Between the Spheres

On May 25, 2015 By NW FilbertIn Art, creative writing, fiction, Image, Neuroscience, thought, Uncertainty, WritingLeave a comment

This is what it looks like, in the one hand

Between the Spheres

I try to wrap my mind around it.

An attempt to connect the two – a keen accomplishment (perhaps unique to all the world of humans) – of right knowing what left is doing, and vice-versa.

Lost along the way.

I describe it as a process – indicating neither beginning nor end-directing goal, but rather recursive procedural motions. Realm of natural orders? Reversible time? Or indifferent to?

Can’t tell one from the other – hypothesize function – track trace with technology. Pretend data. Posit interpretation as theory. Wind up again.

Variously termed reentry. Autopoiesis. Self-organization, containment, production. Ouroborous. Infinite regress.

Middle is muddle. Diversely called. Corpus Callosum. Hermeneutics. Subjective objectivity. The observer effect. Confusion.

Fusion-with. Heads and tails are absent, or amount to the same. Keeping an eye (I) on the eye (I), so to speak. There are no levels of perception, simply additive, truly more of the same. No stacking, just tangle. Alongside, underneath, around, beside, below and through, but ever bound by hemispheres.

Imagine dynamo-balls – activated collectives of interdependent energized cells humming, buzzing or otherwise functioning according to their wired connective wholes-in-part. Betwixt the vibratory masses some buffery twingled transmission zone irrepressibly attempting translation of pulse-sorts, glyph-types, data blips…circuitously globe-to-globe.

I try to wrap my mind around it.

Wrapping, coiling, carrying…sire-wires…another organizational knottage of wattage…behavioral systems, courier-tropes, internal/infernal communications rife with all the residual, syntactical, emergent and scumbling give-and-take, mis-interpretation and noise.

Submarines and warships, encryption and decoding, fuzzily idiosyncratic as love or larger loops. Chaos all the way down or ‘round. Patterning bottom’s-up or through.

This is what it looks like, in the one hand.

Writing Anyway

On May 24, 2015May 24, 2015 By NW FilbertIn creative writing, depression, fiction, hope, Language, meaning, relationships2 Comments

EVERY HUMAN LIFE IS A STORY THAT COMES TO AN END

selected fictions of self-pity

INEVITABLE ENTROPY

Maybe this just is the gist of it.

I spend a good portion of my life (such as it is) – all of its waking and sleeping hours anyway – struggling to determine a meaning for it – its meaning (a concept? term? reference?) on its own that I may have very little luck determining or understanding.

This elusive compendium of thoughts/feelings (EXPERIENCE I’ve corralled with the sound/shape ‘meaning’) – how might it be described? explained? : What might it … ahem … ‘mean’?!

Were I to describe it – it would evoke and involve (were I to describe it well) a sense that I was necessary, useful, desired and desirable, of some merit and account, acknowledged, approved, purposive, poignant…whatever those (each) might also ‘mean.’

Something I happen to be “good” at that is also of benefit or boon throughout the world I’m wedded to, both near (intimate, familial, selected-for) and far (given, happenstance, environment).

But what I’m “good at” is “Depression.” The function of slowing and drag…exhibiting sorrow among happiness, erosion within emergence, noising up messages…despair contained in joys. Doubt, skepticism, intricate inevitable workings of what we agree to name ‘death’ intertwingled with what we call ‘life.’

Entropy. Sorrow. Failure. Defeat. Depression. Grief. Doubt.

Unlikeliness.

Unlikeableness.

Me.

Self-pitying, self-concerned, self-oriented, self-obsessed…at this I am quite ‘good’ – adept, astute, adroit, capable and facile – of smearing, marring, being sad in circumstances of beauty, of success, of benefit and chance…

My children are healthy, talented, innovative and beautiful. My wife is stunning, accomplished and accomplishing, intelligent, inventive, supportive, sexy and kind. Generous. I am employed in circumstances that suit my learning, commitments and goals. I inhabit relatively stable wards and routines. I am alive, middle-aged without illness, debility, war or threat of imminent dangers. Still expertly I can imbue and include a lowering, slowing, gravitational angst and fear into anything I encounter as ‘good.’

