A different kind of personal (2)

secondly,

a fresh stack from the library yesterday…to soak into…

The Essential Peirce (vol. 1) – my hero

How to Live, or, A Life of Montaigne: In One Question and Twenty Attempts at an Answer by Sarah Blakewell

The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains by Nicholas Carr

Of Learned Ignorance by Nicolas Cusanus

The Book of Dead Philosophers by Simon Critchley

The Temptation to Exist by E.M. Cioran

great philosophers who failed at love by andrew shaffer

Signeponge by Jacques Derrida

Drawing from the Glyptothek by Jim Dine

joy!

Stopping to think, or, “not finding my own words,” or, “something to uncommunicate” (Blanchot)

My Own Words

 

            Stopping to think, and using my tongue, a silent and plural speech, writing, how thinking does not stop.

There are clouds, many-layered in many motions, colluding, in sky.

I would see them, were I to face the outside.

Inside,  no difference.

Letting speech beyond.  No beyond, in part.

I had written, earlier, “so not finding my own words…”

A song was playing (is playing, NOW) in which a deep-voiced singer repeats “all thoughts are prey to some beast.”  He repeats the phrase enough times (so that it seems like more than enough) that I hear it: the phrase, his voice, drums and strings.

Earlier it was about trees and soil, beach and sea, which have no language.  I had thought perhaps I did.  “Not finding my own words,” alas.

It makes for quiet.  A banner fastened over the mouth: blood-red, pitch-black.

Begun before, though, the plural.

Taken outside by the hand.  Inside, outside – no difference.  “Not finding my own words,” as earlier.

B called it “weariness” and “infinite conversation,” requiring interruption.  Causing a silence (stubborn, sullen) and a listening (unavoidable, imposed).  Plurality.  “Not finding my own words,” I pilfer.

Dissemination.

The launch – erasing – opposite of launch.

Why I like the word “thrum” (“not finding my own words”) and “inscribe.”

Bent, crooked, stooped over a desk with a lamp of single bulb, I imagine “scribe” as “scholar.”  Inscription going both ways, like tying a knot requires both ends.  Binding.

Such physicality to the immaterial.

As easy as lying (also snatched from a spine).

Stopping to think on how thinking never ceases.

“Not finding my own words” I turn, reverting to the silent plural speech of my mouth’s hand.

I call it “writing,” not finding my own words, even for that.

N Filbert, 2012

A different sort of personal

Good day to all!

It’s a rare, propitious 48 degree morning in Kansas – thickly clouded, “chill” instead of “warm” or “mild” Spring day (comes like a gift).

I have some posts for the day, and they will follow, but am experiencing an initial gladness that I wanted to honor by saying.

Firstly, I don’t know that there is any other song I prefer to enter any day with than this:

Caspian: Epochs in Dmaj

thank you guys. (every day)

Secondly.  (more to come)