Untitled Fiction III

III.  “…with murderous care…”

Jon had said, to Jesse, about the fires.

So we persisted, Jon, Jesse, and I, and the deceased Beckett, with perhaps thousands of others, unbeknownst any to each around some mythical innermost.

“Fail better.”  The worst times are the ones in which one simply wants to quit failing altogether.  Unfortunately (literally) that necessarily entails a kind of “end of the world as one ‘knows’ [perceives, participates, experiences, or imagines] it” – either suicide, tragedy, ‘terminal’ illness – death of some sort.  Maybe silence, but that’s not certain.

The game table is always already laid, you’re always simply ‘entering’ it (LW points out this fallacy in his collections of numbered critiques of anything anyone writes or says or claims) actually (as far as we know) always already there (where you ‘find’ – what?!? – your ‘self’ – what?!?) and (again, perhaps, literally, unfortunately – or at the very least extremely limitedly) you can only occupy one position at the table (or wherever the action happens to be) at a time, that, unfortunately, always involves the very delimited…well, YOU.  These are the arrangements as they transpire.

Language can (and does), we surmised, go anywhere.  I try to record, invent, notate, mark, initiate.  It all seems unnameable.  Or of far too many names, references, usages, subtexts and connotations, inferences and denotations, already implemented in order to represent anything undone, reconstructed, deconstructed, novel or ‘new.’  “There’s nothing new under the sun” was already a cliché at the beginning / in the earliest phases.

Fires and voids all imagined early.  [Apeiron.  Chora/Khora.  Clinamen.  Flux.  Infinity.  ABSENCE.  The ‘Other.’].  I begin.  Again.  GWFH and Freud refer to this as “repetition.”  A hopeless hope of emergence.  As different or unique as it may seem, ever a plenitude of the pre-existing.  The already-there.

Been there, done that, Beckett exhausts from his grave alongside.  “He was found lying on the ground…a voice comes to one in the dark” Imagine.  Imagine.  Everything is already there.  The table set and set again, arranged.  Already there when you wake to it.  World.

It hasn’t…apparently…been given up.  Perhaps it is inexhaustible.  Limited though we be, we seem to be teeming with it/them… efforts at the unsayable.  Unnameable.  How it is.  What is the what.  Lost in the labyrinth of the occurrence, experience, now with shoddy, partial, biased and over-specified or eccentrically particular maps, guides, or rulebooks.  Ourselves.

 

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7 thoughts on “Untitled Fiction III

  1. Sounds about right if I grasp your meaning, and if I do, then ‘ourselves’ delineates nothing ontologically discrete whatsoever; its referent being no more than another phenomenal appearance about other phenomenal appearances – i.e. an idea or belief object within a continuum of awareness, or something like that?

  2. I would like to say something witty and profound here, but…alas. Maybe because it’s Sunday, maybe because I’m so drained emotionally and physically. Maybe it’s because I’m still struggling with how words work m’self.

    I mean, can words EVER truly be retained, trained, domesticated? Once they’re let loose in another reader’s imagination, the process starts all over again. Some words lose us completely–Lord knows I’ve been left behind often–and others trot alongside us without need of a leash.

    what to do?

  3. You are my current favorite ramblin’ man, Nathan. I’ve been playing with the word “always” and now you have me considering “already”.
    “The game table is all ways all ready laid, you’re all ways simply ‘entering’ it” …. ” All ways all ready there” …..

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

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