I am ‘good’ at dismantling ‘good.’

Which means (back to ‘meaning!’) I also despise, loathe, resent and regret myself and my operations. Representing wear and tear, unraveling and decoupling, erosion, rust and decay to what strives and conjoins, promises and grows. Somehow, somewhere, in some indisputable and unignorable way I am married to disorder.

When I strive to sing, express or communicate – what emits is disturbance and noise. When I construct, I create mayhem. When I combine – I fall apart.

Significant discoveries during my life-range – their exposition and documentation – include complexity, chaos, emergence, and entropy. These I represent, or so it seems.

Ever unable quite to take credit for accomplishment (chaos, complexity, evolution, emergence); never able to know – to sufficiently understand or trace (dynamic, processual, complex, systemic); yet acutely aware of dissonance and destruction, dis-pair and difference (entropy, chaos, noise). Viral, incipient, parasitic and accidental – I adapt, attach, alter and disrupt – change and undo.

Which makes me sorry in an unstoppable way. Unable, hesitant, terrified, dangerous and afraid. A soiled activity of ground. Questions beggaring and buggering replies. A kind of programmatic cancer, a hitch in the breath, a massage that makes sore.

I message – and fragments. I propose – and divide. Link up by pulling apart. With such yearning – an insatiability for connection and attachment that (frighteningly) never fails to strip, erode, scrape and shred that which it clings to.

Modus operandi: ENTROPY. Clutter, damage, foil. Complication and conundrum. Ant in sugar, weevil to wheat, cog in machinery, speculation to proof. Maxwell’s Demon, uncertainty on principle, the mouldering remainder: “I.”

I, entropy.

I, divorce.

I, disease.

I, confusion.

I, disruption.

I, doubt.

I, Descartes.

I the obscure.

complex, simple

unwanted, unwarranted, unsure

I the wobble precipitating break

I, depress.

You colour, I neutralize.

You shine, I dull.

If offered a peaceable end (thinking twice, thinking thousands) I’d accept it – unquestioningly.

New Topia.

**********************************

This is what he thought of it. What he thinks. This one, inextricable from a world, just like everyone else, part AND parcel, the becoming and become, apparent apparition, here-and-then-gone every one-in-the-many.

He thinks irreplaceably. Nothing without merit. Necessity emerges and occurs. Unstoppably. With(in) all its stoppage and its stopping.

He thinks: “what occurs occurs at once.”

He thinks: “being and nothingness is being in time.”

He thinks: “this is one way of thinking.”

He thinks: “thinking is process.”

Inevitable. And more-than, that.

Stop Making Sense happened at a time that makes sense, and continues to do so. Absorbed into machinery. The operations of ‘reality’ for each type, each kind, each species. And without.

“There does not seem to be a correlation,” he thinks. “Between this one and that, experience and experience (the dog, the tick, the grass; the human, the sun, the soil). A convergence of dependence without necessity.”

He thinks: HER

He thinks: THEM

He thinks in wishes.

He wishes his thoughts. Difference.

He (accidentally) dreams a New Topia.

In this New Topia, a difference. A sense-making, a motile trajectory. A structure to revolutions : convergence + emergence. A hope rather than. Such despair.

He thinks: he reaches, makes effort, attempts.

He wishes: he could do otherwise

He thinks: everything ends

He wishes: something might end in beginning

Because he is able to, he looks at ‘his’ eyes in a mirror. Glasses, no glasses. Hair, hair pulled back and away. Blue. Morose. Green. Avaricious. And blue-grey: Now. Now. Now.

He thinks: I should be brushing my teeth – and always regrets pronouns and possessives. Conventions.

He wishes: there was beyond

He thinks: I exist in my limits

He wishes: possibility

He thinks: organism. finitude.

He writes as he has learned to do so. Using words, made out of letters, infrastructures that – while scrambled and undone, reworked and reordered toward a sort of confusion or unsettling – are still the only means he has…toward anything.

He thinks: “anything resembling anything – these are my limits; and limits = usefulness, probability and possibility, constraints. My hope.”

