A Provisional Writing

He, frightened, uncertain, inexhaustible and weak, somehow mustered the strength to ask or act for what he wanted.

Perhaps she would not comply.

Or could not, and remain who she needed to be.

Yet there would always be response –

even ignoring, diverting, pretending to sleep.

It hurt to ask.  To attempt – its exposure – admission of lack and need – the venture, to try.  The fear of undoing, of incompleteness, of rejection, impossibility.

Still he acted and asked.

The alternative grown unbearable over time – constructions and deconstructions, composition and erosion, the living through time and space.

Time approaches in which time isn’t worth it – without.

Without knowing and acknowledgment, honesty and rejection, awareness…

…until the response is given…isn’t there still chance?

Untoward, illusory, unlikely and so slim…and yet?

As if…


Varieties of presence.

Certain opportunities of world.

Of doing.  Being.  Making.

As life runs out, so too the prospects of meaning, of experience. 

Had begun to feel he must,

or never.

Discover, find out, uncover, unearth, reveal

at least for a moment.

This moment.  The moment.

Nearing NOW.

But how?  Who?  And what sorts of whys were required?

What lent him the right and wherewithal, the luck, the chance, or desperation?

And why now?  What for?  How her?




After all, perhaps?

Perhaps its merely panic, neuroses, a fracturing diminishing end?

What motivates?  And why?  And why this one?  And this now?  And here…in the midst of.


Always already in the midst of…and always already not-yet.


Between.  Desiring a line to be drawn.  As if the world depended on it.  His world (perhaps theirs?).  His life, his living, his NOW.


It remains to be seen.

Ever remains to be seen, evidenced, emergent,



Can there be any proving?  If things had been different, some slight change in the initial conditions, conditions so complex?


Could it be different?


He must, he has to, he is compelled to act / to ask.

What will she reply?


The always begin.  Begin, begun, always.  Climbing the steps of his lack…behaving…becoming.  Ever some begin – some something, something shifting, changing, altering, becoming something else, something altered and novel, new, not combined in quite this way before – submerged, emerged, converged…yet differently.



With N (next) = Begin?  +1, +1, +many + again, else, other…Equaling not before, prior, exact…NOT repetition but difference, remainder, chaos, complexity


seemed inexhaustible,

almost infinite,

not quite.  Not remotely.

“He,” “She” will surely end (in a way)

as a form of beginning

As a form of

a form of

motion, movement, becoming.

Things happen, or happening produces things (at some scale, interaction, percept)

What becomes undoes becoming undoing

(and so on).







He becomes.

Unraveled enough, to a point (a seemingly certain threshold) he will risk,

wants risk,

                                          feels compelled,


                                                                                                for survival, needs, depends,

decides to act or ask for what he’s wanting (needing?  lacking?  desiring?  believing?)

And where / who / what / why / is she?

And there and which and whom and when?

He will act, ask,

she will needs-be

in response to the violence of movement, address,

intruded perception, sensation,


In what way?

BECOMING: A Something-Writing …Provisionally (cont’d)

Say it – “Mikhail!”, say it “Lover,” “son,” or “dad.”

Give me a robe, a title, anything,

let me to be,

yet call me “Person.”

(same as you).

Just like with all our difference.

Generic sets.

And without cease.

What’s inexhaustible

and finite.

Here We Be.

Call us “Person(s)”

In order to get by, to get along, to carry on, I invade your body as if planned.  Swapping breath and sounds and fluids.  Making more.  A “he” a “she.” A “husband,” “wife.”  A “muse” and “lover.”  We pretend in our pretense and we become.

Call us Person(s).

We raise the dead and name it “memory,” name it “history,” name it “god.”

We start to drown, but we’ve become, and name it “family,” name it “nation,” name it “state” or “land” or “friendship.”

We disperse.

We send out tracts: “PLEASE CALL US PERSON(S)!”

No response.

And we become what we will be.


I scream your name for I am helpless, “I” am hopeless without you.  And so I grasp and shape your body, your behavior, your aplomb.  I demand answer for my question is the telling and I need to be an I: “Call me Person!”

It begins.

And it is reckless, it is violent and warm. 

I am coddled, moisty, fragile.  I need purchase(d).  I need won.

You are one, and there are many.

We begin.

“Mother.”  “Lover.”  “Child.”

Call me Person.

Call me something.

We grow limbs and we grow hair.  We swap shapes and alter presence.  We emerge and we invade.

I am Ishmael, I am

Allah, I am Sam.

