Untitled Fiction, II

web I

II.

“He was found lying on the ground.”

-Samuel Beckett-

 Quickly we realize that language can go anywhere.  Set the prompt into a trial, expose the confounding intricacies of political machinations.  Place it in a play and interrogate socio-psychological relations and complexities.  Investigate and amass its historical and archaeological, genealogical and etymological potentials.  Think it – philosophically – what is man, lying, or ground… and how do we propose to know or experience any of it?

An old(?) man lies on the ground, dead(?), no reasons forthcoming.  Perhaps he’s not even old, but gender is specified regardless of age.  And “an old woman found him” – designated as well by biological sex and relative age.  “No matter.  Try again.  Fail again.  Fail better.”  Here we’ve always argued.  Where WG amasses, Jon and Jesse invent, repeat, imagine.  I am given to doubt.

Plato, Socrates, Xerxes, Herodotus, Shakespeare, Homer, Dante, Anaximander, God, Jesus, Allah, Einstein, Turing, Buddha, sun, moon, stars – everything seems humanly suspect to me.  I argue with Jon, Jesse, JD: I argue that I find myself THIS person in THIS situation at THIS time with THESE conditions and limitations… and thus consider myself thus-ly.  Which tells nothing more than it tells… ever too particularized, too specie-al, too uni-sided, sidereal, exposing never anything but its own account, perception or point-of-view…and impossibly trapped in its own way of BEING – necessarily… and unfortunately… for knowing or knowledge in any more general way (“or so it seems to me”, I argue).  Perhaps language.  “Asshole philosophers” ruining all apparently solid inquiries or conventionally established “facts” with the questionable caveat: the Human.  Insofar as anything is communicated, investigated, perceived, experienced, learned, argued, created, or shared.

Even my cohorts seem to resent me.  I’ve yet to entertain any account of the world not mediated or processed through mine own miniscule, recent, brief and limited species…even via “revelation,” technology or dream.  Nothing transmits but humans themselves… as far as we know (CAN know).

…So “he was found lying on the ground” has no other accounts I am privy to, and our privy-ness seems to be ours alone.  Of little assistance to what we might propose as “reality” – something involving, accounting for, or incorporating MORE-THAN our-ourselves.  I am unaware of how that might be accomplished.

“in potential” I hear most often…some ginormous PERHAPS – as if there were gods or quantum particles!  Some unseen, posited, unexperienced unknown some one-of-our-kind might have radical access to as a mystic-medium or seer, demigod or messenger and not also only be another simple spattering species to kind.

We argue.  We perceive.  We experience.  We attend.  We create.  That’s what we “know.”

“He was found lying on the ground…an old woman found him.”   Just us.  Just us.  Just us.

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8 thoughts on “Untitled Fiction, II

  1. Beautiful, as always and calling to write, to go on from the “Just us!”… But my words in my mind, can’t meet with my language, 🙂 You are amazing writer, I love to read you dear N Filbert, Thank you, Love, nia

  2. For some reason, as I read, I thought of the PBS show WORD WORLD. Your kids were probably too old when it first came on, but my daughter was just of age, and now it’s a big favorite with my sons. One particular episode is about the letters “H-A-T” that get caught in the wind and land by different characters, and a HAT forms–only the hat changes for each character, for each character does not think of the same HAT. “Words really are magic!” says Duck.
    I agree.

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

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