He wishes: Re-inscribed. Remade. Novel. Capable. Composed. From one-to-one. For her. For them. For ‘It.’ (It: New Topia).

He divests. Dissects. Dissembles.

No one follows his ‘meaning.’

[Therefore it does not mean].

***********************************

Grown ever-so-tired of options. The limits, precursors, avail. Starts again, but never new.

This is an attempt to bind. To couple.

Writes to forge a chain.

Writes to create connection.

Writes to compose a real accordingly.

Fails.

The letters, marks, terms and expressions are borrowed, reworked or remade, still. Symbols wide open. Pre-filled, refilled, unmade.

Touch then. Touching nothing new. Touched before. Been touched.

“Nothing new under the sun.” New again under new sun, newly impossible, com-possible. Newly inadequate and all there is…adequate to the necessary task. Ever less. Ever more. Never quite. Never quite common enough. Human. All too human. Never quite common enough.

***************************

Dust. Ash. Dust. Ash. Dust. Ash. Dust. Ask.

A book review of sorts –

On May 11, 2015May 10, 2015 By NW FilbertIn Book Review, creative writing, Language, Literature, meaning, WritingLeave a comment

A “Book Review” – complements The Whole Hurly-Burly

Dublinesque

By Enrique Vila-Matas

We are able to “keep up appearances” – some habitual collage of identities – for quite a long time.

I don’t have ANYthing to say, to speak of, when I encounter – READ – the work of a great writer / a great written work [or writerS – the book above is in translation, and that by two others]. Alas.

Broken. Spellbound. With nothing to add, say, profess, testify – unable to stop speaking.

: Literature, no?

The frozen sea within me (fraud, image, appearance, presentation, mis-representation) AXED?

It feels that way: like being stumped in a crucial interview by a question one never expected – exposed – somewhere beyond your bones – on into some uncanny…

Like that.

So I read, with the feeling of partaking of fine food outstripping my station. So tasteful, delicious and exquisite that the experience teeters at throw-up or orgasm…nearly too much pleasure…too much exposure…too much experience.

And the concomitant deflation, flattened, realizing that I am none of something, perhaps too many of somethings,

disordered, disorganized, confused.

Undone.

Vulnerable and laid bare – with nothing showing.

I am not that

Frightening (terrifying even, at some level) and freeing (or, unknown, unpredictable, possible).

Potential, unlikely, impossible to prove or ascertain – uncertainty – unknowable

to my ‘self’ in my body, as a name, or a father, a partner, a person, a friend.

A cipher. Undeserving of accolades or attributions, unaware of facts or characteristics –

just a long train of habits,

histories, perceptions and behaviors. A long, long trail of showing up…taking space…acting…AS.

With nothing else: not more-than or without, not subterfuge or false, no accomplishments or occurrences in lieu of AS.

The residue of NOTHING.

Bereft then, but not of substance. Empty, but not of force. Simply laid bare, examined, investigated…

…and found wanting.

I stare.

There are things I can perform, ways I interact, roles fulfilled, tasks achieved, conversations replete with reactions and response,

but that is all.

I have a shape, I’ve garnered knowledge, mastered speech and comprehension, can use my cock, can analyze, interpret and produce. Can keep alive and support others, draft language and record. Able to run, walk, sit, stand. To do, make, say and think. In other words – TO BE – and be HUMAN (passably), but undefined, unqualified, ephemerally labeled, nothing “sticking,” “fitted,” by which I might be “called.”

Just a human lacking content, wriggling survival as a beast. An educated beast. And unwitting, unaware and unforeseen.

AN EMPTY ‘I’. (Replace with senses – it means the same). A processing thing, operative organism – a complex or compound of certain circumstances, situations, affordances, of contexts. But nothing special, just unique. An additional example of a being.

Being false. In sense of veiled, covered over, costumed and behaved. Or misbehaved, rankly naked, shown-up short, struggling by.

It doesn’t matter as a seem or even category, division, or multi-ply. Can’t reach zero, can’t be counted, a kind of circumstance of pi. A virtual reality that’s not quite real, not loved quite right to rub it so.