You are giant, you are troll, you are fairy.

I can’t tell but for the asking (as if same, as if identical) – simple call.

Call me Person.

We begin.


 In some ways our job [for survival] is simply to affirm one another.

To provide response (which is a call) to a call (a form of response).

I affirm you (which affirms I) by telling you (asking back) when you ask (telling me you are – where?).

Co-respondence is affirmation – positive or negative (each a both/and) [as with most things living].

You there –where?—ask me, I will acknowledge – thereby telling “you” –

both of us thereby affirmed, established…


Thusly, there are Varieties of Presence.

I am Stephen K. Plato, Laurell H. Hardy, John

Quincy Locke,

call me “Person.”

“We” will therefore become via our calling, our response,

-mutually constituted identities

-for the moment.

Johann Sebastian Souza strikes a note

Federico Garcia Chopin hears that tone,

thereby constituting,

no, co-constituting…


Sound, press of fingerpads on forearm, shoulder, buttocks, calf,

breast, or clay,


each each,

resonance, difference, identification,

-a becoming, become-



What might seem

passive, active, passing to-and-fro, creating “We,” “Us,” “People,” “Person(s)”

Trolls beneath the bridge.

Knocking, knocking.

We.  Are.  There.

(Which is “Here” for NOW).


Being.  and Time.

                                 (one might say)

Call me Friedrich, Ortega, Alfred.

or:  Being + Event.

                                 Address me Giorgio, Alain, Ricky G.

Actor, actant, the motion of bodies.

Ludwig Joycenstein;

                                   rejoice in time;

Osip, Anna, the noise of time.

Being.                                    Event.


“it is Time”



predilective.  propicient.  promising.  proclamative.



In the Beginning, the wormy End.

Every Ending a Begin.

Transference.  Transmission.  Translation.

It is love.

Call.                                               Response.


Telling                                           Asking




You/I         a          He/She

(not long before combine, breed, be/have)





“I” was lost, until you found me…

…in other words…

…varieties of presence.

bumping into brambles,

slipping into sea,

hearkening to shriek,

Ask                                                Tell


                  no matter,

                                          what matters?

                                                                  too much, too little?

near enough




just BE.


Be.  Be.  Bee.

1. B. 2. C. D.

Dee Harvey Osmont.

Olivia Newton jaunt.

Wolfgang Adolf Heisman.

Prince Albert Nobel.


Call “me” “Person.”


Julio W. G. Sebold.

Sign on page,

                              raised to the eye,

                                                                  digited “touch,”



Vocable.  Insignia.  Etching.  Stroke.  Motion.




Call us Person(s).


“The pen asks / much more than it can answer /

one word at a time”

-Philip Levine-

Everyman logo


What I should do is phone; the circuitry

is there and we’re both somewhere in the circuitry.

I need to talk.  What should I find to say?

You know how it is: it rings; you answer; no click;

no dial tone.  Hello?  Hello? No word.

Not even goodbye – I couldn’t give you that.


Listen to this: to write you requires a scheme,

subtends an apparatus, such that here

be an I, you be he there, space

discerns the entities , depicts them such

as the scheme requires.  Are you lost?  I am.

I want to be not lost.  I write even so.


Tell me what to do.  I want to show.

Schemelessness.  Undress.  To speak from that.

I want the secrecy; I want it said.

To speak from wordlessness.  There are certain things

that happen and we don’t know: proteins meet

and shape each other.  We are the husk of this.


Whatever happens happens in some such wise,

under attention.  I hate all huskiness.

Let me be where it happens, let me be the hidden cells

and silent if silence is all there is to say.

I want to talk though.  I want to talk to you.

I despair of what to say.  Goodnight.  Goodnight.

– William Bronk


– as if the aim of writing were to use what is already written as a launching pad for reading the writing to come..”

– Edmond Jabes –

BECOMING: A Something-Writing …Provisionally

Provisionally: A Something-Writing

-What I Have in Me to Write Now-


            I am Melville, I am Aristotle Dostoevsky.  Address me as Plato, Poinsot, Peirce.  Franz Ferdinand Pessoa.  I don’t care.

Call me Person.  Anyone madly bearded and wielding a pen.

The one writing, saying, speaking.  The gesturer.  Being-doing-becoming.  The Nothing-sans-audition.  The Singer-without-ears.  Seer-without-vision.  Images – begone!

Call me Person.  Listen! – it becomes.

Wrapped in filthy sweet meconium and lies, lays, swaddling undone.  Wrapt, swaddled, held: Become.

