Even a blank page
can be beautiful, asking:
Who goes there? What? Where?
Even a blank page
can be beautiful, asking:
Who goes there? What? Where?
Somewhere day arrives.
We are in bed.
Day neither comes nor goes.
We inhabit a single chair.
A reciprocal rebellion.
that undoes the you, the me,
joining any separation
along with bodies of skin,
without one, another
within, without each –
a combinatory beast
where components are absent,
birdcalls and signals
dependent on immanent surrounds;
anything in their crafty work
Eriegnis, evental –
a pleasure and desire
without priors –
echoed and originary;
we sometimes describe
“Whether it makes any difference what you say – whether there is any point in it anyway; whether there is any point in saying anything anyway.”
– Rush Rhees, Wittgenstein & the possibility of discourse
It was the mystery that found us, all the unknown buried beneath and beyond.
She said to me, or rather she offered her hand, or rather we made eye contact, well, she greeted me and held out her hand and we looked at or into one another’s faces. Just the surface of the ocean. Seas and skies are larger than our imagining.
Say skin, language, thought, or feeling are flexible bordering insides and outsides, contained and beyond. Something like that I thought, unknowingly.
He spoke to me, then hugged me, with an asking. I couldn’t know the question, but I understood the words. We seemed friendly and respectfully embraced, hesitant and expressive at once. There’s a cliff at the end of the trail. Sometimes I don’t remember.
Sharp curves on roads in mountainous terrain. That sort of thing, voids that look empty but allow plummet.
And whether it makes any difference, she said.
Difference is made, apparently.
Mother used to tell me, what was it? Her voices are clear, kind of, almost, but the words are lost in others. Deep waves are like that, it seems; hard to follow or find, prominent and obvious while rocking the boat, regardless the size. Clouds. Wind makes little sense of skies. Everything is out there.
Inside, it’s raining.
I was asked for a cigarette and large trees moved above rooftops. She offered her hand the way he hugs me, my son playing music on the piano while a cat escapes and someone’s doing homework. They say the ground goes deeply down beneath us, compiled by potential millennia. Nobody knows, though we have tools to measure by. Whatever those tools measure.
I remember first times. Every time. Only it’s perplexing that they’re exactly the same.
Does anything repeat?
Father got on me again about irresponsibilities, my dreaminess. If only I’d been military I’d be disciplined. Different. She offered her hand plus an ankle, a hip, a breast, a womb. I’d have values. The crook of a knee, a neckline. Take responsibility. He wanted it in my mouth – that feels best, he said.
What do I know?
Surfaces of oceans.
She stops and reads books. I do. There is music and a din of dialogue. Raucous. Discomfort. Anxiety is familiar, always the first time again.
I am afraid. Usually. Deep water disturbs me. No one knows. Many are afraid of flying.
Crying is its own thing. How is an ocean made? I won’t succeed.
Whether it makes any difference – saying anything anyway. Someone speaks at me. Eyes meet. A brush of lips. A grasp of hand. What is the question? Skies and oceans. Earth’s depths. What do I understand? Always ending begins, beginnings. What ends. What has no end? It begins. Again. Always first times. Nothing.
Her breath tastes good, inhaled. His muscle. Seawater burn. Heartloss. So much fresh air. The turn is sharp.
Saying anything anyway: the point is whether, weather, difference…its repetition.
The how and why of her. Of him. Of it and other.
There I must have been when I saw her or felt it or once again the beginnings. Once again the first time. Always again. Begin. While ending. While ends.
He said so – whether there is any point in saying anything. He said what felt best when he hugged me, kindly.
She offered. Someone asked for something. Like surfaces on oceans. Horizon lines. The ground beneath our feet, beneath that. Differences. The above. I cut my skin.
(this is the last thing I find I’ve had time to attempt in writing for many weeks…)
after Bataille, Of Montreal
It began. It begins.
What opens what humans call ‘the heart.’
Who is the author?
In the loss. Lessness.
What is…always expressed / exposed by what
CAN be taken…
What is stripped back, laid bare, stolen,
Then you know.
Both ‘you’ and a very strange sort of ‘knowing.’
that place, space, moment, experience:
A mad undoing.