A becoming, misshapen, and clumsily adorned, fooling-no-one. There is no one. Only you. Me. Us.

“an unleashing of erroneous energy”

Derivative and fake. A mistake, mistake uncalled-for and unnecessary, and untoward. A simple “me.” Empty. Formed.

An empty ‘I’ inside myself (shelf, shell).

In any order, or, perhaps,

on shuffle

5/5/15

Perhaps

On April 26, 2015April 26, 2015 By NW FilbertIn communication, creative writing, fiction, Language, meaning1 Comment

Breaking down breaking it down

On April 13, 2015 By NW FilbertIn creative writing, fiction, Language, meaning, PhilosophyLeave a comment

He is breaking it down, they say, breaking both the mind and the meaning (was that ‘minding?’, ‘minding matter(s)?’).

– But is it undoing? someone asks, breaking down towards what’s beneath (or behind or before)? One might ask.

In other words, do we detect a purpose, an intention to his breaking? Is he listening? Does one see him look?

And what is his name? That is, what does it ‘stand for’? He once said “for the entirety.” At which point (as in moment, context, hic et nunc) it was assumed or inferred (interpreted, understood?) he meant. Meant, with those particular terms, within that saying (that action, movement, that changing of things), meant: every form and scale, layer and convergence of space and time, world and universe ever nexused, woven, tangled with this organism labeled thus. What was his name?

A beginning, like reality, reduced. Already begun when started, thereby limited by selection and activity. The sentence finds its way via the words and marks that follow, and while variation is potentially endless, it is not infinite. As this genetic package and all its cellular, processual interactions are inexhaustible and basely finite. And so on.

The breaking down reaches far and travels everywhere but won’t arrive, that is arrest, accomplish fullness. Breaking or building is ever partial. The sum never equaling parts.

Like his name (what was it?) – the one so applied (and distinctively so) – i.e. different from you and you and you – that name though is shared. He is not the only one, even if we cannot recall what it is.

– The only one of those variations though? you pipe in. Perhaps. He did not know. But not only the one so called.

His name, his form and structure, and many patterns of perception are quite common, however he goes about them. His going-about is even similar, when you think of it, as well he would, and we might, yet also not. Not precisely so, more variantly the same, as it were. Normality with particulars then, or occasional surprises.

Something unexpected then, about this one and his efforts of breaking it down while breaking down? Not exactly surprising, from a general fund, the process has its predecessors and is likely to go on in many person at many times, perhaps even widespread and concurrently – other places at the same time with slight anomalies, or other times in the same place with concordant alterations.

– Not uncommon then? Not uncertain?

Uncertain, sure. No more or less than anything. Uncommon perhaps in extent or intensity. Perhaps not as well, given principles of relativity.

– Relative to the subject/objects situation then? she says in a questioning manner, or in her questioning manner, or a manner of hers I take to be questioning (and so on).

Uncertainty, sure; relative, yes; unique, undoubtedly; repetitive – of course…

…he is breaking it down, breaking mind and meaning, breaking down…

– What is the matter? another inquires.

The matter of his senses, yes, that sounds right, for now, at this moment, where we are. What is the matter of his senses, or his sense of the matter that eventuates as breaking down, breaking it down, getting to the bottom of getting to the bottom?

– I doubt he’ll reach the bottom.

– The bottom quite unreachable then? someone adds.

The bottom has never been found or reached or approached for all we know we don’t know, they say. In fact, many question the use of ‘down’ for a practice of dissection – what is excavated in undoing, piecing apart, isolating aspects or fragments? Where does one get by reducing?

– Or what?

A lot of objects without sense? Locations with no map?

– Or less, meaning-less, she says with intonation generally accepted as interrogative.

Perhaps meaning less than when together as occurring – fitted, reciprocal, converging and emerging, like cells in Petrie dishes versus cells moving in the bloodstream, performing functions – but perhaps wildly possible and free, ready-to-use, available some other way, he doesn’t know, nor do I, nor do we.

Facets, elements, aspects that he cannot quite assemble and yet they already are by virtue of being broken yet held together in his failing efforts at assemblage. Welded in the effort – imagined apart in a situation of thought – thereby joined.