It begins.  A sighing and a sound.  A saying and a listener.  Bronk, Bakhtin, Blanchot.  Call it what you will.  Call me Person-with-a-Pen.  Number me “Frail Parcel.”

I utter, you reply.  I gains an “I.”

She responds and “I” becomes a “He.”

Call me Shakespeare, call me Tolstoy, call me Sterne.  I yelp a Joycean Woolf!  It begins.

Call me Person.

Damaged, swollen and undone, without a reason, and yet a flailing voice.

We translate love and I become.  We cobble names.  “Honeywizz,” “Beastyballs,” “Xanadu.”

Say a word, and say again.

It sounds like singing.

Cry out Jeezus! Aquinas! and let us move.

Heidegger, Hegel, Haar.  William Dewey, Tomas Pynchon.  Another ring, another rung, another syllable.

Translation, transmission, footnoting insertions, assertion.  I am John James, Alfred South Hampton.  Bewildered and Amazed.  Immanuel (God-with-us) Nietzsche, Darwin D. Descartes.

Just call me Person and I will answer, becoming “I” and I become.

The whisper and its hearing,

you moaned and I perked up.

“Yes?” “No!” Otherwise.

We are here.

Call us Person(s).

I/You, Self/Other, He/She, Says/Hears, Touches/Felt, Imagine the memory.



            At long last, we arrive.  Gilles and Jacques and Simon.  Luce and Helen and Clarice.  Paired, impaired, distorted.

            You may call us Person(s).  We are named.

            Once called, for a response.  The asking is the telling.

            I cry out.

There is echo.

It begins.

Frail parcel.

            Laurence Carlyle.

                                    Samwell Bronte.

                                                            Simone de Cortazar.

Someone sings, it garners litany,

“We are here.”

please call us Person(s).

At first I was a scientist: a philosopher of stories,

for you I depicted scenes and portraits,

invented tools.

Everything a bridge.

The word “between.”

We gestured: “Call us Person(s)”

We said Moscow, India and Greece.  We stuttered America.  We shrieked of Arabia and England.

A run of names and numbers, symbols and beliefs.  We made equations, normatives, reliefs.  We consulted, constructed, and revised.

All us People.  Call me Person.  Calling “you.”

I made an image of yourself, and you became…along with “I.”

We shouted slogans, rafted rivers, swam the seas.  We scaled the peaks.  We dug beneath.  We drifted out.

And kept on calling, calling back

and calling forth, all the asking that is telling, and the stating towards inquire.

It began.  It formed a we, and that resulted in an I and a Thou, gone either way, but none other.

It plays with brain and body is the brain the body,

call us “Person(s)”

A kind of beast and gentle species.

We, animal and saint

because we said so.

“Call us Person(s)”

for the asking and the telling

the query-and-response

its to-and-fro

and the becoming

We will be.


What we intended – -ologies and –isms and parades.

And “we” begins

Call us People, call us Person(s)

The beasts, alive for NOW –

a simple Zone,

a sphere, an angle,

our “perception” as we say.

I am Maurice and Piaget, von Uexkull van Beethoven

Call me Person

And drunk on signs

(that We developed)


so we might BE.

(Let’s call them “words”)

Let’s call them breaches, bridges, dreams.

Let’s call it Love.

(and its undoing, its location, its domain)

Let’s call it governance or law.

Let’s make a Zoo with separate cages, create a Zone for disciplines and fields.  Feelings.  Cultivating crops and crafts and musics.  Let’s call it “Science” and beg for silence, and beg for naming and for names, more names and names and things, more names and names for things.

Let’s mix them up and cause explosions.

Me + You.

and co-created.

Please call us “Person(s)”

And let us mark and underscore: Disprove.  Debate.  Erase.

Let’s say “adjust.”

Let’s try to capture or discover – now we’re we.

But call us “Person(s)”

We will be.

I have become.

The Supposed

“God-shaped hole”?


the sensation that no matter how well or how much I am loved

I can not believe I am lovable simply because I exist…

and how it seems that if I could (simply believe I was lovable),

so many difficulties might be solved, resolved, dissolved…

how many things entangled in this vacuum…


in the mirror I note the shirt I am wearing

Bartleby Shirt

is it as simple as that?


Spring Forward – Saving Daylight


Taken with a feeling of grandeur: a premonitory greatness arising with convergence.  There are uncertainty principles and the bafflings of mathematics as one ranges across scales.  Relationships over time and fictional emissions, philosophies, transpositions of experience…and sometimes, somehow, they inextricably and irreducibly link up, reciprocally foster…and generate moments of novelty.  Perhaps this is indicated with the term emergence.  There is music, too, and emotion.

