the invisible I am no longer buried or siphoned off by depression, no longer a conch to be gutted according to the behavioural opiates of hypocrites. And I am speaking of Zomaya, and Oraculos, and Esteban, and Jesus, assiduous practitioner's of the Catholic rituals, with their rapt and unalterable defense concerning its “hierarchic structure of bishops and priests…,” concerning the American dioceses with the constant allegations of rape and mishandling. And this is not a didactic or moribund persuasion seeking to cajole an unforeseen enmity from any future recipient of my voice.

I consider myself an invader, someone who has evolved from insoluble hypothesis. I who have advanced through scars and serious danger, fallibly emerging from a thankless gravitas writhing in my system.

Because my eyes were occluded at birth I've been given a curious alien sensibility. My remaining senses have developed a blank electrical toleration, a riverine and motionless interior verticality in which broad summations of vacuums singe my corpse with dangerous intuitions. At one moment singing as a debased cadaver, at another, conjoining the thread of a transmuted pessimist. Therefore, I go back to my claim that Zomaya enacts her designs through stunning irregularity and evil. For instance, she has never claimed the higher concepts of birds, always clinging to the raptors and the owls. Never the warmth from a hidden jonquil furnace, but always the bizarre, always the spirit approaching disequilibria. Nothing outside of debacle, the zodiac for her, splintered grafts of disabled sunlight For her, a mapping of treasonous sutures. Again, Zomaya, composing her foundation upon calliope and plague.

It is known at one time in her thinking she captured documents like food, she embraced the zone of the saints as if the fervour of their bleeding had collectively renewed her. She smelted language into deconstructive torrents, as if she could somehow construct a clarity from a sabotaged sub-species. Thus, she could recite from a multiple deafness. Say, one could create an eerie ventriloquy of the sonic motion from Saturn, this was Zomaya, reasoning that this power was the result from a punished yet consuming saviour, always confined to the epic of revenge. In this sense she was both Catholic and Heteroousian, knowing that “God the Father” and “God the Son” were separate and iconic, not unlike insatiable raptors. This was Zomaya's explanation for death, for torture and ill grounding which decides the common fate. This was and remains her definitive code knowing in her essence every lugubrious infidelity.

Remember, I have always heard her speak. I have taken shards from her vocables and re-spoken them with a trans-migrational force that listener's can now feel. So every time that my voice has recorded her demons it has osmotically filtered their remnants so that their palpable flames re-extend back into sound. Now this sound enacts itself with a rage totally unlike the mendicant's honour. I do not beg, nor do I hope for future advancement in the heavenly realms. All I can say is that I've been sacredly stricken by an inevitable verbal invisibility, stumbling across the intuitive abductions of an occult conjuration.

In fact, I have grown thin by my efforts, revealing and de-revealing the strength that I've garnered and its natural tendency to vanish and go latent. You must understand that my intuitive genes have always sought to destroy me. To place me inside a warped incisor's nest so as to alter my ability to ingest the three revolts of consciousness. I'm thinking of the Indian scale of the mind which acknowledges the sattvic, the rajasic, and the tamasic; more simply put, the uranian, the quotidian, and the hellish. In spite of all the deflections I've encountered I've been able to float as avian quanta up and down this psychic verticality so as to respirate at the level of transmuted inflammatory riddles, becoming in the process magically clairaudient and hidden by osmosis.

Because of the latter I can now cast spells from an emptied flask of monomial brewing which has taken on the task of evincing superior purpose. What I can proclaim without flinching is my ability to dispel clannish pre-emption, no longer consumed by parochial discomfort, but feeling the human as concerned by its larger solar disposition. No, I do not splay stunned seeds into psychic soils of fictitious erosion as if my heart rate were measured by blindness. No, I have evolved through fructification having escaped the demons and their outmoded self-tangling.