– It’s enchanting, someone speaks.

– And depressing, reports another.

But is it useful?

I find it of interest.

A Provisional Writing

On March 27, 2015 By NW FilbertIn being, change, creative writing, fiction, life, love, relationships3 Comments

He, frightened, uncertain, inexhaustible and weak, somehow mustered the strength to ask or act for what he wanted.

Perhaps she would not comply.

Or could not, and remain who she needed to be.

Yet there would always be response –

– even ignoring, diverting, pretending to sleep.

It hurt to ask. To attempt – its exposure – admission of lack and need – the venture, to try. The fear of undoing, of incompleteness, of rejection, impossibility.

Still he acted and asked.

The alternative grown unbearable over time – constructions and deconstructions, composition and erosion, the living through time and space.

Time approaches in which time isn’t worth it – without.

Without knowing and acknowledgment, honesty and rejection, awareness…

…until the response is given…isn’t there still chance?

Untoward, illusory, unlikely and so slim…and yet?

As if…

*******************************************************

Varieties of presence.

Certain opportunities of world.

Of doing. Being. Making.

As life runs out, so too the prospects of meaning, of experience.

Had begun to feel he must,

or never.

Discover, find out, uncover, unearth, reveal

at least for a moment.

This moment. The moment.

Nearing NOW.

But how? Who? And what sorts of whys were required?

What lent him the right and wherewithal, the luck, the chance, or desperation?

And why now? What for? How her?

Hesitates.

After all, perhaps?

Perhaps its merely panic, neuroses, a fracturing diminishing end?

What motivates? And why? And why this one? And this now? And here…in the midst of.

Always already in the midst of…and always already not-yet.

Between. Desiring a line to be drawn. As if the world depended on it. His world (perhaps theirs?). His life, his living, his NOW.

It remains to be seen.

Ever remains to be seen, evidenced, emergent,

Proven.

Can there be any proving? If things had been different, some slight change in the initial conditions, conditions so complex?

Could it be different?

He must, he has to, he is compelled to act / to ask.

What will she reply?

***********************************************************

The always begin. Begin, begun, always. Climbing the steps of his lack…behaving…becoming. Ever some begin – some something, something shifting, changing, altering, becoming something else, something altered and novel, new, not combined in quite this way before – submerged, emerged, converged…yet differently.

No?

Next?

With N (next) = Begin? +1, +1, +many + again, else, other…Equaling not before, prior, exact…NOT repetition but difference, remainder, chaos, complexity

Impossible,

seemed inexhaustible,

almost infinite,

not quite. Not remotely.

“He,” “She” will surely end (in a way)

as a form of beginning

As a form of

a form of

motion, movement, becoming.

Things happen, or happening produces things (at some scale, interaction, percept)

What becomes undoes becoming undoing

(and so on).

Uncertainty.

Mobility.

Activity.

Becoming.

Undoing.

Undone.

He becomes.

Unraveled enough, to a point (a seemingly certain threshold) he will risk,

wants risk,

feels compelled,

concerned,

for survival, needs, depends,

decides to act or ask for what he’s wanting (needing? lacking? desiring? believing?)

And where / who / what / why / is she?

And there and which and whom and when?

He will act, ask,

she will needs-be

in response to the violence of movement, address,

intruded perception, sensation,

respond.

In what way?

BECOMING: A Something-Writing …Provisionally (cont’d)

On March 23, 2015March 23, 2015 By NW FilbertIn Art, being, creative writing, Experience, fiction, human, identity, Language, meaning1 Comment

Say it – “Mikhail!”, say it “Lover,” “son,” or “dad.”

Give me a robe, a title, anything,

let me to be,

yet call me “Person.”

(same as you).

Just like with all our difference.

Generic sets.

And without cease.

What’s inexhaustible

and finite.

Here We Be.

Call us “Person(s)”

In order to get by, to get along, to carry on, I invade your body as if planned. Swapping breath and sounds and fluids. Making more. A “he” a “she.” A “husband,” “wife.” A “muse” and “lover.” We pretend in our pretense and we become.

