“‘Word work,’ Toni Morrison said in Stockholm, ‘is sublime because it is generative,’ its felicity in its reach toward the ineffable. ‘We die,’ she said. ‘That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.'”
Stitching together the dismembered, again.
It is “us”? “That”? A substance? A trajectory?
A subject? A story? (Fable)?
What might re-member, and re-member what?
Sensations? Who? Events? When? Experiences? How?
Is re-membering an aspect of Why?
Where are the members to be re-stored, re-gathered, re-composed, or freshly constituted?
That pre-(before)-fix (secured, pinned, stayed) “re-“. To do over, again, re-peat. Peat is a furry humus, a difficult detangling. Nigh impossible to dismember without caveat or faith. Some belief in categories or divisions, de-cisions, parts and wholes, composites and particles, atoms, scales, cells, waves or functions… no longer “peat.” How would one forge that again?
Moist and messy tangle, eons into bog…
Thought “it” – “I”.
Peat. Re. Member(s).
Desire. (Mood? Emotion? “Drive”?).
Prompted to thicken. The caked, flaky, dry – toward some humid, muddy moor. A memory.
To re-member one must pre-fix. In order to carve members to append and rivet. Desiccate to gather. Continuous forgetting forging together. Organic? Decomposition’s ritard?
Where does one go for the matter of “parts”? Ingredients for concoction, for the rotten mixing and blend. A meaning dependent on decay.
What is it we spoil in re-membering?
Experiencing. Out of – perceiving – in to. Wherefrom, wherefore, this ‘out of’? And the in-to flows – ? The membering limn. The meeting-joints. The fields of grave. Are there objects? Is it obstacle? In-to-eruption? Happen-stance?
Vivisection for autopsy – our arbitrary blade. Figures cut. Marking the joins, indivisibly. Perception. To sieve-for. For what? For whom? In the mire.
Try to re-member without division.
Immersively, immanently, experiencing… without within, within without.
The “world,” as it were, as it ‘is’ (also, reduced, in addition) “for us.”
How it comes to be as we are – briefly. Almost incalculably miniscule. Almost ‘happenstance.’
“Our” world, as it were: all we cannot know, that we are part in, of, with.
One wonders what “world” can possibly mean.
Every meaning apparently nothing outside of this microscopic sliver of kind… EVERYthing and more, “for us.” Some ‘infinity’ or ‘void;’ ‘abyss’ or ‘chaotic complexity’ – a reference to every-thing (or not) that so far surpasses us, outstrips us, beyonds us. Some so-called…”world.”
One could turn toward all that, could ‘be-itself,’ bi-pedally, shrimpishly, speck-o-dust uprightedly, with/in ‘it’…and have a dwarfed, almost indiscernible ‘experience.’ Or “one” (were such a thing possible) could de-cide, di-vide, con-sider (?) – place oneself ‘over against’ or ‘in contrast’ (contra-di-stinction) to all that: otherness, ‘world,’ ‘uknown/unknowable,’ ‘beyond,’ ‘out-side,’ infinite… and de-term-in.
Squash it down to ‘one’s own scale, name it / call it / sign it, and ‘fit’ it in. i.e. cut it small enough to be comprehensible, digestible, sensible (according-to-one’s-own) and pre-tend, fore-tell, image-in, sign-i-fy it ACCORDING TO… ‘one,’ ‘us,’ ‘me’ (such as math, logic, language, communicable signs, etc – in-(ter)ventions on/of our own terms).
Human knowledge, inquiry, disciplines, creations, theories, etc. are EXACTLY (and perhaps ONLY, one surmises) THAT: at the scale of the human. ‘One’ is prone to automatically grant every ‘other’ (plant, material, organism, structure, system, etc) the ‘same’ ‘world’ – as Wittgenstein indicated: indecipherable, untranslatable or communicable between kinds, but most probable, no? – Umwelts – worlds upon worlds within worlds outside worlds… we (‘ones’) can have no share, understanding, con(with)cept, com(with)munication of…
To each its scale of experiencing, and all scales together…
Given the human (so-self-called) scale, this seems pertinently and poignantly most evident…
…why would we chafe against our limits… or (perhaps) every scale always is – no ‘one’ could know this… ones (and many ones) are only ones – more and less than their own possible perspectives… in- and out-looks OF. Scale. (Perhaps).