First, I project a holograph through the infinity of Mayan numeric cartography, testing its momentum by means of cosmic patois, knowing in this leap that I have freed myself from Zomaya and her circle of suggestion. Secondly, I've conjured elliptical cures which burn in my thoughts by means of repetitive injunction. And as a third remove I've entered a crystalline respiration which has casted itself beyond the wattage which infers the conflict embedded in human disjunction. Saying this, I can magically dispel Zomaya, which de-activates any leaning towards human blood rats and their desires. If anything I can count as heir Pasqualis Martinez, the alchemist capable of re-igniting selected microbes in schist. A capability I've been breathing which has the power to inveigle rays, by bringing forth a semantics which singes the skin with sudden auditory gold. I, the latter day conjuress emitting from my voice the blank equation of gain. Not gain in terms of a core or pontifical riot, but as sound inside the sea spinning as a powerful sodium tornado. And it is this tornado which enlivens me, which builds itself spell by trans-rational spell so that it now speaks to you as this riveting transitional diamond. And this diamond mixed with ink and uranian proto-botany, always keeps Zomaya unbalanced by means of its absorptive re-creation of adders and whims. Of course she does not know the specifics of what I say, held as she is by the hostage of my living presence. Because I advance such voraciousness of mind nothing in her calling can ever subsume me. I've arisen in her mind as a threatening germinal queen who parallels as a deity commanding flanks of bad weather. This weather, involving atmospheric melancholia, gives me strength to hiss, to weave as form the realia of direness, thereby proclaiming my body as sand which spews through the flask of shifting electron currents. I suspect Zomaya considers my speaking as a surreptitious pageant, as a flayed and re-assembled verbalism. Yet at the same time I understand through the trellis of voice, the taste or thrill of smoked peaches or avocado. A savor reaching beyond mechanical definition, over and beyond a powerful weakness as authority.

One must understand, that at precise moments there is ritual incandescence which combines in its power a soaring multitude of anger, which is brandished and absorbed as if listening down a well to susurrating night jars. This culmination that I've reached is like a signal which burns me by invasion, which crowns me by with debility making me moan in my sleep. Therefore, Zomaya has instructed the nuns to leave me alone in my moaning, assuring them that I would ascend from sleep armed with demonic panic. She tells them that I am constructing a perfectly formed heavenly enclosure, and that my struggle bears the mark of one whose praxis wrestles with demons. Zomaya has power to convince with a passion which seems momentarily disembodied, so that it tends to take on the tone of a spirit absorbed in tintinnabulation. Knowing her powers from my core I feel assured in knowing that I have risen above her plane of Euclidean medusae, that I have risen above her lower class of ravens so that my nightly chattering is never felt as a civic theurgist even as she harangues them concerning the dominant flowering of my goodness. I've heard her tell them “she is simply overcoming her blindness.”

Because I can hear fields, within fields, within fields, I can plot the uncanny even as it seems to take advantage of my blindness. I listen to the thinking which surrounds me. It is no different than listening to the genes which travel inside a spore. Which brings me to the crucial understanding which underlies the paradigm of creation; the complication in the respiration of motion. When I say this I am not provoking some messageless roundelay, thus studding myself with a powerless grandiosity. No, this concerns the intrados of auricular intuition. Understand, that only the uranian can imply this, only the uranian can imply the workings of animation at the core of what I'll call explorational maturation. This is what I consider to be a hurtling linguistics, at cometary height over spilling with auras. Words rise up by means of their own electrical ilk and they give me the sense of climates in distal advance of the human moraine. Of course I'm amaurotic, full of harried self-perfecting, moment by moment my being slowly evolved above the barrier of instants. This is the difference with Zomaya; she who clings to the perfection and the bartering of corpses. In this, I have no regard for her she being no more to me than an assiduous civic nuisance. She who seeks to hide me in this hovel, she who seeks to leave intact a perfect family chronicle.

Believe me, the weapons of my person have been tested. My womb, desecrated and resurrected from obliqueness. And because of this resurrection Zomaya always considers the infinity about me, never fully knowing my range, or the true power of my assessment. She knows there is harm in my advances, but she is always looking to the obvious, thinking that I will catalogue the rapes and confide in Sister Ornelas. Her only concern is the protection she's accrued from sustaining the secrecy of my existence. Knowing that what I’ll say to any person or agency will condemn her in total to public excoriation. And believe me, Zomaya is more concerned with public excoriation than with imprisonment. Thus she sees in me webs and rotations of webs, whose ethos exists like a judgmental spider gone awry. To her I must remain this threatening helical monster who scratches nouns across mirrors. Of course she seeks to contain the slightest evocation of my presence. As for Oraculos, and Esteban, and Jesus, they are only important as regards her uncovering. If I accuse the brutish attempts of Jesus, it is the vampire's needle to her heart. But without the threat that she sees through them, she would no more take account of them than she would of spoiled loaves of bread. They are expendable, yet she keeps them hidden as if exposing them would blemish her neurotic sense of composure.

Her vector to God, tubercular with damage. Yet this damage functions for her as a heavenly sense of focus, as an incalescent shaping tool. A fractional level of her psyche curiously senses that I know this, but as for her conscious awareness there exists no rational consensus concerning her thoughts and my recognition of these thoughts. This is why I've bonded with my own observations, testing them according to articulate discomfort, according to my ravenous co-existence with destiny.

