#vajara chandrasekera

[candont]

The song on the radio is in English, a mournful howling encircled by jangles

[candont]

The movement of dead things through the living body

[candont]

Thinking about: the act of writing in its raw, uncut form, as a kind of religious experience—as a kind of transport—is such a strange thing to have encompassed and upheld by routine and ritual, by faith’s grind, like you were walking uphill to temple every day, and of course you bring your saman pichcha and light the little clay lamps, coconut oil on your fingers; you sit cross-legged in the hot, grainy sand to say the dead words, during which you think of your dead, and theirs, and theirs, multiplying overhead like a great bone tree rising into the sky. No, that’s all a bit grim, isn’t it? Let’s say instead you’re like a mime practicing a bit. First you elaborately draw a door in the air, marking out hinge and latch and doorknob, finding an imaginary key in your pocket, feigning surprise—you insert and turn it in the lock which does not exist, and it goes click and you push it open and walk through. Some days there is nothing through the door, though you have to open it anyway to find out. And some days you walk through into an altered landscape. Everything looks the same, and in fact everything is the same, because after all this was only mime and it was an imaginary door, except now the room is redder in your eyes and there is music in the air.

https://vajra.me/2018/08/28/jasminum-grandiflorum/

[candont]

Neither the show nor the show within the show has a name. There are no credits, no title sequences, pure binge TV in its perfected manifestation, content that never ends, interrupted only and frequently by ad breaks, enforced absences in the flow of our consciousness, like a sleep full of symbols and portents. We reorganize the onstreaming into television in our hearts; we declare borders, we define episodes and seasons. We catalogue, document, and discourse, because we like it like that

https://thedeadlands.com/issue-01/peristalsis/

[candont]

Cute enough story: ex-radical turned drop out discovers magic t double anything including himself.  Decides to clone himself into a brass band and of course things go wrong (damned bass drummers!).

Last paragraph is a real kicker though.  Not an O’Henry style twist or anything like that or even an understanding that recasts the events of the story but instead a realization about one’s own self and the reason why it’s hosted on an anarchist site,

[candont]

A heartfelt serpent or perhaps a hell-whale

[candont]

Then there is the ideal that I think that any writer with some shards of conscience and consciousness might aspire to, the traitor’s text

https://vajra.me/2022/03/17/the-extractivism-of-setting-and-the-traitors-text/

[candont]

A language you don’t read fiction in is a language that you don’t speak as well as you think you do