Obviously, com(with)posing in your/our language… whatever I dream is representative of my scale… i.e. is only a capacity of ‘one’(kind) … of many.
Pleasurably so… or why not?
Dreaming beyond scale (or, inventing scale and its beyond – in the de-term-in-ing) demonstrates itself as a capacity… (e.g. mythology, science, religion, fiction/fantasy, psycho-anything, spirituality, philosophy, history, and so forth) … all imagined efforts beyond-scale, that, in occurring demonstrate the possibilities/limitations of human scale…
What ‘beyond’ could ‘one’ see, think, feel, etc., that is not a demonstration of limited and actual capacity of ‘one-scale’-to-experience?
So ‘one’ has a-, con-, etc. scales… all part of one’s scale (abilities, capacities, possibilities, options, kind). Against, with, creative, reductive, but ALL and ANY activities of one kind (so-self-called ‘human’) show its locked and limited capacity. One never goes beyond.
To ‘work limits,’ and boundaries are clearly elements of our ‘limits’ and ‘boundaries’ of the scope and scale of the ‘human.’
“Gods,” cosmologies, dreams, histories, theorizing, etc., all contained within the ‘bounds’ or capacities of the ‘kind-of-thing-‘One’-is. Perhaps.
It is the ‘perhaps’ that haunts us. [but what could ‘haunt’ indicate but another human capacity – perhaps a ‘felt capacity’ of bursting or extending our capacities?]
Witchcraft. Art. Technology. Religion. Theoretical and experimental anything. Logos. Arche. Tohu. Bohu. Beginning. Universe (must needs always shrink to one’s own scale… in order to uni-anything… ‘multiverse’ simple exponents of capacities for in our microscopic self-experienced sphere… we named ‘infinity’ – is there no exponent we can’t add – within our tiny range of potential?).
One’s own anthropology.
Logically [though I excessively distrust that program of human-ing] – what con-cept, i-dea, imagine-ing, or object-ivity is not necessarily always paramatered by the human ex-periential capacities?
The bounds may be elastic or no – there would be no way for a kind to know – being all-ways the ‘one’ experiencing.
I am performing a task for my employer. I am writing a professional letter. I am letting you know that I labor. I am here to be useful, and used. I submit. My actions indicate that I accept structure and system as representative of survival. I will do what you ask. I recognize organization as power. In fact, any kind of organizing indicates a position of imaginative power and control. To differentiate, to specify, to label, name, assign – all are a fiat of power and authority or authorship – a claiming of superiority over things named, situated, recognized. Supposedly if I comply dutifully – bow and behave in ways that signify structure as something larger (or more important) than me – I will have internet access, some food, air-conditioning, coverings, a car, and someplace to live (in certain mountainous areas, none of these are beneficial). “Teamwork” is misnomer.
My philosophy is simple:
- The mind or brain is an intermittent trickle of the rivers of the body which are hardly discernible in the waves of the world.
- “I” am No one, Nowhere, which is to say Everyone, right Here. A poet wrote of presenting his face as a smashed window baring open sky – I thought that was me – No one Nowhere = Everyone right Here (whenever/wherever that happens to be).
- Experience is what happens. What happens is what is. If criticized as “for us” (whichever ‘experiencer’) I ask – what else could it be?
- Knowing limits. If “for-this” is all my experience can be, then those are my limits. Once I sense my limits I can attempt to challenge, question, and extend them, for alternate experiencing.
- Ideas/Thoughts/Concepts/Theories [abstractions/imaginings] (like structure, perception, systems, organization, self, number, truth, etc.) are compelling because the limits of their effects are unknown to us. Ideas (ideologies) allow us to ‘experience’ power and control and compliance of the world around us (apparently), even though the dripping-trickle-stream-river-ocean of our limited participation in world flows always and is unalterably changing and miniscule. Bodies die. Each every/no-one where/when-ever.
- The propensity or lust for belief – in ‘observation,’ ‘experiment,’ ‘objectivity,’ ‘analysis,’ ‘deduction,’ ‘ideas,’ numbers or language or effects of imagined power and control (technicity) – are wishes against the body, against dying, against limitation, against what happens, anyway.
- Thoughts and effects do not make experience longer.
- Experience is living, is limited.
- Living is the extremely limited experience of dying.
Admitting or confessing that I exist to meet needs, that this is my employment, may be a Credo of Little Import. A submission of insignificance in accepting others’ systems, structures, and arbitrary claims to power. Compliance. Resignation. Complaisance. Dependence. [Co-dependence – opting out of experience/living exits the submission-religion].
