Mansour’s capacity continues to burn after death, she remains a dazzling verbal leper, who seems to have invaded my aural canals, she who once cooked trace amounts of peppers on her tongue, she who created alchemical menace, entering her interior hive, gathering tarantulas and herons.
By gathering power at this impalpable plane she entered what Thomas Kuhn understood to be the zone of “doubt” where the collective attempts to buffet the mind with cognizant imposition, heightened according to linear dust, according to its toneless moral inversion. Mansour kept alive in her tremors a living earthquake of darkness, of corrective spasms, of feral mongoose chains exploded and brought to a pitch beneath clouds of energy and harassment. For the scientific mind this is the zone where confusion abides, where innovation seems buffeted by prior complication. For Mansour this was not a devastating warren fraught by all manner of abstraction, but for her, hybrid forms condensed from shadowy feeding.
She entered a realia primed by distinctive tension, primed by self-alerted velocity. Her psychic clouds seemed corrosive with menace, with seemingly angled purview. A double question arises, how did she negotiate surreptitious jaundice?, how did she reply to the sum of instinctive terror? It seems she never flinched when summoning seemingly purposeless turbulance. It is assumed by conventional narrative that one never derided one's body by having one's sense of itself tolerate the flow of its jagged animal remains.
It is in this climate that Mansour expects us to withdraw from the critical spectra of seeming psychic calculation in order to initiate a blind prominence to one's view. Not to accommodate some extrinsic import when it tells you it is something that it is not.
For Joyce, always combustion, always the lottery of explosion via seduction, via “double-sided angels” bleached “spasms,” “sleep” running “across rooftops.” Certainly not pointless deliberations in a court of prevaricators' spectra. This being a psychic climate that tends to bend itself towards vacuums, against saviors and leaders. This being consciousness that can only call on itself via alchemic degradation, via profane and ostentatious mirrors that Joyce continued to spin by saliva and debris. And these mirrors condensed into ray of self-suicide that created the opened body as trance, not unlike ants burning through a turgid geranium syllabus, through inscrutable dossiers ignited by implosion, by sullen vapours that spiralled into lenses that prevailed by obscenity. And Joyce engorged this as her metier, as her prevailing metier.
She was engaged with explosive carbon, verbally haunting a meteoritic guess list, knowing as she knew that billions are scaled by haunting, by the principle obscenity of living sans scandal and passion. Because billions remain at risk because of favored comforts for the few it was always her suggestion that the latter avail themselves of alchemical forms of suicide. For her they need assume the risk of self-striping themselves so as to alchemically merge with the stunned ignoble rabble, thereby allowing their essence to careen from opacity to opacity so as to absolve themselves of a decorated carapace. Joyce knew that the civilized moat could only evince itself via spectacle of illusion. The latter being none other than the habits of old literature. This being none other than its dazed genealogy that mistakes itself to itself so as to grace itself as the loyal plasma of history.
Joyce knew this to be the sad contamination of prior events studded by provincial lore. A lore studded by dulled fragmented nails. Within this tenor she knew the peculiar American persuasion with its diseased and ruinous shaping of events. She understood it to be stalled at an impossible turning point flailing in a deadened nerve ravine adversely tuned to the powers of photonic ghosts.
