I always wondered at my naming – “Alias V.” Not knowing where I come from, and finding all locatable Harlequins tricky and at play. “Alias Verbum” – who would name an infant that? Another name, a word. Also known as, logos. Usually I identify as iota subscript, after Robert Frost. No one knows my origin, …
Continue reading Alias V. Harlequin, remembers (via language)
“To bring a work to ‘a conclusion,’ as Picasso said, is like putting an end to a bull – to kill it.” -Francois Jullien- from the diaries… Woke this morning with a particular feeling. I’ve never been one to believe people could name their emotions or feelings. The best we can say are parts. Words …
“Always too late. This is the message of disaster. We are too late to the scene, and undone. Even thinking and emotion. Even love, can’t keep pace with disaster, with entropy, with chaos. Death always outruns us. World and chance incessantly out-maneuver. We are small. Very small. Infinitessimal, as it were, in our finitude. Thus …
“Just find a way through to an end,” Laramie thinks, fallen there, and hurting. “the void is waiting for vocabulary,” Alias reads, and ponders alone what the void might be comprised of. “Perhaps the void is composed of perhapses,” he writes, “combined with some organization of relations we are incapable of imagining, cannot begin to …
The basics of their story are as follows: there was a wedding nearly a year later, a honeymoon followed by her father’s swift, surprising death succeeded by the loss of a child and the presence of a curious cat. The basics of his story are as follows: there is a woman he has many sorrows …
Looks, stares, gazes. Alias, alone (with ants). In bathroom. Facing mirror. Is reminded (from whence and where?) “My way of not being the same is, by definition, the most singular part of what I am.” Remembers Foucault wrote that (how? why?). Contemplates. Scrutinizes. Reflects. Adorno: “To make things of which we do not know what …
Continue reading Alias Ouroboros; or, Alias and [the Philosophy of] the Process of Elimination
Alias observes the ants in his bathroom. Each Spring. Spring or Fall, no matter his warfare – treating / trimming / grooming the perimeter of ‘his’ home – no difference (or differance) – Spring and Fall, a trail, a train, a miniscule “army” (whether ‘Army Ants’ or no, he could not say) of tiny insects …
“Cat litter,” the last thing said, and something about that abandoned bicycle, a child’s bike, deep red, repainted, left askew on their lawn for days. Those were the last things. The last things she said. And so he’d begun to move about much more carefully. Timidly some might say, an amalgam of caution and care. …
Alias awakens to disquiet. Comprehension out of joint. The motions, the motions, but nothing complies. He does not feel so he touches the knee of his son. Yes, he seems to be there. Words with their sayings and tellings aren’t meaning. Perhaps he hears. Feels he doesn’t have pants on, but perceivably they’re there. Goes …
“it was neither the cradle nor the grave of anything whatever. Or rather it resembled so many other cradles, so many other graves, that I’m lost.” –Samuel Beckett- The silence. The separation. The solitude. This is not novel, not uncanny, not even irregular or unexpected. Betwixt Alias & Laramie, in fact, it would not be …
traditional printmaking and woodwork, made by hand, in the workshop of Jack Baumgartner
a sensitive and spirited tumbleweed
We're all on a road to somewhere.
"And so she rises, green and bright. She is naked, porous and ethereal, a tiny autotrophic star."
Channeling the multiverse of ideas
workshop studio land
Desert Spirituality for the City
pilgrim roads, rituals & destinations
An online collection of published and unpublished writings
news for & about the philosophy profession
straightforward poems for straightforward people
All my Words are Silent 