A sense of sense.  Of universal process in which one plays a micro-part, participation.  For the time – being and becoming seem joined.  There may be love, generation, sometimes even intuition of revelation.  Simply processes – ongoing self-organization – of “selves,” and smaller and larger collective, complex, and dynamic systems.

Something like “meaning,” I suggest.  Nobody gets what I mean.

Which represents entropy.  Things falling apart even as they arise, conjoin…together.

Things I do not mind.  Emergence / entropy … it’s all dynamic – which is what I’m thankful for in the now.  “Alive” perhaps we’d call it, un-“dead,” – a state I’m thrilled to avoid.


Of course there’s a “Her,” and a “Them,” or “they,” – my spouse/partner/girlfriend/significance-of-Other … and the offspring numbering 1-4 – the “matterings that matter” in me… my hand and body, pen and paper, & the complicated processes between that emit some strange result.

Physics tells me “strange attractors” (at that relational scale), I suppose it’s literature’s “muse,” romance’s “one,” the what-fors and what-nots equaling “It,” equaling “unknown,” equaling “that to which things tend.”  Optimization, in a sense (if only a fantastical one).

Depending on the color of the glasses.  What hole is peered through, by whom, from what angle.  Perspective.  Outlook.  Relation.  Some mean free path I’m on.  Perhaps now a ‘we.’

“I” feels uncomfortable, unnatural.  The idea there might be a group-of-me consoles.  If only one (other, more).  If only a “you — too?!”

i'm_nobody_who_are_you2– Emily Dickinson

something like that.

Dancing like cancer survivors…

At least grateful we’re experiencing

That’s a sort of Spring-Forward, is it not?

An Open Letter on Statistical Analysis

Stat anal chart

I used to shy away from Statistical Analysis as a means to meaning.

Now different thoughts occur.

Last night my daughter was struggling with 5th-grade division problems that involved endless remainders…

I used to be really uncomfortable with the “why?” of mathematics…

…last night I found it fascinating, as if it were opening entirely new sets of mysteries and unknowns to me trailing off as it did, like endless reflection and inquiry.



Common enough thought for a philosopher.

Seems to me the “good philosopher” (effective, useful, usable, relevant) consistently ponders and inquires into the Affect and Effect of whatever is under observation or scrutiny.  What / How / Why / Where / & for Whom does it “mean” that we’re Doing / Being / Knowing this or that or what-not.  Anything, really.  Anything at all.


Which got me to thinking…

what/how/why/where/when/for-whom do all these infographics, demographics, assessments, quizzes, ticked responses, reviews, # of views, feedbacks, “likes,” “unlikes,” and so forth “mean” for our Doing/Being/Knowing?

(what’s it all mean, Big Data [pronounced “Big Dadda”?)

QUERY 2: “Huh?”

confusion diagram


The question that drives, allows, enables any help a “philosopher” might be able to foster…


(the philosopher asks)…

For the moment, just…just-now, here, this-when…





Let’s check out your personal statistics (YOU’LL have to do this part of the work – observation, comparison & contrast, open inquiry & interpretation)

statistical control chart

for instance…WHAT things do you nudge toward qualitative analysis or quantitative analysis?

A few simple questions regarding:

  • time with children/partner/self/nature/friends/world (in relation to) time at work?
  • time scrolling Facebook / browsing internet (in relation to) time gazing at / listening to / caressing / doing-being-knowing-with your loved-ones?
  • time realizing time-tested wishes or longings (in relation to) accepted responsibilities?
  • time reading/moving/resting (in relation to) time watching/viewing/receiving
  • pleasurable time (in relation to) suffering time

and so on….

[or how well do such things mesh up / converge / resolve, etc?)

(finding ways statistical analysis might mean)


and then, of course, there’s the more totalizing EXPERIENCING of such analysis / account / record / actuality [REALITY]…


…at least ONE way a statistical analysis might MEAN?

(and a humane use of philosophy?)

(science & mathematics?)

(humanities & arts?)



(maybe think of 3-5…rank them?)


(keep track of your minutes / hours for 3-5 days)


(compare.  contrast.  assemble.  interpret.  reflect.)