Call us Person(s).

We raise the dead and name it “memory,” name it “history,” name it “god.”

We start to drown, but we’ve become, and name it “family,” name it “nation,” name it “state” or “land” or “friendship.”

We disperse.

We send out tracts: “PLEASE CALL US PERSON(S)!”

No response.

And we become what we will be.

**************************************************

I scream your name for I am helpless, “I” am hopeless without you. And so I grasp and shape your body, your behavior, your aplomb. I demand answer for my question is the telling and I need to be an I: “Call me Person!”

It begins.

And it is reckless, it is violent and warm.

I am coddled, moisty, fragile. I need purchase(d). I need won.

You are one, and there are many.

We begin.

“Mother.” “Lover.” “Child.”

Call me Person.

Call me something.

We grow limbs and we grow hair. We swap shapes and alter presence. We emerge and we invade.

I am Ishmael, I am

Allah, I am Sam.

You are giant, you are troll, you are fairy.

I can’t tell but for the asking (as if same, as if identical) – simple call.

Call me Person.

We begin.

**********************************************************************

In some ways our job [for survival] is simply to affirm one another.

To provide response (which is a call) to a call (a form of response).

I affirm you (which affirms I) by telling you (asking back) when you ask (telling me you are – where?).

Co-respondence is affirmation – positive or negative (each a both/and) [as with most things living].

You there –where?—ask me, I will acknowledge – thereby telling “you” –

both of us thereby affirmed, established…

…Being…

Thusly, there are Varieties of Presence.

I am Stephen K. Plato, Laurell H. Hardy, John

Quincy Locke,

call me “Person.”

“We” will therefore become via our calling, our response,

-mutually constituted identities

-for the moment.

Johann Sebastian Souza strikes a note

Federico Garcia Chopin hears that tone,

thereby constituting,

no, co-constituting…

…sound.

Sound, press of fingerpads on forearm, shoulder, buttocks, calf,

breast, or clay,

each,

each each,

resonance, difference, identification,

-a becoming, become-

Affirmation.

Compliance.

What might seem

passive, active, passing to-and-fro, creating “We,” “Us,” “People,” “Person(s)”

Trolls beneath the bridge.

Knocking, knocking.

We. Are. There.

(Which is “Here” for NOW).

*******************************************************************

Being. and Time.

(one might say)

Call me Friedrich, Ortega, Alfred.

or: Being + Event.

Address me Giorgio, Alain, Ricky G.

Actor, actant, the motion of bodies.

Ludwig Joycenstein;

rejoice in time;

Osip, Anna, the noise of time.

Being. Event.

kairos

“it is Time”

fullness.

redolent.

predilective. propicient. promising. proclamative.

NOW.

In the Beginning, the wormy End.

Every Ending a Begin.

Transference. Transmission. Translation.

It is love.

Call. Response.

Affirm

Telling Asking

Achieve.

Archive.

WE ARE

You/I a He/She

(not long before combine, breed, be/have)

–BE-COME–

WE.

“I” was lost, until you found me…

…in other words…

…varieties of presence.

bumping into brambles,

slipping into sea,

hearkening to shriek,

Ask Tell

yay/nay,

no matter,

what matters?

too much, too little?

near enough

Begin.

Become.

just BE.

Be. Be. Bee.

1. B. 2. C. D.

Dee Harvey Osmont.

Olivia Newton jaunt.

Wolfgang Adolf Heisman.

Prince Albert Nobel.

Call “me” “Person.”

Julio W. G. Sebold.

Sign on page,

raised to the eye,

digited “touch,”

BECOME.

Vocable. Insignia. Etching. Stroke. Motion.

WE.

Call us Person(s).

*********************************************

“The pen asks / much more than it can answer /

one word at a time”

-Philip Levine-

WRITING YOU

On March 22, 2015 By NW FilbertIn communication, creative writing, Current Reading, life, love, meaning, Poetry5 Comments

What I should do is phone; the circuitry

is there and we’re both somewhere in the circuitry.

I need to talk. What should I find to say?

You know how it is: it rings; you answer; no click;

no dial tone. Hello? Hello? No word.

