I do not doubt that we are all capable of learning to freeze. Or starve to death, for that matter. Death will not be a stranger for any, for long.
There are reasons we are constituted in uncertainty.
We are able to learn.
It’s why I told her how much I trusted her. To change. And therefore never knew anything, asking so many questions, again and then again, about plans. Who knew when? or then? or now? I said. Things fluctuate as they die.
Or I never knew. Having so little to do with facts or truth, beliefs or trust. IS is always something else. Or here is always different. NOW has never been, in other words. Even if the words are the same.
And. So. On.
There is music. And recognition – recognizability – (memory?) – a passion for pattern, a shine to similar, a longing for location, locatability. For what it’s worth – a pronounced inaccuracy and pro-found nostalgia. As the ‘similar’ is founded on what’s been experienced before (pro-found), and at least less than (or more?) than present. Pre-sent? NOW was given / sent before? I doubt that… but feel wary that that’s all we’ll ever know, never quite catching up to being.
In another sense: the inherent lag of perception. How old (again, pre-supposedly) are the stars we ‘see’? Or the squirrel on yonder branch; your eyes across the table; our held hands… by the time they register?
What happens, “now”? And why are we occupied with what we call “next” when we can’t even exist at once’s occurring? Seeking a head start? A virtual or imagined pre-sent?
Yes I heard what you said…after you’d said it.
There’s our “now.”
The cut from stepping on glass… and then the pain… later.
The bite of food, licks of flesh, kisses… and then the tasting.
The breeze and then the leaf, light and then its outline. Mostly shadow.
“Hello,” I reply in turn, but your head already bowed and path resumed, on the far sidewalk.
I fall behind.
Suppose this is why, in conversation, ever losing our way in delay, we ask “where were we?” rather than “where are we?” What is it we wish to know? Where do we hope to be with one another?
As I was saying – with requisite gap between whatever may have been transpiring in my ‘mind’ (or whereverywhere thinking occurs) and the sludgy musculature, instruments, and carefully crafted formulation of alphabetic symbols to display attempts of communication or composures…
…now I’ve forgotten…
“Philosophy is the hyphen and the hymen of Being, and difference is the trait that cuts across and unites the twofold side of Being [mathematic-genetic / poematic-epiphanic; or in-itself / for-us-in-it]”
– Michel de Beistegui, Truth & Genesis –
“each word, need no more words, we don’t need words about words, each word enough with its excess and insufficiency, proliferation and paucity, problematics and production, each term inevitable blunder and surprise, miscarriage and gratuity”
– N Filbert, journal entry –
Everything that is not linguistic is absurd
– Vilem Flusser, Philosophy of Language –
I have no story.
Wherever I occur in the tangled, incalculable threading we might call “existing” or “being” or “living” I can make out no beginnings nor endings, only enigmatic, complicated “is.” Slight, partial, imperfect.
I have trouble with memory.
But we needn’t any other words. Or more words. Or words about words. Any word is enough.
There’s no story not made of inadequate and superfluous words. These words that might tremble any direction of the webbed and indecipherable, indeterminate and knotted operations that co-construct now, or whatever happens to be (for-us, with-us, in-us, with-out).
Stories like struck and resounding tones.
A vibration might seem harmonic or cacophonic, dull or brash. Violent, vanishing, or barely perceptible in the noise.
There’s no story in this. But many words, perhaps.
Wiggling, vague, offensive, bold, hardly visible, ephemeral words. Terms (demands?), language (lingual?), weaving darts between – inventive, fabulating, reductive, constraining – unknown syllables, shapes, referents (irreverent) toward and away from…
Vocables of happening. In-script-ions. Tyrannical and uncertain.
Accidents and rules.
My body of words. Limbs, organs, “hyphen and hymen” of being. My body of words – taste, touch. What passes un-sign-if-i-cant?
Accidents and rules.
Birdsong. Heard. “Bird” “song” “to hear.” This body of words. No note without notation. No recognition without cognition. Any one word enough enigma.
Grass, caress, event: embodying words, wording embodied. Tapestries or electrons – flood, immersion, surround within. Languaging: gesture, groan, gelatinous. Language.
Say “in-term-in-able.” Say “de-term-in-ed.”
Hyphen. Hymen. Accident. Rule. Deceptive measurements. Siphons, conduits, ex-press-in-g im-press-ions.
One is enough to sense there’s no story here.
Always more-than-one. All ways.
Perhaps what is called “experience” [what is it called “experience”? – one word is enough – think “love” or “fact,” “me” or “real,” even “tomato” to be made well aware of difference, ambiguity – of wobbling kinds pressed toward inauthentic and inaccurate generalities. Uniformity. Accidents and rules that hardly, so slightly, pertain].
Experience: inexpressible? In-term-in-able?
What is the story here? The trial and always (all ways) error. Errant words. Insufficient to their purposes (supposed). Perhaps.
Our voices and gestures.
Irresolvable, over-determined. Language.
Systems like molds, scopes of lenses, structuring grids, abstract proofs and theorems: rules and measures, melodies, diagrams – not mirroring, mirage.
I have no story to tell.
Untelling. Moving back against the words with a “not.” Unworking. Unravel. Erase.
Experience: to test, try; to feel, to undergo. Knowledge gained by repeated trials. Risk. Out-of. Try. To get handy at.
To undergo. Gone under.
The Drunken Brain: Ending it all one word at a time.
In-term-in-able trials. “Everything that what is isn’t” (Jan Zwicky).
“There is yet a way of speaking that leaves room for what can’t be said”
– Jan Zwicky –
I’d like to language that way. Move, sound, gesture, touch. Word, waver, delete.
From the midst. In the midst of. Within. Risk, trying “out,” Feel, undergo. Words.
I have no story either, no narrative or narrator. I forget, I re-member, invent. Wherever, whenever I am (is it “I”?) – multiplicity, indiscretion. A-static. No beginning, no ends, -ing, -ing, -ing. Repeatedly, differently.
I think language pre-tends experience.
What is tried-out, already de-term-in-ed.
Oh to break.
To begin – become – be.
I have no story.
“I cannot get beyond language by means of language”
– Ludwig Wittgenstein –