A ‘one’ coupled by LOVE-HATE (possible ferocities)
– angry peace –
– gentle tearing –
Avarice. Grace. Hunger. Gifts.
We get born.
We most certainly die.
(even if we never learn what ‘being born’ or ‘to die’ might be / mean)
Damage: how we…die with/it
: how we…end in it
We most certainly die.
This we know [somehow] without experiencing it.
Or even being able…
(Regardless – truly regard-less)
of anything IN-between
I AM ALL WAYS DYING MY DEATH
(what might ‘living one’s life’ seem?)
I happen to be singing imagined limits
(All I do not know)
Questions and conundrums
Ends and means:
-easily a kind of glory…
BIRTH (whatever could be meant by that) = DEATH. DECAY.
(It began. It begins).
-What opens, happens, what humans call ‘the heart.’
We most certainly die.
(The wonder : : : : something is born)
in order to…
Irascible, inevitable, indivisible, ineradicable ends.
If ‘winning’ could ever look like that, this…
once its begun, it began, it begins…
…endings, ends, the end.
– always already there –
always already here
“between appear and disappear”
“poetic language directs us not towards what gathers together but rather towards what disperses, not towards what connects but rather towards what disjoins, not towards work but rather towards the absence of work […], so that the central point towards which we seem to be pulled as we write is nothing but the absence of center, the lack of origin…”
-Francoise Collin on Blanchot
Having traveled 2000 miles: Wichita – to – Carlsbad, NM – to – Guadalupe Mountains Nat’l Park – to – Presidio, TX – to – Big Bend National Park – to – Wichita in the past few days, I was privy to the glories of erosion. What it builds, what it wears away.
My 10-year-old is studying erosion in 4th grade and reminds me that the current definition is simply the movement of material. What dwindles somewhere accretes in another…
and leaves or creates (absence or presence of absence?) some glorious ruins (or productions)…
In an accidental synchrony, we traveled the paths of a favorite album of mine – This Will Destroy You – This Will Destroy You, and the following clip has long moved me, perhaps as much as any music ever has…
…ever reminding me of how I’d like my living dying to go…the movements and decaying – its constructions – the thickened gradual swelling of the deep good of being alive, punctuated by weighty whiles of thriving and ecstasy, momentous significants of loss or gain, as materials move and their relations alter / evolve / generate and decompose. Its insistence and tocking inevitability. The (hopefully) delta-like depositing of the full lot, spreading throughout, in its end…
Here’s to our living-dying onlyness…and wishes toward beautiful erosion.
It occurs to me. Occurs to me that vocation / personal / public / private / occupation / romance / family / profession are not separate elements of some proposed “self” I might emerge with in day-to-day interactions / responsibilities / obligations / choices, but rather tangled and woven threads of the unitary multiplicity (singular-plural) that is “me”, or some continuously occurring/re-curring cursive/re-cursive individuated co-construction of living human life in the world.
So that: when I compose an essay, poem, article, research, letter, note, list, diary entry, story, etc…I am not precisely operative as one or another individuated-circumstance of my “self”, but rather a that one – individuated occurrence/happening/event – evincing/emerging via this vehicle/form/instance in this case.
Composing a letter to my beloved today, I found “I” was also addressing my own feeling for the circumstances of my living, perception and reflection of my beliefs and attitudes within it, and aims or desires associated with my experience. So I make it an “open letter” – a public enunciation – of my experience being such-that-I-am.
I love you, Hallie.
I love you in ways that are very difficult for me to express.
Each aspect, experience, element of my reality – loving you/relation with you – always seems just out of reach of conveying, communicating. Beyond.
My appreciation, joy, anticipation, lust, desire, want, ache, gratitude, reception, pleasure, pain, fear, confidence, courage, adventure, dread, need, fondness, appreciation, hurt, etc… all seem diminished by, or unequal to, somehow MISSED, INACCURATE to my attempts at expressing, representing, sharing…
Wishes, dreams, philosophy and poetry all live in this realm: ruled by the “well, NOT like THAT!” Or…always followed by a “what I MEAN is…”
Ambiguity, inexactitude, shortcoming, outstripping, seemingly hopeless and impossible – yet ALWAYS generating hope, desire, energy in the STRIVING and BELIEF.
