Category: creative writing

With Out

On By NW FilbertIn creative writing, Experience, Perception, Poetry, relation2 Comments

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

Drunk Like a River in Flood

On By NW FilbertIn creative writing, Experience, longing, Patience, Poetry10 Comments

Swelling my banks,

perturbedly turgid,

effervescently carbo-

nated, almost,

(or perhaps it’s entire…

depending on who

&/or what you believe,

with their reason…)

Swollen, in flow,

a thundering racket,

flotsam and jetsam

I wail at the bends.

A “bender” they call it.

I’m here, all the while

passing through. 

Drenched (or “besotted”) –

the rain.

I am home

and I’m rushing

to-ward and away,

instinct with desire,

for which fire

is no  match,

only patience…

I’m a patient

and ill to the bones…

you will see.

But I gurgle

these songs

as I pass..

filled with belches

and farts,

it’s unseemly…

Drunk

like a river

in flood

[too apparent] –

here’s

where the poem

begins

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

On By NW FilbertIn creative writing, Journallings, Language, WritingLeave a comment

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


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Tapping at Windows of Words

						

				On  By NW FilbertIn creative writing, desire, Experimenctes, Language, Poetry, Traces, Writing7 Comments			

					


		

			
The bestial want


is it ever more?


Evermore.


.


Ache beauty


its terrible


hunger


.


The voyeur


at what is not


“mine.”


.


What can be taken?


What “had”?


In the seeking,


the peeping,


the glimpse


or the glance –


its desire?


.


Such beastly want,


evermore,


grasping


.


forth or out


I reach –


a solid pane.


.


I am limited


constrained


delimited –


.


it would seem


I see clearly


but it cannot be


touched.


.


‘I’ is alone


with-out.


With-in


comes from ‘you.’


.


So ‘I’ scopes –


a feral yearn –


and gazes…


.


tapping at windows


of words.


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Autumn Reflections, their sound and fury

						

				On  By NW FilbertIn communication, creative writing, relation, Self, Traces, Unknown, Writing7 Comments			

					


		

			
leaves wind


“Sometimes God, sometimes nothing”


-Franz Kafka –


“Blank page called a day.


God.”


– Dan Beachy-Quick – 


The praxis of empty signifiers : words : full of sound and fury.


If you accept the ‘I’, or find a name to call yourself – like using a credit card received in the mail (illusion of invisible funds), what do you charge to it, and does it always end in debt?


Does it make of you a consumer to believe the ‘I’?  To use self-reference as a token or coin?


How soon do “my” and “mine” follow after, even though each object, event, or transaction, is clearly only a loan?


What is charged to the ‘I’ must be paid back – to put it in legal or religious terms.


Be careful what you say.


Wittgenstein claimed that we mostly speak without giving full meaning to the terms we use – that we ought remain silent whereof we cannot speak with adequate comprehension.  Where we sing beyond our knowing –


very few (if any) utterances comply.


But how learn anything (even the untrue) without not-knowing?  Without composing walls to break apart or knock upon, to breach or to climb?  Without making it up to unlearn and repent of?


A word changes direction.


It’s happening as I write or think or imagine this.  As if.


As if it signified something.  I write with sound and fury.  Into silence.


It’s what ‘I’ do – so I should do it!  (shouldn’t I?!)


I seem to know I’m alive by touching, tasting, smelling, hearing, seeing – things other… feeling, sensing, perceiving… crafting empty signifiers like nostrils, like a tongue, a kind of eyesight and ear, my fingertips.  My flesh on loan.  To be paid back.


In debt to what then?  ‘World’?  To sing.  To sound.  To dance a little.  Imagine.


If ‘I’.


If I am given the sound of leaves as they crisp and color the Autumn breeze, refracturing light; if I can smell the moisting decay (debts repaid by undoing what was charged), if I can gather them with my hands and roil about them with my body, if I can bake the seeds and chew, take them in…


…what does ‘I’ owe?


You sentence me: two I’s.  I hear your melodious song.  You whisper, close.


I say ‘I love.’  Terms lacking comprehension.  Metaphysics.  Their meanings beyond knowing.  Unlearned.  “We” are (whereof we cannot speak).


Charging invisible funds we become responsible for.  Obligated.


Swiping our cards for contents.


What do we owe?


What do we know?


What can we?


Each their own set limits.  Sometimes raised, sometimes lowered, depending on our fidelity to pay with interest.


We owe.  We all of us owe.


Even for our silence.


Even cash-only – that empty signifier – words.  Even simply action.  ‘I move’ – is a statement on credit, like breath.


Sweet burst of being!  To “is.”  To “I.”  To “we.”  All so heavily borrowed, contingently.  Imagine.


Imagine what it means.  To owe.


Again I break the silence of what I do not know via signs of repentance.  These words.


All the silence they require.


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Distortion of the Perceiving Eye/I

						

				On  By NW FilbertIn communication, creative writing, Language, Perception, Reading, Writing2 Comments			

					


		

			
“the turned-to-water book…


with all that has room in it,


even without


language.”