Certainly war has been waged against me, but I, the sovereign dice player always carries in her seeming culpability sigils beatific with distraction. And this is not tautology, or a wayward or disposable botany posing as insight. Having come to such a level of toleration, I am able to raise moons from my lectern posting signals from dazzling aural sensibility. Certainly not an escalated error, or a trap conducted as a seduction of false signs. What I can say is that there are different motions that tend to form against God, different and substantial epics which send out their unlettered remnants as oppositional distrust. Perhaps, I am a portion of those remnants which has accrued from a generally invasive suffering. For me, I can only relate to cataclysmic soaring, to suggestive ethers which celebrate themselves as flameless ethers in the brain; finally coming to the point that it is only the bones which stagger with ideas. And these bones again I'll call Oraculos, Esteban, and the thrice maligned Jesus. The latter who suffers as the protagonist of God who rapes, and then waits in line for erotic scraps from Zomaya. All this being compounded in his case when he listens to insults which demean him for his darkness.

Of course the trapped conclusively stammer, and so the family stammers, collectively haunted by I, Rosanna; I, who no longer bemoan my suffering according to conventional conquest or law. I am the curious shadow who multiplies in their hamlet. Because of this inner whirlwinds occur. Because of this curious calliope it creates a nettling sensitivity which forces them to listen to saffron break while turning around in discomforting psychic puddles. Therefore, they thirst according to unquenchable rebus. To me, they're more like demons who've acquired a taste for their own uncertainty. Like molecular compost in schism they exist in themselves as fumes from libelous Pentecost. And since I see them through my listening they are no more than egregious adventurers talking to themselves as egested owls. They then condone themselves by a power of faceless strategies, always attempting to claim my realia according to facts of subversive scrutiny.

As beasts they threaten to consume me, but on the other hand it is Zomaya who micro-tunes their impulse, so that her role exists as an intellectual agitprop who only reacts to the pressure of her own unhappiness, which day to day deprecates in her mind like a psychic form of gall. She will mimic Savonarola in her outcome, not so much tortured alive at the stake, but as a living oracle of the reversed, breathing her own depths inside an unimpeded chaos. Somewhere in her cells she will know that her language is done, that her former imposition has intrinsically contracted.

There exists no level of reasoning in my assessment, no scholarly criteria of my in-person genes. And I do not ascribe to implanted Kirilian photo-genetics seeking to erase my voice according to the fact of untraceable conditions. As if I had been summoned by laborious gargantua in-condoning my own capacity, my zodiac thus limited to a mourned and nullified ascendant. As if I were the cause of my own harriedness, minus the unfavorable criteria known as Zomaya and her Myrmidons. I have been captured by spiders in their invisible net of molecules never to perceive the higher root ingested with phonemes. For instance, letters with the sound of spackling oars, rowing inside the proclivity of magic. This is something Zomaya had never wished upon me, knowing that my lack of language would completely validate my lack of existence. In-articulation as blindness, as captive in her wooden sationary coffin. This is what Zomaya desired as my outcome. An uncomplicated beast lost prematurely to the void. This being the perfect criteria for my exile, someone who once existed without the living rights of a person. But through language I've ingested the great heretical fleece, I've ridden the continuity of chariots through unknown grammatical hills, crowned by particular blessedness that my blindness has brought to advanced refinement. Thus I do not condone the empirical as parable, girding my argument according to the stories garnered from accessible Judeas. As for me, I walk beyond the known on a gemstone scaffold, without the point by point chronicles, without idea by leprous idea, shifted into the world according to the fact of superficial declaration.

I cannot declare my existence according to the rules conducted by jealous antecedents. What they have sought to do is to insult my realia, pulling me into contact with a stark accusatory pumice, so that I'd negate myself, and deny myself of orational mutagenics. That I'd deny myself of the afterlife no longer attempting to live from the flow from inscrutable cisterns. So that I'd never know the 10,000 years blazing in my system with its invigorated rubric, its spellbinding poise, never sullied by religious deception. In this sense I am Oriental, which by extension, Egyptian. According to the Western schisms I am mirage, I am the concubine bewitched by leper's concussives.

At the beginning of life I was not unlike Isis healing by respiration a dismembered sun. In my instincts I threw from the most sumptuous balconies those most flawed, those most satanic in their tenets. I've known this from birth, and I continue to exist from such aforesaid interior, so that in the halls of my first possessive mind I grow from invisible willows as Queen of the falsely repelled, as seminal onyx witness, allaying fears by the compassion which dwells inside wrath. I've gained such dark clairaudience by means of the negative cataclysmics initially wrought by Oraculos and Zomaya. And I ,the offspring smelling of deleterious pattern, have never reversed my arc moving as I do as a climate, insuperable with hail.