Not even goodbye – I couldn’t give you that.

Listen to this: to write you requires a scheme,

subtends an apparatus, such that here

be an I, you be he there, space

discerns the entities , depicts them such

as the scheme requires. Are you lost? I am.

I want to be not lost. I write even so.

Tell me what to do. I want to show.

Schemelessness. Undress. To speak from that.

I want the secrecy; I want it said.

To speak from wordlessness. There are certain things

that happen and we don’t know: proteins meet

and shape each other. We are the husk of this.

Whatever happens happens in some such wise,

under attention. I hate all huskiness.

Let me be where it happens, let me be the hidden cells

and silent if silence is all there is to say.

I want to talk though. I want to talk to you.

I despair of what to say. Goodnight. Goodnight.

– William Bronk

WRITING MEANS CLIMBING THE STEPS OF OUR LACK

– as if the aim of writing were to use what is already written as a launching pad for reading the writing to come..”

– Edmond Jabes –

BECOMING: A Something-Writing …Provisionally

On March 19, 2015March 19, 2015 By NW FilbertIn Art, creative writing, human, Language, meaning, Philosophy, thought1 Comment

Provisionally: A Something-Writing

-What I Have in Me to Write Now-

I am Melville, I am Aristotle Dostoevsky. Address me as Plato, Poinsot, Peirce. Franz Ferdinand Pessoa. I don’t care.

Call me Person. Anyone madly bearded and wielding a pen.

The one writing, saying, speaking. The gesturer. Being-doing-becoming. The Nothing-sans-audition. The Singer-without-ears. Seer-without-vision. Images – begone!

Call me Person. Listen! – it becomes.

Wrapped in filthy sweet meconium and lies, lays, swaddling undone. Wrapt, swaddled, held: Become.

It begins. A sighing and a sound. A saying and a listener. Bronk, Bakhtin, Blanchot. Call it what you will. Call me Person-with-a-Pen. Number me “Frail Parcel.”

I utter, you reply. I gains an “I.”

She responds and “I” becomes a “He.”

Call me Shakespeare, call me Tolstoy, call me Sterne. I yelp a Joycean Woolf! It begins.

Call me Person.

Damaged, swollen and undone, without a reason, and yet a flailing voice.

We translate love and I become. We cobble names. “Honeywizz,” “Beastyballs,” “Xanadu.”

Say a word, and say again.

It sounds like singing.

Cry out Jeezus! Aquinas! and let us move.

Heidegger, Hegel, Haar. William Dewey, Tomas Pynchon. Another ring, another rung, another syllable.

Translation, transmission, footnoting insertions, assertion. I am John James, Alfred South Hampton. Bewildered and Amazed. Immanuel (God-with-us) Nietzsche, Darwin D. Descartes.

Just call me Person and I will answer, becoming “I” and I become.

The whisper and its hearing,

you moaned and I perked up.

“Yes?” “No!” Otherwise.

We are here.

Call us Person(s).

I/You, Self/Other, He/She, Says/Hears, Touches/Felt, Imagine the memory.

Begin.

**************************************************************************************

At long last, we arrive. Gilles and Jacques and Simon. Luce and Helen and Clarice. Paired, impaired, distorted.

You may call us Person(s). We are named.

Once called, for a response. The asking is the telling.

I cry out.

There is echo.

It begins.

Frail parcel.

Laurence Carlyle.

Samwell Bronte.

Simone de Cortazar.

Someone sings, it garners litany,

“We are here.”

please call us Person(s).

At first I was a scientist: a philosopher of stories,

for you I depicted scenes and portraits,

invented tools.

Everything a bridge.

The word “between.”

We gestured: “Call us Person(s)”

We said Moscow, India and Greece. We stuttered America. We shrieked of Arabia and England.

A run of names and numbers, symbols and beliefs. We made equations, normatives, reliefs. We consulted, constructed, and revised.

All us People. Call me Person. Calling “you.”

I made an image of yourself, and you became…along with “I.”

We shouted slogans, rafted rivers, swam the seas. We scaled the peaks. We dug beneath. We drifted out.

