Writing Presence

6zlZBil - Imgur_mobius

“The experimental dimension is precisely where thinking at its limit takes place, where the singularity of a given thought is being shaped…”

– Michel de Beistegui –

“the present is as long as a walk when I am walking”

– Chryssipe, quoted in Francois Jullien –

Or, “the present is as long as the sentence I’m composing…” the tune, the breath, the weather… the lunge, the gaze, the listen… the sex, starlight, heartbeat… presence determined, according to scale.

“…as long as the thought I am thinking…” that leads to the next, and the borrowed, the other, imagined.  The languages lent, or made new, bastardized, reconstructed, remingled…

Therefore [have I now ‘left’ present/-ce?] the present writing is present just as long as it presents itself?  Does this explain run-ons and magical realism?  The refusal to pause or to finish?  Avoidance of punctuation, cessation, or periods…in order to be writing?  (as long as it is writing…living written?).

I am drawn in writing presence.  And I aspire.  To be writing as often present-ly as possible (in all the senses of the terms you might conceive).  Working, present-ly, with presences that present themselves in the activity of writing – ages, layers, eons of language becoming toward these significations I am physically inscribing NOW with evolving, accumulative, adapting and erasured meanings over times and places, persons and presents/-ces.  This continuous bodily activity and operation marking whatever presently transpires on lines – between my organism, this instrument and matter of lined pages – creating a Mobius-like twisting endless loop of circuitry, a breathless action (almost afraid of interruption, disconnection, or cessation) as if it would disqualify present/-ce with unauthorized and arbitrary finite personal breakage.

Yet I know (or believe) the present/-ing will continue all the same whether I am writing or not – ever assailing with near-infinite (perhaps infinite) encountering and engagements…be-ing… regardless of my regard, participation, choice of action, and awareness.  Unconcerned by my present/-ce as I a grain of soil or blade of grass, singular molecules or mosquitos, the hairs dropped from our heads.  Matters of scale of what matters.  [To/for us.  ME.  At our scale, at whatever scale, DEPENDING].

Interruption occurs.  Into, inter-, enter: an eruption.  Anything that commands response.  A call from another, a locusts’ buzz, tonal or temperature flux.  Changing track and attention.  I plea for intervention versus interruption, that the breathless present/ce might go on, unintruded but intervened.  Eventuation, eventually, new contents entering  veins of the stream I am searching, spreading, scribing…at the limit of…

Intrusion.  Inter-eruption.  Or inter-vention, intra-venously… WILL OUR PRESENT PRESENCE all bound up with, knotted, wound and intersecting, inserted and inserting reciprocally or complicitly…go on, remain, continue?  Will it be dissipation or dissension, distension, desiccation or decay?  Can we have, swerve, welcome an irruption intravenously?  I hesitate, I turn.  A response.

Staccato desiccation.  I’ve been bombarded.  Like tragedy, untranceable.  Persistence and flow stuttering, gives way.  The stream of thought polluted, a turbulence assigned.  Coming undone, branch drying up, kindling, that is to say…

Yet if to say, that is – perhaps we’re crossing, coming-over, over-coming interruption as irruption.  Response-able, disabling, but hearing more, lines converging with complexity, a chaos, a banking flow…or spilling over and dispersing?…who could know.  What means – BECOME?

“the present is a write, as long as I am writing” – this presence fractured into fragments, presents, now, perhaps beyond deciphering.  The mode of ciphers, potent codes – standing for??  Standing for???  Which represents THIS…what you read.  Read in, read from, read into and out of.  We do not step into the same stream twice, it has been said, or three times, or even once, even, again.  We don’t know “same,” yet use it like a God, destructive hoping (“identity,” “non-contradiction,” even Truth(s) or Fact(s)) – that SOMEthing might not change.

NOT in this world, and we know no other.  Conjuring zeroes, ideals and myths, utopias (literally “no-places”) and lines of imaginings.  Hoping for control?  Security?  Continuance? – of what, of which…presence.  Scales to track the motions with, fallibly.  Attempts to stay the flow, stay with the flow, re-cognize, re-member, re-main.  What continues to fall apart and reassemble, ever ‘new’ but only partly, in its occurring, range of scales ever irrupting, erupting, interrupting as comings-to-be in all their goings, it’s going…a fragile now.

But I digress along the stream, exposing fragments, perhaps connected to a mouth, a trunk or mother.  Dispersive river, interminably con-fusing elements transgressing finitude.  Number, line and term.  Concept, law, or theory.  None of it works, and some of it seems to.  All may belong, depending on scale.

A matter of present/ce perhaps, and of movement.  Some matter of species, perception and dream.  Susurrate surround, full of disruption, riding waves, but not for long.

“the present is as long…as a singularity of thought is being shaped…”

– Chrysippe + de Beistegui –

(much later and rescaled)


7 thoughts on “Writing Presence

  1. We cannot write in chords, and that is our curse. It is possible to read multiple staves of music simultaneously – the meaning is single and unequivocal for each symbol. But words create a multiple association and strings of words are like unto a mythic DNA breeding structures of lingual/synaptic proteins at every combination. How long can one write without another voice/idea/opposing view/analogy/ diverting the (apparent?) singularity of mental focus. And is that heroic act a sign of wit or a paucity of the same? The more intelligent the thinker/writer is ( if intelligence can be measured by the size of one’s knowing of things, possibly an error of definition?), then the more alternate views/ideas/ will arise, surely. A stupid mind is a peaceful mind.and the thing, the sting, the ring about writing is: it doesn’t happen before it happens. Thoughts do not crystallise before the saturation point that is the pen hitting paper. We may feel the pressure of words in a line, that urges us to curse a blank page ( it being cursive), but until it is there, or nearly there (somewhere nervous between brain and fingertip) it is (Oh Lordy), a virtual cloud.
    Although there is discipline. Perhaps philosophy ( if a philosophy exists that does not trip itself up on its bootstraps the moment it starts). Perhaps Vaisheshika. A system of exposition in Vedic teaching where a systematic examination of a view is looked at from many different angles ( long winded pontification and repetition is its main disguise). More than one view is madness. More than one voice is madness. More than one god is abhorent. More than one personality is blasphemy. More than one soul is abomination.
    But, but, but what about this? How long can one write in a pause between breaths, or on a single outbreath, or on a single inbreath? And is this a single, singular coherent thing? What if the pen is allowed to move only in one state: either breathing in, or out, or pausing. Is the language the same, the speaker the same……

  2. & perhaps we only ever inscribe chords. Simon – all the guts are here – thank you. As ever – I rarely know what I mean to say until there is response. In this case, harmonically clarifying.

  3. I’ve so badly tried to keep writing in the midst of life that I cannot leave to its own. I *must* be present for it, to kiss owies and find snacks and refill water cups. My thought is picked up by a child and thrown down the stairs, woven through the furniture. I have no choice but to cut, untangle, and hope to God I find the end and spool it back together. Make one clumsy knot after another day after day, and at last be whole–frayed, not-smooth, but whole.

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

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