Perhaps this is the result of a uranian pre-genetics, a sun from symbolic ovens, brought to despair, then resurrected by volcano. You ask, how can I clarify such acid, such lightning transfigured by intensified singularity. Perhaps I am miming an occulted blood fragment, an anomalistic hydrogen, blurring the zones on a treated clinical table, my phantoms then explained by explosive retro-causality, by a-synchronic motion, by tales.

Say, a group of suns collided, and from this niche of blank advancement a line of waves transpires, energetic, phantasmal, which causes self-conflagrated fragments, knowing each bird that flies to be hollow, knowing every word that's uttered as useless leper's omniscience. The latter, synonymous with my concussive biography, my family chronicle alive as these ill begotten suns, like the Demiurge lost and transgressive with stupor. An atmosphere where I was forced to eat snails for Zomaya's entertainment. Then the random insults directed at this aforementioned imbibing. I could ignite at this point a whole catalogue of maiming, but a realia which continues to gall was when Oraculos snatched me one day and spoke of his desire to create a living lair from my feces. As he spoke to me this way, he also spoke of the beautiful rye of my skin, of the palpable milk in my breasts, then without warning pulled my womb to his mouth and in his sickened way attempted my impregnation by the force of his saliva. A detail, yes, but one that has marked me, and sent schisms down my spine, and forced panic to run about me.

I've been insidiously prone to suffering because they say that I am Catholic. That the saviour suffered, with me, Rosanna following in his wake. I am not culpable in this regard, I am simply chronicling this close knit pyre of sociopath's misnomers. I've been the emaciated ghost inside a terrified vignette. Poised in this colorless ascension I've fought these mixed battles in order to survive, so I can speak at present with this eclectic, punctual mis-lettering.

I've had no sister named Cordelia, to take me in her arms and comfort the child in me with Elysiums, with the mitigation of suffering by caresses. After the first assaults by Oraculos, I somehow knew I'd been siphoned from the zodiac, that I'd caused the angels to explode and descend into the nether fathoms, because they no longer gave me the powers of the transmundane, with its tuned electron sheaths, with its holographic crystals. As for implication by nunnery I could never take the vows of one who renounces her powers of body to the insomnia of heaven. I remain erotic, turpentine, explosive. And the latter are not denials, exhibitions, trapezoidal tasks, subservient to a society which inscribes its marks through hypocrisy and withdrawal.

So to plagiarize my own temperature, to embrace a cold and advancing ransom, would be the most debilitating, the most infectious attack on my body of nerves as it seeks to enunciate inside you. I, of the weightless ozone signals, of the graph dissolved by blank neutrino bells, am now awaiting in trance for delirious transference to other motions of dust, brewing unseen shapes by means of eclectic vertical seismologies. Because for years I've monitored the bleak implosive world of genetic martyrdom and flux imagining myself to study certain extremities comprised of cold and heat. Perhaps, I remain a sickened skua fallen into depth, magnetized by wrath.

During recent times I've ascribed myself to the powers of dead authors. To Lorca, to Juan Larrea, to César Vallejo. I've imagined that I've telepathically embraced them as allies in war in defence of an intuitive source of language. Language which roams inside a futuristic sun where one can open one's ducts to heights, to roads which roam through poetic vertigo mountains. Where one can pulsate, where one can give voice through creative grammatical hounding. In forfeit, in muzzles, in strange infinities as tigers. This remains the thought inside my leakage, as I sit here, spinning in the sum of my sullen anti-persona, not from a terrible gift, but from the center of linguistic monsoons. This remains my pineal, my blackened cerebellum, much the way that I sleep in the depths seemingly lifted by massive amounts of rainfall.

For instance, washing the brain of its brine, so that there transpires the feeling of cleansing, the empathy for riddles. This being the mind in the sense of old Egyptian reclamation, having arrived in Macedonio's Lion Country where none of the demons transpire, where seizures are negated. Not the realia of imposed choice, or the insufficiency of reason, but a populace of voids where rays are felt, where photons transgress. This is the mind which takes its clarity from powder, from a ruse of natural in-audia. I understand from imaginary Braille incantatory camels, and all the edicts of horses and blood. The chronicles have shattered, and I've felt the blaze pouring from optimum obscurity. I'm convinced that this is the way that candles burn, empowered by the feeding of dust. Again, this is how the moon trespasses, bleeding like a lamp in virgin haciendas. This explores my teeming verbal craft, my sudden cellular actions, expressive of the mode of anti-confinement.