– Paul Celan –


Decide to write the book-that-turns-to-water, as speech-that-turns-to-air.  All that rippling silence, even without language.


Someone asking: what is gesture?  movement?  expression-in-its-being?


Signification the silent razor.


Someone mentions music, which it claims “represents nothing at all,” (Michel Seuphor) and I doubt that: is there not expression?  confession?  some sonorous and vibratory friction or exhalation?  A “constant inscription of birth in innumerable ways…language is metaphor and metonymy, one cannot avoid it.”  (Helene Cixous)


[“where trace becomes existence” (Seuphor)]


I am tracing letters without a model, refusing to hub any wheel…


.


Out of its mouth: communication sounds.  The body moved likewise.  Undulant, suggesting.  only sounds, no discernible words.


Signification, perception, emotion, feeling, sensation… and then translations: prefrontal cortex: “meaning”?


A blockage.  Refusal.


Andre Malraux: “You are human when you can say no.”  Remembers Bartleby.


What is called ‘agency’?  Only negation?


This is how the story goes?


Prefers not to.


.


“Pleasures,” “pains.”  Pain wakes.  Pleasure lull(abie)s?


.


And when is the “system of nonknowledge” (and unknowing) not “unfinished” (Bataille) posthumous.  Post-humorous.  Generations.


What was it?  Ah, yes, the Book-that-turns-to-water.  Speech-to-air bubbles, balloons.  Hot air, as they say.  They?  We.


“even


without


language”


(someone wrote, silently saying).


.


“all that has room in it”


(same).


.


Of truth and genesis – constant inscriptions of birth.  Unthinking the point and the line.


“Not to worry about the rest of us.  Love you.”  (someone said).


.


This is the shaping of chaos, this hell of stories.


Unthinkable.


.


Unbearable lightness of being, this breath or stream of life.


Mismaking is an art (or so we hope, we think, desire, demand).


.


Men and apparitions.


[everything I letter down is plagiarism]


These – the margins of philosophy, a way of life.


Saying I no more.  Interior distance.


.


This is the writing of disaster: the book-that-turns-to-water.


Speaking turned to air.


Philosophy, the posthumous.  Dust.


.


Listening.


Abolishing freedom.


.


Text (from textare: to weave).


My documents.


My notes in the fog.


The trouble with pleasure.


.


Myopia.  My opium.


 


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Thickets

						

				On  By NW FilbertIn being, Complexity, Confusion, creative writing, human, meaning, Perception, Questions, Uncertainty, WritingLeave a comment			

					


		

			
Thicket


The world overgrown.  At least any accessible sector.  I’ve heard tale of open, of empty, of spacious, of dearth.  Not where I approach.  Even my own body – its in- or out-sides, its wherewithal.  Always where-with-all.


Tangled, almost briny, in some instances.  If able to determine a surround wherewith or whenwith to take a stance in.  Even thinking, even breath, even a pulse of bloodbeat.  Any sound we form toward music.  Any making-sensible.  For us.  Our kind.  Those within the overgrown – the untamable, reckless warp and weft.


To hunch there, immediately becomes here.  How different – if imagined?  To gather, to pre-tend.  To suppose a disposition, a presence somehow differentiated.  How-some?  To curl in, therefore (perchance? per theory?) “to find,” to be able to, to call, to be-in-g?  Yet how?  Or why?  Where is the for?  And what might the hole be suspected to fill?


Where is the gap between this and the other?  Between you and me, he or she, this-that-the-other, between…any/thing?  Something wishes to know, apparently… and this wishing/motion/decision/desire/activity/drive (whatever “  “) begins by implicating violence… bi-lining a world with borders, invented barriers, perceived traces, intuited splits, cuts and hacks that are not there until.  How un-till this supposed “soil” from which to distinguish, fabricate, or function?  From which to “operate.”  Surgeon-species.


What knowledge is expected by destroying?  Deconstructing (or constructing) – both requiring joints?  By suture and slice?  By taking life?  Prone to decompose.  What a trajectory.


What options?  Compelled…to con-fuse…confess…to communicate, express, enjoy, enjoin (what we find ourselves joined to) still even to de-scribe, in-scribe, in-voke, ex-tol, inter-act or en-gage provokes difference, demands separations, dismemberment.  To cleave.


To try to body.  To try to mind.  Attend.  Acknowledge.  Distortion.  To twist and torture an other, as the one or…alteration.  De-pict.


Impossible connection already seems to be.  Each, every add-ition a disconnecting, a cutting, a stitching seam according to a pattern.  Whose?  Whats?


Over, under, whelmed.  Where is the open, the undifferentiated, the is?  Always already be-fore.  All ways, all ready, be-for.  In other words…not possibly worded.  Prior to word.  Involving act (including language) but unincorporated (already corporal), defying design-ation (surprisingly? one would think ‘it’ [not] is at the end of de- or un-signing/signifying), erasure of description, all palimpsests equaling… perhaps (per-happening) – infinite, certainly uncountable, incalculable, without ordination, order, ordaining, without with-in or –out.  Only WITH, inconceivable, imperceptible (perception cuts), irretrievable (the rejection of any re-), disabused, disturbed perturb, a dreaming dreamed turbulence = a happen to be.


