To all concerned, or the least bit interested, I am no one on the road to nowhere.  It’s taken me a long time to set out, but I have begun!  My path has been wily.  Many joys and celebrations, discoveries and inventions mark the past.  Wounds bored of enormous riggings and bits; injuries, damage and crime barbwire the road.  Imprints of loss – great and unexpected gains pock my surface.  Years of input and adventure, learning and error track me.

Now I am no one.  Purposively, conscientiously and chaotically venturing into the everywhere that is nowhere.  Now here.

Sure you can read the past’s path – identifying me, mind and body cropping up here and there, in and out of people’s lives – particular places, practicings and performings.  Believe me – that’s not the point.

The point, or series of points, or scattered suggestions of borders, like shot smattering air…is where everything meets, interacts.  A porous place, undefined, ever-defining.  Unknowns cropping up everywhere.

I’m talking about the enormous field wherein which forms mingle, shaping and providing contents, ever on the verge of in-forming.  This inchoate and omnidirectional process we name “becoming,” “coming-to-be,” we know so little about but strive so constantly for a sense of.

Image me then, if it helps.  Outline a human, male, having endured four decades existing, of average height and weight, nondescript.  (It doesn’t “matter” – the matter is shared commonly, specifics will rise in and out of clarity through encounters).

Here I am, essentially:

            Pocket into this figure, wherever you like – an education in classics, advanced studies in music, theology and philosophy.  Twenty years of retail labor in bookish culture; three wives, seven children.  Smear that around with geographies – their weathers and landscapes, flora and fauna and politics – of the American Midwest, big-city Northeast, farmlands and Great Lakes, Germany, UK, Pacific NW and Israeli-controlled Palestine.

Inject strains of passions: fine arts, literature, music.  Linguistics, semiology and phenomenology.  Parenting, intimacy and artistic creativity.  Psychology, biology, mythology.

Take and run an eraser randomly across, leaving trails for griefs, abandonments and disillusions.  Separations, misunderstandings and woundings, coming and going both ways.

Scribble.  I mean doodle maniacally in pencil or pen, any color or width.  Scratch, wobble, circle, until the figure looks like an indecipherable tangle, a rough frenetic sketch, something built up and crossed out –

that represents the meld.  The interlacing and cross-currents of all the things within, without; nurtured or native; learned or instinctual; native or chosen; perpetrated or inflicted.

Voila:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

there is no one (or every)

moving nowhere (or every)

save this monumental caveat:  that bungled mass of human has a goal.  In keeping with appearances…he (I) purposes now/here…

I hear the feedback

“get on with it already!”

Here goes

(again)