And kept on calling, calling back

and calling forth, all the asking that is telling, and the stating towards inquire.

It began. It formed a we, and that resulted in an I and a Thou, gone either way, but none other.

It plays with brain and body is the brain the body,

call us “Person(s)”

A kind of beast and gentle species.

We, animal and saint

because we said so.

“Call us Person(s)”

for the asking and the telling

the query-and-response

its to-and-fro

and the becoming

We will be.

******************************************************************************

What we intended – -ologies and –isms and parades.

And “we” begins

Call us People, call us Person(s)

The beasts, alive for NOW –

a simple Zone,

a sphere, an angle,

our “perception” as we say.

I am Maurice and Piaget, von Uexkull van Beethoven

Call me Person

And drunk on signs

(that We developed)

in-between

so we might BE.

(Let’s call them “words”)

Let’s call them breaches, bridges, dreams.

Let’s call it Love.

(and its undoing, its location, its domain)

Let’s call it governance or law.

Let’s make a Zoo with separate cages, create a Zone for disciplines and fields. Feelings. Cultivating crops and crafts and musics. Let’s call it “Science” and beg for silence, and beg for naming and for names, more names and names and things, more names and names for things.

Let’s mix them up and cause explosions.

Me + You.

and co-created.

Please call us “Person(s)”

And let us mark and underscore: Disprove. Debate. Erase.

Let’s say “adjust.”

Let’s try to capture or discover – now we’re we.

But call us “Person(s)”

We will be.

I have become.

Spring Forward – Saving Daylight

On March 15, 2015March 15, 2015 By NW FilbertIn Art, creative writing, life, meaning, Music, Philosophy, Poetry2 Comments

Taken with a feeling of grandeur: a premonitory greatness arising with convergence. There are uncertainty principles and the bafflings of mathematics as one ranges across scales. Relationships over time and fictional emissions, philosophies, transpositions of experience…and sometimes, somehow, they inextricably and irreducibly link up, reciprocally foster…and generate moments of novelty. Perhaps this is indicated with the term emergence. There is music, too, and emotion.

A sense of sense. Of universal process in which one plays a micro-part, participation. For the time – being and becoming seem joined. There may be love, generation, sometimes even intuition of revelation. Simply processes – ongoing self-organization – of “selves,” and smaller and larger collective, complex, and dynamic systems.

Something like “meaning,” I suggest. Nobody gets what I mean.

Which represents entropy. Things falling apart even as they arise, conjoin…together.

Things I do not mind. Emergence / entropy … it’s all dynamic – which is what I’m thankful for in the now. “Alive” perhaps we’d call it, un-“dead,” – a state I’m thrilled to avoid.

****

Of course there’s a “Her,” and a “Them,” or “they,” – my spouse/partner/girlfriend/significance-of-Other … and the offspring numbering 1-4 – the “matterings that matter” in me… my hand and body, pen and paper, & the complicated processes between that emit some strange result.

Physics tells me “strange attractors” (at that relational scale), I suppose it’s literature’s “muse,” romance’s “one,” the what-fors and what-nots equaling “It,” equaling “unknown,” equaling “that to which things tend.” Optimization, in a sense (if only a fantastical one).

Depending on the color of the glasses. What hole is peered through, by whom, from what angle. Perspective. Outlook. Relation. Some mean free path I’m on. Perhaps now a ‘we.’

“I” feels uncomfortable, unnatural. The idea there might be a group-of-me consoles. If only one (other, more). If only a “you — too?!”

– Emily Dickinson

something like that.

Dancing like cancer survivors…

At least grateful we’re experiencing

That’s a sort of Spring-Forward, is it not?

All my Words are Silent

Category: creative writing

Between the Spheres

Writing Anyway

A book review of sorts –

Perhaps

Breaking down breaking it down

A Provisional Writing

BECOMING: A Something-Writing …Provisionally (cont’d)

WRITING YOU

BECOMING: A Something-Writing …Provisionally

Provisionally: A Something-Writing

-What I Have in Me to Write Now-

Spring Forward – Saving Daylight

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Provisionally: A Something-Writing

-What I Have in Me to Write Now-

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