While I mentioned Burroughs as having a “meta-art vision of junk” in my last post, that would be more fitting with Ligotti ( whose pessimistic vision includes all of life ), as this post by Marmalade makes clear. Burroughs’ use of words like “junk” and “fix” was sometimes metaphorical– I’m not sure about the centipedes. His vision was more intuitive than a system of thought, and in a future post I’ll write about that from the stance of Croce’s Aesthetic philosophy ( once I’ve digested that! ).

via Burroughs, PKD, and Ligotti

WSB Jr. on the other side of the equation had no truck with the piled up dead words and anything too high-falutin for plain writing (not typing by and large). The son forged beyond the style Burroughs Sr. hinted at in his first published book– with the same understanding of addictive drug use with more humor and heart– and is the better painter of that life in his “Kentucky Ham”.

As I came out of the bathroom rolling down my sleeve, I found Richard, Schell and the girl meditating I think is how they would have described it. The girl was sitting in the lotus posture with he head thrown back , and her tits absolutely seared the air. Or so it seemed to me through my loony eyes. She was very fine footage indeed, but I didn’t think that she or anyone present would appreciate my idea of oneness with the allness so I just saddown.

While we were sitting there, Chad came wondering in, and we had a quick
discussion with Schell. We decided carefully that all three of us wanted to leave started saying good-bye and thank you etc. Everybody thanks the host. I did some quick bartering and came up with two more doses to take along because I never know when to quit. I’ve always wanted to continue beyond X point. That is, I’ve always been kind of dumb. Chad and Schell walked out the door and as I went to get my works the girl told me not to forget them and I said ,”Boy , I’m glad you reminded me, yes sir”…

When all three of us were finished, I slipped as I started down and scraped my elbow down the side of the tree. I watched the bark soak up a little blood and then went down by the bay at the end of the park where there were mosquitoes spiraling above the water. I sat on a rotten picnic table watching the oil on the surface and listened to the flagpoles clank in the wind. A little sailboat named (em Mercy Two was thudding weakly against the dock nearby, and I began to be afraid that if I didn’t move soon, I’d have to stay there forever.

So I got up and walked back to the street with the wind shuddering in my ears to come back. I’d felt the same way before, but I’ve never been able to find the reason. Some kind of surrealist desolation and I kept wanting to look over my left shoulder

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