link to previous:
suggest reading accompanied by : Home Again by Keith Kenniff
“we live in accumulations of the actual / with so little understanding”
I believe that it is possible to make stories out of anything, with words. Even wordless ones.
Stories on the move, within movement, perhaps even moving.
Accumulation and erosion, not addition and subtraction, multiples or divides – not mathematics, simply or complex.
In relations – part of related systems of relations, related further on, in, out – there are no statics, numbers, letters – even hypothetically. When you fix one you’ve simply entered another system of relations relating to other fixed (or agreed-upon) relations, lifeless but for you. Until employed. Then your letter, number, static sign or symbol dissolves right back into what it came from – the roiling motion of temporal patterns and relations – change processing itself.
The meanings meander through like liquids. Each part spilling its own glass. Watch it flow, divert, tumble and pool. Percolate. Evaporate. Stories.
Describing them, no matter how many points of view or entry, how many semiotic systems employed, internal or external – observation is evaluation, almost objectively subjective – merely mean a story, embodying an absorbing and evaporative spilling of change. Eddies a bit, branches and drips, absorbs here and there, ever morphing form and content.
I can only ever tell you – in this system of systems of relations, this language – what I do not know.
The fathers, the mothers, their partners and pasts, the living of nine children to this moment – refuse to be snap-shotted still, photographed, imagined, or defined. They are unknowns, rife with variables, and related. Related to relations and related systems of relations related further out, in, on…
Genuinely incomprehensible. Evaporating almost as soon as precipitate, incalculable with options and openness – far more than this system can relate.
The fathers love their wives and women, their sons and their daughters, and sometimes it’s even perceived that way. The women, mothers, partners, also love – and everyone’s love is conditioned and conditional. Givers, receivers, assertive, supportive, neglectful, abusive, indulgent, and free at a price. Relational acts in related systems of relations – addressors and addressees, perceived and perceiving, at once.
Each its own glass spilling. Each its own refilled. The sharing of endless waters.
Shagg dribbles fluid ice-cold onto a young one’s burn. Rather than soothe it stings. Recoils. Mother in attempting to quench a thirst, drowns it instead. A child spills that all might see, might hear, might feel. Instead it’s absorbed deftly and quickly – instinctively – by inanimate terry cloth, a dish-towel, a bathrobe.
A possiblitiy of endless supply, of infinite, is foreign to all but dreams. We know nothing unpolluted or immeasurable. We must not write what we know. Nothing there but an emptying glass.
Instead, perhaps, to offer and receive – these fluids, this language – of unknown origin and imperceivable limit – spilling together compounding toward stories. Even as it spills. Even uncontrollable and ill-perceived.
Families of stories. Write what you do not know.
3 thoughts on “Families of Fiction. Pt 8.”
And do not believe what you believe! Great post, thank you!
amen. thank you