My voice dribbles, a hardly perceptible microorganism in the ocean of world. My experience a parenthetical waving particle. My living its effective dying.
In a beginning that never began, the ending already comes.
World is an intermittent trickle of the rivers of living, barely and scarcely discerned.
We are Here Now, how would we like our fleet experiencing of dying to be?
“I have only to go on, as if there were something to be done, something begun, somewhere to go. It all boils down to a question of words, I must not forget this…”
– Samuel Beckett, The Unnameable –
Waiting for the passerby to pass. Contingency. To not open the door until the potential for harm is past. No apparent harm: adult man, skin color variance, divergent ethnicity, strolling outside the iron black gate surrounding my home, gesturing toward and addressing my small pet mammal (a dog) – ostensibly safely contained and separate – from the strange-other, (“stranger”) traveling past my abode on a designated path “outside,” a public sidewalk… yet no harm is ever apparent, or we’d be almost certain to avoid it.
From behind the closed door, thus abandoning the small animal, the “pet” that I care for (“care”? – to keep alive with food and water, activity and touch – for what reasons I have never understood, it seems something we do, or something done to us) in any case (who “us”?) to me (“me”?), in any case, in every case, (what is “case”? – case is what occurs), in any case the sensation that harm is imminent, is possible, that any/every-thing (or case) harbors potential threat – intrusion, oppression, obligation, response-ability – that ANY passer(s)-by may enforce (force what in?), force “presence” (presence: the pressure of an other)…occurring-with.
Mammal, woman, weather, man. Peril of change, of inevitable occurring, alteration, the inception of a “case.” Event. Permutation. Disaster. Perhaps.
Wait for “it” to pass (ambiguous constancy of language, of pronouns, of perhaps). To be.
No apparent harm, harm always arriving where not apparent, otherwise averted.
Therefore damage expected everywhere, until proven otherwise or bypassed, for when has it ever been the “case” that harm, hurt, or affliction were not lurking unaware?
Always caught “off-guard” when injured. As in “accident,” or un-fore-seen. Must not not-fore-see. Avoid wreckage.
He passes by. Or she, or it, or they (ambiguous language and malleable, eminently referable, transferable, vague for application). No harm incurred (as far as is known). As who knows? Who might know? Or what?
World transforms. Passers-by. Incidents. We have a “case” (who – “we”?). “I” step back, step in, amidst walls, barriers, rooms. “I” retreat. Evading catastrophe. Probable hardship. Imaginable uncertainty. Such is the “case,” my “cave,” a cave uncertain, unreliable, self-designated, no one knows. This (what “this”?) is vague – hurt has always materialized unexpectedly. Danger is disaster, or if not, no harm no foul, never wounded by suspecting, only oblivious or uninformed. Must anticipate harm. Less proven guiltless. Never guiltless. Never harm without an-other, without outside, without obscurity. What is “with-out”?
When ever not with-out? With-out always. With. No in without with-out. Danger of disaster. Any definability requiring with-out. No in without out. Being with out.
Waiting for passersby to pass. Bye.
When have I been harmed when I expected? Perhaps in love, perhaps adventure. Any venture with out. Into the without. Within without. Knowing I was risking with the out. “Self-harm.” It would appear without’s within as well. Never not another. Abysmal and ubiquitous. Possibly impossible: to be without with-out. No reference or referral without being-with “out.”
No within then. Only out could be. In with in? Self-same. Tautology. A=A. How A without out? Without not-A? Without absence, other, space, not-line, shapelessness, void? A=A because A is distinguishable from. Distinct. From – ? Without.
Why “without”? Why not only “with” – necessarily out or other? Variant. Different. Without “out” no “with.”
Squirrel, leaves, air, skin. Cells, organs, activities and processes. Even what’s “in” is “out” for “with.” “In” “with” “out.” A=A. So say. Think. “I.” Passing by. Table, paper, pen, without prompting “in.” In without as well. No “in.” A=A. IN WITH OUT.
Out the “within.” Without in/out. Writing. Saying. Bleeding. Breathing.
Only think with out. All out, away, a way.
Wait for a way to away. Within/Without. A/A. No equals. Never equal.
Pet mammal dog, own voice, man, woman, child, sensation, language, molecule, atmosphere, ground: without with-in.