[RESEARCH: it all depends on context]

and it’s all immersive EXPERIENCE


(…used my lunch break for grocery-shopping to alleviate evening stress after work when I need to get the kids to multiple locations and events, and prepare dinner while hopefully interacting with them, witnessing their goings-on in the ONE place I can be at a time, while finishing up that revised CV I need for perhaps continuing employment in a position I actually feel suited to, find challenging, and organizing an upcoming theater production, parceling energy with hopes I might have some left for my prime concern: my partner, or maybe myself – isn’t that part of all of it too? – and the reading/writing/reflecting I’d love to do, acquiring plane tickets and maps for upcoming family journeys, counting breaths to relax, aiming for meta-cognition and emotional awareness so that I don’t miss, ignore, injure, need to exercise, plus the laundry and housework, and…)


all the time, is just the time you have


Fits and Starts

How oddly and uniquely our dear bodies exhibit the effects of stress.  For some days now, exhausted and craving rest, I wake ever-so-early in a kind of sleepless sleepiness.  Wanting only to burrow in, immerse in comfort and calm, be tenderly near the one I love, instead I toss, turn, disturb and achieve none of my wishes.

Is this another emerging effect of aging?

My parents soon will celebrate 50 years of marriage – an example of what Andre Gorz describes: “If you join with someone for life in marriage, you share your lives together and you refrain from doing what might divide or damage your marriage.  Building your life together as a couple is your common project and you never finish reinforcing it, adapting it, reshaping it to fit changing situations.  We will be what we do together.” (Letter to D)  

mom and dad wedding

which means that I also approach 50.

So there’s also that – a kind of nostalgia, melancholy, joy, awareness…

I’m one to search and seek and inquire without end.

One to wonder and ponder and interrogate my experience with hopes of understanding it – but increasingly I find that apparently my being simply wants to be SO ALIVE.  Sometimes I feel that is what is happening with my waking body – that it doesn’t want to miss.  Anything.  The presence of my beloved next to me in sleep (Gorz describes what I am experiencing in that regard very well also: “how love is the mutual fascination of two individuals based precisely on what is least definable about them, least socialisable, most resistant to the roles and images of themselves that society imposes on them”), the particular quality and type of that morning time, house-sounds, obfuscated consciousness…I, one of those who have “just worn different identities on top of each other, though none of them were mine”…sometimes it feels…and that this particular kind of love slowly strips and erodes those away to the irreducible, undefinable reality of each ONE of us…


I shoulda wrote a letter.  There are the griefs, the emotions mistrusted, the longings delta’d out, and a million wishes.  “The past is still the past : a bridge to nowhere.” And then there is SO MUCH NOW.  The children and their emerging, engrossing creating lives; my wonder/love – a thriving, amazing individual who loves me and has so much of her own; there are the animals, the leaves, the waters and the breezes.  The breaths, the touches, the thoughts.  The feel of it all.

The word/concept/term “Mashup.”

Perhaps that is what is going on in my sleepless sleepiness.  My habit of reading has always been to read 30 or more books from various fields, genres, authors, subjects, literatures in order that my mind would have to do it’s weird mysterious complexity/chaos/emergence/dynamic/creative adaptive process of making some new idiosyncratic sense of a kind of global dissonance – our inherent ability to be a Convergence Creator.  To not be caught obeying, devoting, under the sway of some authority or perception or ideology not a Mashup.  Perhaps the thickness of being alive to what is life, attempting to attend, note and notice, enthralls the entirety in a similar manner – experience is a Mashup – so many sources, so many responses, so many interactions, so many affects and effects, roles, obligations, identities, loves, fears, perceptions, interpretations…and perhaps I’m currently simply immersed in a particularly cogent nexus of complexity and chaos – the operation toward adaptive emergence and some temporary convergence being administered in clumsy and cluttery fits & starts…

Perhaps each now is realization & threshold.  And, as a friend recently pointed out…“hope is such a restless state”.

hope butterfly

Fits & Starts

What scribbles out the sides, longing for a place to go…

while I’m busy with other things


The sentences broke between them.  Not twisting or scrambling, no encrypted script noising up communication; more like letter parts and chunks of words crumbling away before they even bridged the gaps.  Sayings that collapsed on themselves as they emerged.


At the point we begin imagining ourselves insane and institutionalized, conjuring car wrecks or dreaming deaths in the family to avoid our obligations…we are well-advised that something has gone wrong…


Whenever what might be called an “encounter” occurred between them, everything else grew less pressing, less…significant or unsurvivable.  She became a solution and a re-solution all at one go…


fragments, in other words.

The days have to be enough…they’re all we have.