i suppose some people might not know that if i get a poetic impulse i let it out here…



We stitch.  We wend.  The warp and woof (or weft).

We wept.

And made language.


Because beauty.*


If occasion is beautiful, we long –


Longing will depress

[equal and opposite force]

therefore, express.


We cry.  Sigh and stutter.  Susurrate.

We long:  Compress.  Express.

And make longuage.


“A thought leaves no print; leaves only the print of word in ink on page.”

–Dan Beachy-Quick


Without regard for Truth.

Aching willn’t analyze.


Fact fail.



We perceive the beauty and we hurt

and know not what to name it –

object, emotion, experience,



Falter, wend,

Weave and prove,



N Filbert 2014

*I consider the “beautiful” the ‘total matrix’ of experience, i.e. some sense of a whole


View original post

Remembering What Happens

It is very difficult to know what the “right” memory might be.  Everything is actually:  how it felt, how it seemed, what happened, in fact ALL of it is WHAT HAPPENS, and continues changing with each instant.

So I’m stuck selecting, revising, innovating, adapting – re-membering – we call it.  The continuous process of limitedly attending to our experiences from as many angles and aspects as we are made of, and assembling them according to each moment’s need, or, our felt need to make new senses of being ongoingly alive.

However, not “stuck,” but rather tremendously active, pulsing, vibrating, jittering and triggering – “flowing” it seems to some – adjusting, adapting, regulating, surviving – ever re-membering my present.  WHAT HAPPENS.


“Emerson thought the mind’s nature was volcanic…A rock falls into the eye and becomes molten in the mind and memory cools it back into the rock first seen.  It alters when it reemerges, but one cannot tell the difference.  It looks the same but we are imagining it.  Memory is igneous more than ingenious, igneous, and like granite, intrusive, heaved up within oneself, the whole range of one’s life, mountains’ forbidding height looming over the plains where one lives, mountains formed by the life already lived, but toward which one is always walking, one’s own past ahead of him, seeking the improbable path already forged, this path back through oneself, this path we call the present tense shifts and the path is lost, path from which the walker emerges only to turn around and see the peaks pulled up by his feet, and the snowy pass, and alpine heights, where those stranded sometime must feed on themselves to survive, where sometimes, through the icy crust, the crocus blooms.”

– Dan Beachy-Quick-