Looking for an old post for something, finding other…
Left to Say
Looking for an old post for something, finding other…
Author: Alias Harlequin
"Arrange whatever pieces come your way" - Virginia Woolf
"Thinking about language, while thinking IN language, leads to puzzles and paradoxes" -James Gleick
"a word is a bridge thrown between myself and another...a territory shared" - V.N. Volosinov
"How words are understood is not told by words alone" - Ludwig Wittgenstein
Polysemic Stupor
Greetings all. Well it has been a while hasn’t it! Over a year, wow! And what a year. Here follows a renewed attempt to process being with scribblings. I never find a way for text editing software to recreate how language emits through me – so I’m attaching a PDF file and an image of the opening page. Hope you are all staying healthy and safe.
“Now” “again”: or, desire in times of control
The times are not easy.
Time never was.
Yet we insist
on enumerating
our lack of control,
unknowing…
.
“God,” we say, (in 3 digits)
“atom” at four, or the “facts” being five,
“knowledge” (as 9) over
“wisdom” – contrived in 6 letters
resembling “power” (which is slightly less-than) –
.
pretending we’re nearer
a “truth.”
Splintering this countless discourse
making babble –
pathways dividing again and again
.
Not to worry,
No-One,
least not here,
never there, nary hereing
we strive to forget –
.
the small fractions
we are,
even increments fail –
our instrumentation –
excrement turning to soil.
.
We say on,
calculating
in terms.
Splits on a dial
or bits switching voltage
to light
and/or sound –
inexplicably deafblind
we human – perceiving,
depleting, reduce.
.
The times never easy,
or real,
and all barely broken apart –
what we call the “fantastic”
(9 marks) nearly actual
.
what goes on
is a “now” and “again”
without ceasing…
a particle-waving
at sea
and to stars
.
an endlessness
born of its end.
Nontology
Great to read this again… thank you FragileKeys
To theorize is only one way to respond to the call to exist. In this post, I’ll contrast it with what I’m calling “poetry.” I’m going to explore what I see as the limit of theory’s usefulness by contrasting it with a poetic-resonant view of words and the world.
To begin with, both theory and poetry are written down in some way. What for? Let’s set aside the idea that the very activity of writing is what generates this diversity or division between theory and poetry, and instead focus on what theory and poetry mean to achieve by being written and shared. I realize that many will object that I am painting with strokes too broad, but so be it. I mean to draw a contrast between ends.
A theory is written down so as to be transmitted in some way. We can say the same of poetry, though elsewhere…
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On Thinking
jackrabbit mind, dashing –
here thick grass of nothingness
there a frenzied masturbation –
to and fro, quick left, jab right,
the daydreams, grief,
and absence fore and aft.
It’s a wonder, this pondering
machine, unhinged
of its bearings, moorings,
bodies baring everywhere
and not a drop to think.
What drives desire?
Seems pushed and pulled
and craven. Erotically
erratic, playing at its gloom
“it’s nothing,” says the mouth,
always caught between
the breathing and the axons
blood swelling pounding through.
The feral hind leaps out,
ruminate sparkle, devious
flux of concept, fact, or notion,
swimming in emotion,
nothing known.
Alias V. Harlequin, remembers (via language)
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, but he’s very hard to find, everywhere, continually on his odyssey.
i‘m reading a book entitled “How Words Make Things Happen.” What have we made? Ideas, spells; subjects, objects, and actions. Incantations all. Beginnings, I suppose, but not the first.
As I understand it, aging along, someone had to be there for me to come about, and coming-about would be my story. Who or what might tell it? Acted, sung, or read? Becoming other after other after other. Known again as… by any other name. The player. The trickster. The Joke.
In the beginning was… and I began, an alias of something… and everything its word.
Nil
We could have played other games,
ever so many on offer
whiling the distribution and dissipation
time might be
.
Yet “I” became,
constructing choices –
the parenting,
the poetry,
philosophy,
and family;
addiction,
restriction,
believing all the loving –
each complicity
.
To be
.
At least some things,
anything,
.
everything
one knows not what
.
but still
less (or more)
than nil.
With Out
I never had to pay for words
yet how much my words have cost me
.
There is (there seems to be):
.
Experience.
.
I am insufficiently prepared
for it.
[how each beauty hurts so much in joy]
I am.
.
Ever unprepared:
.
Experiencing –
.
always sourced with outside
and ever without sides,
filled up, as is.
.
This is
.
Differing to ‘I am’
An other
Any
other
.
All thens
and equaling nows
complete without –
.
the wolf howls
bear bellows
in woods –
.
my lingering past –
.
with out.
.
somehow
I never learned what words are for
so
I begin
.
Again
almost
All my Words are Silent 