Still this thinks with.  Language.  Lost already, displaced and falsified by a tiny thread, an whole fabric, a world-veil at least whilst continuing as world…


Think again.  Dream.  Confuse.  Imagine.  Invent.  Art ducts (vents) for breath… further re-moves, com-pli-cations, furthering within, for fun?  A dance, a play, a re-morse (cryptic codification, surreptitious and additional) some native complicity to immeasurable complexity.  As is.  As if.  And so on…


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
All-ways

						

				On  By NW FilbertIn absence, creative writing, desire, eros, relation, Writing3 Comments			

					


		

			
HE in the feeling of HER approach.  That syrupy abyss.  Unknowing.  Every anticipation and guess.


HER name.  A bird’s song.  Bird’s songs (all of them).


What other flesh is.


Any time you are enabled


to touch it.


We could imagine IT as HIM wanting.  Awaiting.


But there is no resemblance to wait for.


Only HER, the delicious, dilemma, unknown.


Loss of memory.  Hope of presence.


“Ecstasy” as commonly referred –


– the surprising rarety of ‘being-out-of’…


“HER,” “HE” calls it, names it, designates, conjures, conceives.  (Perhaps “HER” has a name?)


In the center a shrine a temple.  And no center exists, except by imagining, by metaphor, metonymy.  Delusional illusion of some living cartography.


The words “NOW,” “HERE”…continuously NO/WHERE.


He longs.  Desires.  Fantasizes.  Dreams.


This is urgency.


Each pressing and critical, earnest, persistent scenario and situation –


In-sistent.


It’s always coming.  In.  The status and singling.  Ever singing.


Sometimes shrieking.


NO/WHERE : NOW/HERE.  Same scintillating occurrence, occurring… per-sist-ence, pursuant and ins-is-isn’t-it?  Awaiting approaching.


HE/HIM/HIS – SHE/HER/HERS                                            (with)


[All-ways]


What might have been experienced as “LONGING” – that which is extended, strained toward…


SHE… a recoiling, a reconnaissance, some new emission.


HE laughs, as if capitulating, a surrender, a stab, asunder.


THEY… blend and weave inconceived.  Inconceivable.  Unknown.  Never any stasis.  Never NOW/HERE, never NO/WHERE.


In other words, too many… uncountable stories (may) have begun (begin)…


[All-ways]


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
How it is, part exponential

						

				On  By NW FilbertIn communication, Complexity, creative writing, Experience, Experimenctes, fiction, fragments, Philosophy, Poetry, Writing6 Comments			

					


		

			
We followed the arc of the diver, losing it in the fog, wishing to make it out clear.  I might have said this meant “philosophy.”


“Poetry,” he said, “is utilizing known language to invoke the unknown.”  Or certaintly uncertainty, or something like that, which I liked, and indicated by asking what is not uncertain?


Your hands, the music.  My desire, a naming for them.  I think of your waist as a séance.


What is it to be crippled?  I keep trying to use words.


Another asked about the “arc of the diver.”  How should I know?  All of my sentences should be read as questions.  I wonder how divergent questions or commands might be… as statements.


She said, “it falls between.  It has to go somewhere.”  I guess we pressed it there… were poietic… since we couldn’t find a name.  “Dis-appearance” might be one.  Like a guess that can’t be falsified.


We all hold a paper marker printed “You are here.”  Perhaps paper is too substantial.  But it still seems like an invitation I wish we had.


Maybe this is why Albahari inscribed “Words are something else.”  We leave it at that.  And are flummoxed as to what “that” refers to.


Still we look.


You move like flocks of birds that wheel.  I’ve never comprehended “swarm.”  Mathematics doesn’t cut it, though it certainly uncertainly tries.


The telephone Pictionary of ear-mouth-brain when we issue sound or gaze.  Don’t foibles equal actions?  Parts of us experience this as violence, as valence.


Relation as a struggle to balance victimhood and perpetration.  Uncertainly.


When or where does this infiltrate unknown?


He went on to say…


I thought (imagined?) your ankles, knees, elbows and knuckles as adroit sworls in swift mountain streams.


So also losing it in the fog, hoping to remember where the trees were.  Philosophy.  Or was it the forest?


Poetry as ocean surface between “known”/unknown?  So wavy, so heaving.  No one said that.


The richest respect he gave was his readiness to call me “Nobody.”  Or “Anybody.”  Carte blanche.


She said.


I can hardly perceive what’s in your head now.  Potentia?  An horizon of waves.  A place where words press images press events, the banal.  Perhaps.  Uncertain sphere of unknowing?  They say learning happens there.  Like a cell in a culture, animal in terrain.  Cacophony of dreams.


Each time we encounter.