reflections, remarks…word-press – Feb 18, 2012

listening to “in the stream” by S. Carey)

those rarities, Kansas expressing itself moistly, greyly, gently, 45 degrees

swinging on porch, watching children fill up papers with marks, pictures, “pictographs,” symbols, words and letters

watching wife seek “just the right terms” (le mot juste) to represent her vision and beliefs regarding human possibilities and health for a webpage for her therapeutic practice

reading Merwin, Laura (Riding) Jackson, Charles Bernstein, Colson Whitehead, Jerome Klinkowitz in stolen moments throughout the day in order to continue a pondering, a willingness, an open stance toward the world and the persons populating it with perspectives and politics

wondering nostalgically, tenderly, familiarly through the mental stacks – spines like Dostoevsky and Sterne, Balzac and Bakhtin, Kafka, Pessoa, Jabes, Cixous, on, on, on…

how very many words have pressed through, been impressed and imprinted…how much has pressed through words…

a cursory glance at wordpress stats today – hundreds of thousands of blogs of signs upon signs upon signs of human upon human    upon human, pressing words out, in – words pressing them…

Beckett and Blanchot’s concept of exigency, that we have a meaningless compulsion to say, resonates…

Laura and Schuyler Jackson’s magnum opus (“Rational Meaning”), a lifetime of work, situated on two lifetimes ponderings of human engagement with language, that, indeed there must be meaning to it for the human and out terms…resonates

that we go on saying… and on… saying… and on… saying… and on…

seems particularly potent and precious to me today

Thank you to everyone pressing and being pressed by – word(s)!!

More instants of I…

I struggle up the mountain, tattered on its sides. The incline so steep and with no ropes to hold me. There is moon up above, punctuating the sky. Breathmarks, the verbs between the objects. I tumble often, scrape, slide and bruise. The outcome is uncertain. Way up, way down, no way out.

 

 

I clambered over the wall. It was there I found the well. I have gazed into that dark cylinder, at times with light in my eyes like flint-flecks, at times in weeping worry. How slick, how straight and untraversed the walls.

 

 

I float in a cloud-like balloon. I hover there in dream. I spend days traveling this way, ranging over presence and past, over water and plain, jagged peaks and craggy fjords, memories. I cannot describe what I perceive at this distance, it is untrustworthy like dark carrion in the sun’s glare.

 

 

I swim in my sleep. Lumber and slumber are rhyme. I move about that way when under, submersion and windowless light. This room in my cranium, this hallway my heart, tangled in entrails and veins, I wriggle a slow-motion dance. The death kind – the circles and spins.

 

 

I suspect it was a struggle, the clawing and chuffing up over the wall. An inside, an outside, beyond. A large forest of straight-spined blackened pines. I I I I l l l – giant digits seeming infinite, numberless, thick with resemblance and variations.

 

 

I discovered myself in the music, each bleak stick-figure with its bulbs of dark baggage and death-flags and banners. Occasionally a hollow, a void, a rest. I slept through the rectangles sheeted in white, I peered through the half-notes with clarity, I sounded the holes of the wholes. The rest scattered polyps of pain, dashes and branches running together, an aggregate noise.

 

 

I saw my father once, with his father. Saw through. Grandfather, eaten away on a hospital bed, what moisture remained dabbed the corners of his wadded-up eyes, pleading with my father to kidnap him home for his death. I understood then. About home being a safe place to die. That ends come out of beginnings and belong to each other. I watched my father depart.