Unstillable, again?

On August 16, 2019 By Alias HarlequinIn communication, death, Language, Reading, Samuel Beckett, Writing1 Comment

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Nontology

On July 24, 2019 By Alias HarlequinIn WritingLeave a comment

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

On July 19, 2019 By Alias HarlequinIn being, creative writing, desire, dreaming, erotic, Experimenctes, grief, Language, Living, Poetry1 Comment

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)

On July 6, 2019July 6, 2019 By Alias HarlequinIn Aging, Alias Harlequin, being, creative writing, Current Reading, desire, Experience, Experimenctes, fiction, identity, Language, memory, relation, storiesLeave a comment

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.