Bird of prey's chronicle milk

This one has been chronically counting on the egg under the chicken's bottom. 'It is my nature, it's the heart's vocation, and therefore it should naturally occur-me.' But it is also of the human nature to have ten thousand natures; and it is of the animal nature to obey to one only, its one, the one which it hasn't even-however chosen. Chronically, this one forgets to remember herself to choose — having however already chosen; but it is necessary to re-chose the choice daily — to choose the combination of natures which will be a supernatural guide through the ten thousand natures possible and impossible. And thus, fused the natural with the decision, I can be even impassible. Even impassible.

So now — and then and now again — one such anarchic authority, which has chosen itself once again, has come to be able to offer: a sip of a bird of prey's milk.

Once upon a literary fog, I had decided that a bird of prey could enable more objectivity — precision — rigour — to my gaseous writing — vaporous — aeriform really... — And amidst that mist I discovered the existence of the Secretary Bird — a bird who walks more than she flies (out there in the sub-Saharan savannas) — and I've asked her for a job; begged her to employ me; I have made myself her apprentice, and we founded a surreal company. It wasn't easy to make the business float or even walk the prairies. Our vessel was so supernatural — it became unnavigable. We realised that we hadn't been dealing with a reality above nor below the real-natural, but through thee. We did, on the way, stumble across the infrarrealists; though the nourishment needed to make our ship go was yet some something other, a something flyer — milkier — creature — woman — phantom — and star — in the air, but just a little bit above the ground.

The bird shan't let me see its egg objectively, for it is better left unseen; but I committing from flesh to breath, to the such-much, super and infranaturally, to the work on our cardiac-vessel — this here, now, is the airship's logbook — then the bird shall give me the milk. Which I shall then with you all share. Nor is it an easy drink: it burns: cleans. The most intimate proximity with madness, without in fact touching her, is the state into which a creature is then enabled. A rare view. Infrared and ultraviolet. All this — to see the real. How difficult it has been made, by human nature to human nature, to see a vision of the world.

These — saw Visions —

Latch them softly —

By way of my service to the order of the Secretary, she allows me to milk her. Assisting in this manner to the production of such bizarre booze, and feeding then from such milk of the absurd — that is how I put our literary vessel into field — sea — air — and the candle is lit. The quills on top of Her head drip red; bitters for our dairy drink.

See a vision of the world: the Bird of Pray, and I, and our receptacle: the fields we now sail are: the island of England. Which is why the milk, being poured into the chalice, makes a saxon-angle. While the hands that milk it, as well as the seeds with which they feed the bird, are Brazilian hands and seeds. And beyond: that the Secretary Bird walks the Africas, and has appeared to me amidst mist perhaps-because-even-also amidst Oiá, Iansã, the orixá-deity from Candomblé (our-hers afro-Brazilian religion), entity of the fiery winds that precede a storm. For that much is our spirituality entangled. Re-winds, prairies.

Is this glass of milk too full? To operate a vessel this much constituted of un-roots and natures, angling here and there, is an effort which at times results in confusing floods. So we drink, endrunk, and dancing in the saloon we sweat the excesses... Then we float on what remains — which is the milk's essential. This one chronically conquers this, and it's an amen.

The literary chronicle, embryonated in the french feuilletons in the nineteenth century, had its supernatural hatch in Brazil, in the twentieth century, with the development of the press and the urbanisation process; taking characteristics of our own, it grew into an essentially-made Brazilian genre. In newspaper or magazine columns, crônicas will report the chronicle thought-feelings of the writers, the cronistas; about the day-to-day and the week-to-week, following the time of the head through the world of life, offering casual literary sips to whoever will drink them together with their bread-bread-cheese-cheese — pão-pão-queijo-queijo: a Brazilian expression for the things of the material world. Is it? Goes on being.

A certain day, years ago, maybe six, I was sitting on Ipanema beach when a Senegalese merchant walked passed me selling beautiful African pantsuits. In the hour I had no money, and suggested we exchange contacts in order to meet in the same spot the next day; I gave him my number and he wrote me on Whatsapp so that I would save his, and his screen name was the such: Salut A Tout Le Monde. Which I very much appreciated and never forgot, and also absorbed in spirit.

But the French cat Guillaume-en-Egypt — the virtually-eternalised alter-ego of the deceased filmmaker and journalist Chris Marker — is sitting in our airship's saloon trying to drink from 'Grande Sertão: Veredas' ('Devil to Pay in the Backlands', João Guimarães Rosa) and does not manage to swallow the first word: Nonada. It's Enrien, o french cat: Nonowt. Be a little bit Senegalese, and we will penetrate the midst-of-the-world. From this suspension, an emptiness, almost like that resulting from reading Japanese koans — from that springs the milk in question — mu...

The bird of prey's chronicle milk, with all its mystery-miracle angles, nourishes then a silencing of idioms, of language, towards a-one navigation of nowt and nought. It is the offering of our company.