cortazar

It feels as if a good word to describe how Cortazar writes would, quite simple, be warped. To broaden this definition of warped for this instance, warped in time and space as well as mentally so; mental patients would most likely be a good living analogy. Where the wall stands between these points of disfigured perspective is just about as fuzzy as the perspective its self, and relies heavily on how much the reader willingly suspends disbelief. "The Continuity of Parks" is warped in time, the path twisting in upon its self, giving new meaning to the term "killer book". On the note of warped time, last night i discovered that netflix finally has Blazing Saddles streaming online and i was finally able to see it in its entirety, there is a scene where the antagonist goes into the movie theater to watch the movie he was in. This also occurs in the Mel Brooks film Space Balls where Dark Helmet uses a VHS copy of the film to discover where the heroes are at that moment in the film. But, if you decide to look at the boring vanilla perspective of it, this is a mentally ill, warped, individual reading himself into a story. Finally, the worthless perspective of it all being a REALLY big coincidence. Personally I like the furthest-out possibility of the whole of time and space being out of whack, stories in that realm give me this, well this odd, what i can only call, sensation. this strange feeling comes without description other than i feel extracted from time and space and then repositioned slightly to the left and right.
  The other story of his, that I've read, that gives me the same feeling is "Axolotl". It gave me the sensation to the most extreme degree that i am able to remember. I felt as if the Axolotl had a penetrating doorway into my very inner being, poking and prodding it as one would a mailable ball of hot wax. It felt similar to what the axolotl in the story did to the narrator, molding his soul like wax, forming a self contained nib and then pulling it free, a perfectly self contained miniaturized version of his soul only trapped within those infinite gold disks of eyes.
Earlier i mentioned that Cortazar could also be mentally warped, this is where "Our Demeanor at Wakes" comes into play. Some men come and plant a seed of real mourning at a wake where people are only faking grief. These are some perfectly despicable individuals, but what they do seems oddly like justice for the dead. These men remind me of those crazy Southern Baptist ministers who could make a body that doesn't believe in Christ in the slightest, become a born again Christian ready to go out into his world with a thump ready Bible to bang on like a war drum from morning until night. Even with that view of these men, I still didn't get the sensation like i did from the other two stories. The only thing it stirred up in me was the uncomfortable feeling of being at a catholic wake, everyone wanting to leave but their guilt at words unsaid keeping them there like iron to a magnet. The last wake I attended was my father's. It was five years and one month minus about two days ago from today. I don't think i could ever forget that day and its mood, it was really cold outside, and dark, that night. It would be fair to call me a little warped, but compared to Cortazar, I seem to be on the level pretty well.