Hopes, wishes, illusions, truth, reality, dreams, love, art, religion… all seem to depend on this strange commerce of energy.
discovered negatively, or via an absence or lack…Utopia – we only ever KNOW that “utopia”, “paradise”, is a sensed “longing”, a KNOWING-THAT-THIS-IS-NOT-IT.
Perfection. If perfection is experienced (instances of ecstasy? Joy?) we appear unable to express/share/tell it!
Utopia, perfection, hope and desire – are each revealed by their “lack” or “absence” – their “NOT-IS”
Everything “ultimate”, “perfect”, “totalizing”, “whole” or “outstanding” we experience as UNIQUE, DIFFERENT, distinct and incapable of analogy or metaphor.
UNLIKE. We know it negatively, according to what-it-is-not, and feel it positively – as something unprecedented, unexpected, novel, unique. Anything comparable we realize – IT IS NOT THAT. It is unknown, incomparable, we recognize it by it NOT being ANYthing else we have experienced – or only partially, tangentially, and contrastively (negatively)
THIS IS NOT THAT!
Which leaves us, then, in a realm unspeakable, unreferenceable, undrawable – a pure IS realm.
You, my beloved, ARE. And ARE the occurrence or happening, the experience of, the REALITY (signified, significant) of a realm, experience, event, relation that is EXPERIENCABLE but not EXPRESSIBLE.
An exquisite sort of heartache for one devoted to the crafts of “expressing the inexpressible”, “saying the unsayable”, and so on.
Philosophy, poetry, hopes, dreams – ALL draw their CONTENT from what we KNOW “it” is NOT. Attempt to use action, behavior, language, movement, thought and speech to draft original arrangements that might allow the unspeakably unique, unsayably novel, incomparably total or inexpressibly replete –
into the realm of expression, sayability, hint, token, trace, Reality, occurrence, activity, appearance or happening…
and yet it is defiant, recalcitrant, resistant and intractable.
You provide me a life of exertion and effort, a LIVING of ATTEMPT – impossible possibilities – or their interaction – irretrievable, unrepresentable happenings and events, experiences…
BEYOND…full, total, whole Real Experiences…
…LOVE, HOPE, FAITH, INTIMACY, RELATION, DESIRE…
NEED for a mad trust in Reality that never equals recognition, cognition, reflection or thought. Intransigent to language – ever DOES NOT EQUAL,
and THAT is how we know it –
that it is Beyond-experience experiencing
Beyond-comparison analogy & metaphor
IN ITSELF OF ITSELF BY ITSELF
AN IS EXPERIENCE
It is amazing to/for me. Unsettling, novel, inexpressible, unrepeatable, impossibly in-possible,
something total, whole and real
in ways that action / language / emotion and response can never be.
Such is my lot. Happily? Momentarily joyous, ecstatic, HOPE-fully…
so much “better” than all it readily-apparently is NOT.
And why I seek/work into poetics, philosophy, wishes and dreams…where experiencing surpasses expressibility…Reality surpasses its processing…love its ability to confess…
I love you beyond-this.
In some other-ing language.
I am. Yours.
p.s. this is also a reason that these forms (philosophy, poetry, art, dreams, etc.) often read as “nonsense” or irrational – each an effort at translating totalities of experience versus “rational” expression or analogical/metaphorical transcriptions of experience. Dreams combinate Reality…converge and reproduce whole happenings as “veritable” mash-ups; philosophy and poetry ache to stretch language affordances, or mate expressibility to totality…quite possibly irrational, even an impossible urge, but compulsive/erotic/desirous and humanly nature-al nonetheless.
In other words – if you “know what we mean” without knowing the meanings…we are coming nearer “it.”
A writer and her reading.
Daily free-verse poetry and other miscellaneous creative writing
Information Activism and library stuff
A celebration of writers who have achieved some measure of literary failure. Each week a short biography will be posted. After one year, they will all be deleted.
poems, photographs, prints
Poetry International is a world class literary magazine based on the campus of San Diego State University which caters to an international community of poets.
hedy bach original photography mixed stories and music
Essays on Creative Nonfiction
Idea Splotches from an (African) American Librarian
Studies in Occult Detective Literature