The last time I was in Austria, I was barely old enough to remember. There’s something incredibly arresting about coming home to a place so familiar yet so foreign. A strange remembrance that only exists from experiencing life and culture as youth. Things remain the same, people remain the same, though, not quite how I left them. All-the-more familiar, and all-the-more forgotten. The return, in rush of memories and poetic intoxication. She drinks the world as honey.
“Here is a moment of extravagant beauty: I drink it liquid from the shells of my hands and almost all of it runs sparkling through my fingers: but beauty is like that, it is a fraction of a second, quickness of a flash and then immediately it escapes.”– Clarice Lispector, from ‘A Breath of Life’.
I’m currently in Paris. Writing this, in my Marais apartment. Paris is everything I thought it would be. And more. The roric mornings, all mildew and stone-cold softness. The heat of the day, in blood, smoke and flames. The evenings, drenched in old tobacco and glistening with fervor. I’ve learnt to anticipate the arrival of each distinct moment just as I’ve learnt to adapt to living temporarily within different parts of the world. This body, shedding various ulterior skins depending on need. Upheaval, always. It’s the only way for me to keep blossoming. I need continuous change. Never pacification. And beauty. Always, beauty.
Dear love. I’ve fallen again. Thank life. I leave for Paris tomorrow. The smoking, opiate stained Paris, I’ve always dreamed of. Dreamed in. The streets that coat, the blanket of night that consumes. Loving, flowering, unfolding like a rose. Pastel petals in hue and fragrant in scent. Dying breath. Faded dreams. The sparkling brilliance of Summer. Heat in full song. If my inner longing was a place, it would be Paris.
“The secrets inside her mind are like flowers in a garden at night time, filling the darkness with perfume.” – Fumiko Enchi
A Fig and Almond Layer Cake. For times of sheer sorrow and self. Gluten-free. Still as good. It’s a cake that’s a little kinder. A little lighter. A little better for everyone. But nonetheless, still cake. In all its salacious exaltation. It’s a situation of six jaconde sponge cake layers. The use of jaconde instead of regular cake, a total saving grace. It’s feather-light. Aerated and almond flavoured. There’s a vanilla bean amaretto simple syrup to soak too. And a smothering of fig jam between. A sweetly scented orange blossom ricotta swiss meringue buttercream coats the entire cake. Kept thin, to reveal each solitary layer. The use of ricotta, a new incorporation I can’t be without. I don’t want to be without. And then there’s a dark chocolate drippy glaze to adorn. It’s total sacrilege to do the cake without it. Please, do the glaze. It’s a dream kind of cake.
“All rosy and healthy on the outside, but all ashes inside.”- D.H. Lawrence.
This inner weakness has always been, the feeling of warmth. Of intimacy. Heat and intensity, never in drought. But closeness? Well, that’s another demon in its entirety. I was never built for closeness. Disconnection, vital for bloom. Withdrawing, the essence of flourish. Burial, always. For I do not exist within human life. Human need. A mind, never fully within grasp. One thigh rooted firmly in the earth, the other flesh, forever belonging to the angels. Writing. The river of my blood. The thunder of my heart. The thing that singlehandedly destroys my soul, yet continues to breathe life. For if I didn’t write, I surely would have died. To write is to bleed. And nothing can fix this overflowing wound. I solely exist within the fluidity of poetic intoxication. And bloodlust. Eternal bloodlust.
“You realize she’s so made that it’s as if at any moment, at her own whim, her body could cease to live, could just thin out around her and disappear from sight, and that it’s in this threat that she sleeps, exposes herself to your view. That it’s in the risk she runs, with the sea so close and empty and black still, that she sleeps.” – Marguerite Duras, an excerpt from ‘The Malady of Death’.
Here. The perfumed hour, the still one. Salacious musk and orange-blossom scent. Irreverence and nightshade. Golden light flickering through the terror in the ceiling. Sills, full of flowers. Light, sensual in every creeping movement. Toying, tempting. Devouring. The savage, onset of Winter, doing similar to the flesh of I. Violencing. There’s bloodlust in these eyes and the thirst of the sea in this head. All thoughts exist only to be drowned. I, am willing to become stifled by my own hand. Come, into my mind. And drown with me. I promise you it will be tragic. And how the cold, eats. Winter filling my soul with its shivered bite. Frostbitten tongue, a reminder of this fragmented love. A love rooted in a desire for escapism, a pull towards romanticism and modern neurosis. Winter. I, could sleep inside of you.