poison in the soul by hanno alexander ridal raudsepp

Reads: 1  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fan Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Jennifer Eve's journal


In several ways, I have an inferior mind, and that inferiority is my special genius, because it is an inferiority that sees subsoils of human consciousness, and inferiority that clings to the soil of the human soul, that digs its fingers into the earth, that finds its affinity with searching and exploring worms and beetles. My minds loves the earth, loves all all its crags and jags; it seeks from all its special genius from the earth's irregular surface, from its rocky wild landscapes. My minds seeks the genius of rocky wastelands, of wild vacant landscapes, of the wild emptiness that wails my sorrows.

The fact is, I am believing more and more that I am the living reincarnation of Napoleon. Either him or Fatimah. Still probably Napoleon. He had that whole Groucho Marx approach to the world that I see so much of in myself. But Fatimah, Fatimah, I feel she is somewhere inside me too. Maybe I am a hybrid. God, I can't make up my mind about anything.

Yes, Napoleon, I am here to finish his work. I am here to bring a new Renaissance to the world.

Napoleonic mobs. Mobs of the French Revolution. I love mob. Mob is me. Me is mob.

Me. Naked Eve. Naked Jennifer Eve. Where will I find my independence, my independent conscience. And yet the words, “independent” and “conscience” seem to have such different textures. “Independent” is what- architecture, a tower of Babel? And “conscience” is what- a marsh, swarmy, a hive, a swamp? A swamp of my conscience into which I would sink like into vegetative slime, green algae of soul, nourished and cultured by such slime molds and green algae of conscience? Sinking into gently, swarmy depths of conscience-swamp I will grow a green bacterial culture of progress in my soul, my peculiar Garden of Eden, nourishing bacteria, a vegetative manifold of bacteria which will be a manifold garden of bacteria in my heartbeing, bacterial emotion, bacterial emotion of bacterial nourishment, bacterial culture of refinement of soul, and each metamorphisizing bacteria will be a metamorphisizing Jennifer Eve.

German word-clusters, bacterial clusters, intermingling as a City of naked Jennifer Eves, an organic city of Jennifer Eves, a Paris of Jennifer Eves, of French culture, French cheese, of nourishing lactose-bacteria for cheese culture, of a manifold of cheeses which would would be my refinement of taste, of pleasant textures of cheese which I would nibble or choose, like choosy nibbling, with delicate taste, each texture a different texture of my sou, of my milksoul found substance, a substance for textures and tastes of my soul, to taste delicately a different texture of my soul, a different, giving texture, a different variation of soulsubstance each time, varieties of substance, of themes of substance, themes of soul. Dark, I don't want to be dark, seriousdark, dark, deep, compact soil dark, Ishtar dark.

Jennifer Eve's journal


Sounds abstracted from words. Sound which are the unique sounds of a language but which don't form words. I actually fear words. Whole words. English. I fear English. English is too didactic. Too much of a severing force. Each word of English severs something, severs itself or myself from humanity. I just want the sounds, I need only the sounds, the sounds abstracted from words which will thus reveal the soul of the language, which will enable the soul of the language to blossom, for language to become a garden of Eden. Sounds of the womb. I will hear the sounds of various languages as if I were hearing them in a womb. Muffled sounds. Cloudy sounds. Soft sounds. The softness of the womb. Sounds which are the softness of the womb.

Together. The sounds will bring togetherness. For sounds severed into words separate, create the void between themselves. Sounds cannot breath in a void. Sounds of reconciliation. Sounds abstracted from words will bring reconciliation. Sounds like perfumes intermingling. My criminal passion for reconciliation, my passion for the warring struggle of opposites, of the discordancies of meeting opposites, the discordancies of sounds abstracted from words. The dislocations which will bring peach , bring reconciliation, Christ's soul dividing and warring against itself, thus bringing reconciliation.

Singing is a bird. Singing is birdflight. Singing is the flight of an angel, the flight of airless sounds. Sounds abstracted from words as intermingling perfumes. Perfumes of sound, abstracted from semantic solidity into fluidity of perfume sound, manifold sound of perfume, of subtle unvoicable intangible textures of perfume, intangible texture of languages from manifold languages, a crossroads of language as softly intertwining perfumes like softly intertwining perfumes like softly intertwining vegetation, perfumes like flowers, perfumes like manifold blooms of colours, blooms of colours intermingling their colour textures, their colour rivers, Anna Livia, textures of rivers, the manifold airiness and compactness of textures of a river, a streaming archipelago of rivers of perfume, a crossroads of languages meeting and communicating with each other as sound liberated from words, from semantic singular dictatorship which separates from the will into the objective politic, the objective state, words become abstracted into delicate degrees and understandings of wills not externally dictated, words abstracted into communicating wills which hear the sounds in words, which listen to them, sounds which come to them when one can hear them, liberated from the political, from the violent action of the political upon a word. One can only understand by degrees. Only degrees communicate. An eternally communicating wilderness of perfumes.

Table of Contents