Such is the mission of shattering, of breaking assignments and barriers. Light, for me, being the sound of Albanian castles at moonrise. For me, such hearing observes and breaks the fount of cruelty, breaks the absurd and mediaeval assignations designed to pointlessly modify the psychic decor of fear. The silence, the abrogation of bait, which negates the rhymeless seasoning of terror. The imagination provides at its minimum the breakage of flaws, the negation of rational simian grammatics. Of course this induces concussive personal strain, a poisonous non-recognition. Conversely this provokes a strange flotational ascent, a molecule of vapours wafting one upward into the mind of the phantasmic.

Zomaya and her ilk having reached no higher than the status of lizards. They exist through the parables of darkened physical greed. This being, the essence of regressive minds, always subject to immolation and retreat. In Zomaya's case she prides herself on hoarding spoils from inconclusive mystical exposure. On the other hand, arriving at voiceless sums as if listening to glacial tremors, I understand the slightest nuance, brief inter-active interlopings, like nutational magnetics, so every whisper that Zomaya conducts I have already ingested and understood. As for Oraculos and both his graceless myrmidons, Esteban and Jesus, they simply whisper as derivatives, much like the sound from poorly extracted tin.

Because of the above I am a traveler of furious roads. A tornado of carrion, full of dangerous verbatim and ether. Of course, this is the emphasis extended from outer conditions as devastating principates, as deranged memorial concerns. This being the dicta of hypnotic scarring. of pointless particles in the mind. The latter remains a curious portrait of Zomaya speaking in defense of an anti-dimension, of clauses historically beckoning placing a devastating emphasis on objects. This is what she'll call her spiritual stewardship. A misleading rapport between human life and the land. How much fauna can be claimed?, under what specifics can expensive flora be possessed? These are what I'll call Zomaya's emphatics, her stealth, her admixture of in-sonorous conjunction. As sand blind I understand that her facial design is mixed with Andalusian Berber. That she walks by collapse. That her nerves are consumed by negative instigation. Her howls are quite the opposite of the momentum which instructs the Pleiades. Thus, she only points to elective absence, by immigration to the core as reversal. She has placed herself as the Christian queen defending Olmec subjugation. She derides all knowledge of the Maya, the resurrections in Kemet being unthinkable. She pleads absence, she pleads the essence of germinal decay.

Because of this I understand new focus through struggle, prompting renewal by the tempest of persecution. Knowing this, the Maya have become my aeronautical elders, with the burning codes of rotational hieroglyphics. Not simply a material jurisdiction, but infinity. Voluminous stampede which spins by basic number. As Rosanna I've arisen from limits, no longer the ingenue entrapped as rotational concubine. As of now, I persist by sporadic linkage. The latter for me being the freedom of indifference, attacking, Zomaya, taking on Oraculos, pointing out the traits of Esteban and Jesus. I have lived through the pious rituals and know that they are despair. That they convulse and leave one panting, crawling to confession like a motionless arc as repetition.

I've known the thoughts which cohere in decimated groves as if I could feel their anti-reflection as a saddened kind of unison. At this level of tension I was prey, I was subject to diabolical code, to feeling the trespasser’s sting. Zomaya knows this and continues to know this. This is not a false assessment, or a stony or negligible source attempting to interpret the leanings of her mind. I understand her reptilian scrutiny, her issues with Gnostic symbols. She became a calculating conduit, attempting to disguise herself by verbally pointing to angles of strife. She sought to multiply tense warnings, she sought imperiled soil describing its meters of turbulence. She convinced Oraculos and the myrmidons that she was the heavenly refugee, returning to give them succor with her body. She would then enclose herself in nostalgia and warn them of the error of their hallucinated circumstance, then one could hear them scurrying like the homeless towards her scorching zone of favour. To this degree, I was listless and parallel, like an alphabet of meteors, fallen amidst an aggressive sea of badgers. After having me one hour Esteban suddenly blurted my name as Blind Cortaenia Simplex and the others just laughed as if the nonsense replicated their poison. Because my eyes were erased at birth I became to them as an unifying sparrow, suffering from aurific weakness. Yet I was the body with the skin of smoked honey. I was the fugitive doll in embryo, the un-brightened bell, tolling in a plaza of proto-assault and fear. Again, they laughed, they wanted my feelings withered.

This material is © Will Alexander
www.alligatorzine.be | © alligator 2010