The light is good. I’m confused.
What “good”? “Good” for what, and in relation to? Diffuse, azure atmosphere of oncoming dusk. Chilly, not cold. Nearly pleasant, yet crisp enough for shiver and grip. Unsteady, trembling grasp of pen, a striving for control mated to its lack.
Hardly daylight. Liminal.
I would like to express. What I do not know, perhaps am even unable to.
This is why I approach a page – blank, blind, lined, empty – in “good” light and confusion.
Fusion-with, what? Chemistry, alchemy, biosphere, organism, complexity, surround. Others’ emotions, experience. Possibilities not actualized, each swarming potential of vocabulary, gesture, signification – line, sign, mark, motion – converging formulation, conveying contrivance / re-cognition. What is not, hovering about each “is.” To write. To write (only) this. When…
Once begun. Light, terms, cursive. Blue Bic ball-pointed pen. Moleskine substitution and human and language and in- and ex- perience and some =, some theorized equation of functions and results.
January 29, 2017. Nathan Wayne Filbert. 5:44 pm according to a Centrally Standardized Timepiece, an Apple product, arranged amidst pages from many centuries and sources, composed music sounding from the last, temperatures…”actualities”?…amid vast, incomputable com-possibilities.
If Nathan had not been “this one,” had not begun with a “T” or a “T + h + e” in this light, in this almost comfortable, discomfiting condition, in this notebook, with this pen and its ink at this time on this bastardized quality of paper, among such circumstances and scenarios, amid these relations as a father, a student, librarian, scholar, male – of this certain (arbitrarily standardized mandatory and countable) age, intimately (accordingly – to strata not set by either) coupled to- caring for-, concerned with-, worried by-, wishing for-, happy about-, and so on…
this word or letter at this time in this space with these extremely idiosyncratic and unlikely determinate positions and scenes in a surround incrementally rare and unreckonably accidental…
“The light is good. I am confused” leading itself its own very peculiar particular wave way toward each next and next co-dependent with innumerable constituents and counterparts yet occurring here, now, 5:54 pm CST in Wichita, Kansas in United (are they?) States of America (wha-? why? how? when?) 2017 (by what calendar and whose and wherefore?) at an intersection outside of a centuries-old and decrepit “house” it calls “home” (why? wherefore? from whence toward and…?)…
Indeterminate. Indecipherable. Unreasonable and incalculable. Not accountable or even conceivable…but IS (apparently). Simply IS, what is written, at this time, in this place, by this organism, of these relations, in this surround, at this moment, occasion, “actuality”…
…as it happens… as if
“The light is good. I am confused.”
Polysemic Stupor 
oh man… I haven’t had such a belly full.. such a belly roll.. geez Nathan… spectacular exercise!
Of all the pugilistic sports I’m partial to boxing. For me it’s with words and sounds… so isolate until fleshed, boned, muscled/ limbed, cupped, trimmed/ rolled, flaked, skimmed/ drunk, bottomed, prayered… it’s hard to get off the mat….hahahaha !
Good one my dear…
Thank you Jana, has been lying as a throwaway. We should talk..
I just wrote this elsewhere, about someone’s painting:
“Yes, there is a huge contrast between your abstract pieces and your watercolours. Or is there? There is in both, the horizontal, the vertical, the diagonal. And backdrops on which these interact. It is the story of existence, reduced to its essence. Replace these lines of force and energy with ‘critturs’ and you have added narratives, going from the universal to the personal. I like what you are doing here.”
And then I read your Confusion. In which you emerge into good light as Masterfully Unconfused. Is that sexist writing? Oh, alright then, Mistressfully Unconfused. Starting narratives and chopping them up in ‘off with their heads’ fashion, with your saber of (good) light, discarding them at intersections for the flotsam and jetsam they are.
Well, this seems to have been my narrative of the day. I was going to wait for my cat to walk across my keyboard to make one, as I did yesterday, with 34e4r. I shall return to the murky depths of my lake and wait for the next attempt at pulling me from the stone with, “unsteady, trembling grasp.”
I feel a poetry here, a natural rhythm of curves like on back of a cat as it skulks through the tall grasses for an unsuspecting field mouse…The hunt, a neverending source of pleasure…