Untitled Prose

It wouldn’t be that way, not now, not conventional.  It would start itself, become, begone.  It would be something words couldn’t take aim for.

But it would not be absence, or if there was no escaping it, it would pressurize presence in such a way.  The idea of presence.  Feeling of it.  The desire for presence.

Where all the answers are the instant, but without trauma or utopia.  Not to exist, but to insist.  There’d be no describing it, it would lack presentation.

Knowing this is how it must be, fervently believing so, of course the questions come – doubt, the presence of absence.  Mortality.  The limitations of finitude.  These are not to rule.  Not to matter in the moment.

It would be no place to go, neither flight nor pursuit, homing nor escape.  It might scramble the senses, melt the categories.  Be without difference.

Not like that.  Not resemble.  Not the satisfaction of unknown longing.  Not quite immersion nor awareness exactly.  Not singular.

It might resemble flight, for a bird, without metaphor, without referent.  It will not resemble flight, for a bird.

Imagines a cloud.  It would not be various layers of sky, a gathering of imperceptible boundaries, no erasure or revision.  Or vision, as opposed to sight.  Sensorium replete without overwhelm, this sort of thing, perhaps.

Not identifiable but actual.  Not understood but occurring.  Without fear or hesitancy or remove.  Without expectation or excitement or joy.  It would not be saturation, then, nor separate.

It might be that it will be just what it is, yet without concept.  Without spectrum or speculation.  Unscaled, unmeasured.

What would be written after?

It would not be relief or knowledge.  Not revelatory, not banal.  Unnarrativized.  Without distinction, yet not indistinct.  Not like a circle of a circle or the warmth of sunlight.

It would not be written, informed inscription, not verbalized or sung.  Space, shape (time would lack duration?) would be difficult to reckon.  It would not “occur” then, without plottable end.  Unrecollected.

Not quite expressive, possibly impressive minus attention exactly.  Not like color fields or blankets.

There it would be without “it.”  And not “there” as another.  The questions would be undone without conclusion or solution.  Not like water as a solvent for dead things.  Repeat: unlike without unique.  Not vague or opaque: no into, out of, within.  No almost or already.  Not fulfillment or exclusion.

Neither all, every, nor of, nothing.  Not between.  Not point line or plane.  Not subject.  Without object.  Without lack, gap, distance.  Cognized without recognition maybe.  No reflection.  Embodied.  Not the same, though, without difference.

“one constantly attempts to say something that does not, and can never, touch the essence of the matter…But the tendency, the running up against, points to something”

Ludwig Wittgenstein

N Filbert

5 thoughts on “Untitled Prose

  1. … I liked what you wrote, but not easy to understand I mean these thoughts… even Wittgenstein is not easy to understand too for me… But I love to be lost in the thoughts of philosophical touches… Makes my mind to think. For example in your words, you express, “….Not to exist, but to insist!”… can you explain a little bit this one… “exist and insist ” maybe to exist and to insist, I can easily understand but I confused now … Thank you dear N Filbert, love, nia

    Thank you Nia. I don’t understand a lot of it either. I think I imbibe language and the referents it holds, the possibilities it contains, and then play with it, swash it, much like a painter with pigments or sculptor with clay – photographer with objects and light. Sometimes it seems to crack open new ideas, or directions, sometimes it’s really the sounds of the words seeming to want next to each other. “Exist” but “insist” as I read back over it, perhaps for me was a play on the terms in keeping with a will to be creating something, something aligned with now-moments, the instant-of-writing: not “awareness of being” but in-being? Not ex-ist, coming out of being; but in-sist, being-in? That could be a wily interpretation in retrospect for all I know, but it makes a kind of sense, now that you’ve brought it to light. I really appreciate you reading my works, Nia. And we SO appreciate seeing/reading yours. Thank you., N

  2. I responded in your comment! Didn’t know I could do that. If you go back and read it…the second paragraph is me, not sure it explains anything, but it’s a collaborative attempt, eh?

  3. Thank you dear N Filbert, I didn’t read it in this way, I mean, “but in-being? Not ex-ist, coming out of being; but in-isist, being-in?”…. 🙂 This is like Heidegger’s touches… now! But I can walk around them now, but what I thought when I read your explanations for me, who is more free, an artist, a musician, a sculptor or a writer… An artist can make a tree, in blue, a sea in orange… makes my mind busy now, for a writer what is to be freedom, I feel myself bordered with a language which I am not very well… actually you help me on my language way. anyway, love, nia

"A word is a bridge thrown between myself and an other - a territory shared by both" - M. Bakhtin

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