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Today. Again. Almost.

[or, grass in pavement; beyond black holes?; “boundaries are made to pound against” (Hejinian); after Celan, after Knausgaard) “you have to dream new ways of thinking”]

.

We praise the dead (remember?)

and the Mother holds them,

in catacombs,

the earth…

…beyond the black hole,

again and again and again…

.

The world is radiant!

Feel that?!

Continuous fomentations out

of undifferentiable chaos –

muddy unsolvables

.

Look! Look again!

Quit speaking.

It is here. (mysteriously)

Redolence…

.

…beyond the black holes,

again and again, not yet…

Where are you, real-ly,

becoming and formative,

nearly gone. To where?

.

Look! Look again!

Call it listening,

attention. The smallest detail

comes infinite.

You are there, also!

But where? you ask –

and can’t be found…

.

…just there, now,

which is – where? –

No longer. Linger.

It occurs, what might

be else.

.

Cheers to the wonder,

unknown! – what

is. Like being

before there’s a there.

It happens…

.

…beyond the strange darkness –

horizon-event, that complains,

and becomes as it passes

in strife, in the Mother,

the dying, remembering

birth-like

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Reduce (‘to lead back, to bring back’)

https://www.etymonline.com/word/reduce

Thrum -

that is the hum of the liveliness

the phrasing which your voice emits

the charging of rememory

the shock that members monsters





Thrum spark! –

the difference between hearing

and listening-for, anticipation.

Or expectation?  and its careful ache

awaiting every painful jolt





The fear involved –

an awful angst of joy –

timbre re-minding the body,

bodies, of things that surge

Like language -

what’s drawn out

and quartered

into inestimable more

So like-wise, the idiot

breath and ready veins

fill up with begging

bursted already in the mouths and hands

and far beyond.

Reach in, reach out

one motion as touch

the no-one-knows-where

Leading back,

bringing back,

reduce:

our introduction

“The Dream’s Navel”: an adaptation

Was a kindly algorithmic suggestion toward a remembering, almost a gift, perhaps… once I wrote this…

…yet another example of negotiating tools and context.  The previous post it seemed natural, as if I reached into the surround in order to work …

“The Dream’s Navel”: an adaptation

November the 24th

Lydian

The summer

almost always,

so hard to endure –

warmth, light –

no solace

no protection –

only so much

undoing

is possible

in light…

heat

.

The autumn:

a young child

aging,

deteriorating,

dear demise,

desiccation,

something almost true

to fact

.

The spring –

its delusion,

deluge,

as if there were

a coming-to-be,

or fascist utopia –

with

all the bells

and whistles

.

Our winter:

discontented,

and good –

solidity

of presence,

sweet ache

of living,

being,

held,

in place

.

I love.

Maundy Monday, or “No One’s Ways” – thoughts on Monday

Obviously shame and guilt AFFIRM us… as organisms that CARE

(at the least about ‘how we are perceived or incorporated’)

or, it tires me out to be around ‘people’ but ‘people’ are what we get

or, “Hello, Adam” (Thalia Field, Personhood)

or, “I” am constructed by/in/with a context

or, what do “I” (does I’s) know?

or… and so on…

What does “care” stand for? Or represent? “Mean”?

~ a fine form of self-determination-destruction

indenting “i”-dentities

Behold: “I” cares. “I” is ashamed and guilty. “I” loss, lose, be-wilder. (Can you?)

– Care as apparatus and negotiation. A “feeling-for” securing a sense. Places and times.

“Concern”?

How does this fit? Be-long? Where when how what.

And so on.

NOW.HERE. (always – for humans, etc…?=ETCETERA – or beyond outpast = ellipses).

Sing again. Breath. Sound.

“Care” as negotiation.

– somewhere somethings laughing

Homo Fictus

“words are not a translation of something else that was there before they were” -Ludwig Wittgenstein- Homo Fictus  “Even when the body goes to sleep,…

Homo Fictus

Intriguing… I forget almost everything I write, thank you any others for finding it and letting me read it again.

Components


And then there were two
yet before that no one

but components
an organism of many
replete with fissures and gaps
traversed by muscle, nerve, synapse


(I often argue with words:
“two shall become one”)


It does not add up
and a unity has yet to be found
even in a singular
air is both inside and out
and language is still formed


And we tend to argue in words
with muscle, larynx, breath and tone
never terms alone
it’s cellular


if there ever was just one
it is unknown now
or how


our world is constitutive
it’s miracle
that it holds together at all


(It is argued with words:
“One is the loneliest number”)


But thankfully(?)
we’ll never experience that
even our grief and solitude
comes at the cost of others


left to one
undone
and silenced to pieces


And then there were none