WITH, then. Simply with. No out, no in. All danger and disaster, potential and unsuspected harm. Can not. Unprotected. Only WITH. No out, no in.
Waiting for the passers-by. Passing. Bye.
“THAT’S IT, WEAVE, WEAVE”
What she set out to do, she did not achieve. Intention and realization went un-joined.
Which in no wise implies that beauty was lacking. Or interest. There were still trees, efforts, water running here and there, struggles, many other animals, emotions, scenes. Nothing, really, was lost in failure. But what could be? Nothing that might potentially eventuate (from action, intention, emotion, or hope) is ever known, therefore where could failure lie?
Ice is its own phenomenon and occurrence, regardless. Such strange wet-dry thing, fluid and solid becoming-unbecoming. The sound of a voice – perhaps of an “inside” impossible without “outside.” Many “things” are in-between. Ever on the way to something, ever proceeding from.
He found it all incalculable, without appropriate measure. Which was not what she intended, not what she set out to do. Yet could not be called a failure. For who or what might measure that? What thermometer, rod, or calculating machine might tally such “results”? In relation to what when where? And how might “results” be defined?
The term for an idea or concept named “beauty” being interesting in itself. Apparently something pertaining only to them (these so-called “human subjects”).
She intended to express, or so it seemed to him. Set out to communicate an experience with her surround, a something she was hoping to say, to give voice to. This experience was such that she perceived it as something transpiring for her in such fashion as to not be readily apparent to others, nor easily translatable (even observable) to those arrayed around about her – both those with whom she valued attachment and reciprocal relations, and any “others” – in this case whom (a human kind of self-referencing versus what or how) – might be capable of demonstrating care, comprehension, or attention to what (or how) she was “experiencing” (i.e. having a felt-living-sense with and within her environment).
He (perhaps the proposed recipient of her attempt of expression) found all of it incalculable, and without appropriate measure. He, in his own idio-specific way (or relation) to whatever (whomever, however he considered his ‘surround’) was entrenched in his own meticulous (incalculable and immeasurable – at present time of writing – by ‘science’ or current ‘arts of knowing’) particularities of being-with / affecting / effecting / participating in his perceived environment [what, as a sort of short-hand, might be termed his Umwelt (look it up!)]: what happens to matter for him.
Some have called it ‘sense-making’; others’ ‘making-sense.’ Many (in some strange-impossibly proposed ‘objectivity’ – a falsified, imaginary distancing involving a blind delusion of “as if” they were NOT in fact WHAT they are – a kind of ‘sense-making-sense’ (in two senses of the word “sense”)): in other (no…in MORE) words: an ‘human’ account-possibility of its proceptive, perceptive, immersive and recursive experience WITHIN its surround AS IF it were not. I.e., fiction, or fantasy. So far as he or she have been able to uncover – NO ACCOUNTS of human experiencings have been proposed, recorded, or proffered by other-than-human ‘beings’ that any human has been able to perceive, understand, or translate…therefore there are no ‘objective’ (distanced other) reliable sources for measuring, calculating, analyzing, reporting on, under-standing or evaluating the experiences of the human ‘he’ and ‘she.’ At present THERE IS NO OTHER with which this kind (‘human’) might informatively and effectively communicate, learn, argue, or confer…only itself.
[Which may be the situation of all cells, plants, animals, stars, etc…but humans can’t know…being all too human, after all].
None of this was her intent. No content recorded concerns what she set out to do. But this in no wise indicates MIS-take, for there is no future in advance which one might con-fuse, err, or malfunction toward. The next simply is, just like any number of things before. All options extremely limited according to case, kind, and percipient.
In the case of this writing – ‘human’ (so-self-called) KIND, as PERCEIVED and PROCESSED by itself only – with (thusfar) no other constituent or contributor except as designated and defined by its own self-kind-case.
The ‘human’ has NOWHERE to turn for what it considers ‘knowledge’ (he thinks) excepting NOW HERE and AS ITSELF (he thinks) while perceiving in ways it already has experienced to be variegated, faulty, and vague.
(Perhaps all living things) he thinks (but certainly all human-kind) affords no outside source or viewing, perception, communication, expression, or understanding/interpretation of itself. It only confers with itself and its surrounding (as experienced according to itself and slight variations of itself over time). No human could be considered “reliable” – if re-liable were intended to re-fer to “reality” – taken to signify THE CASE OR STATE OF THINGS beneath, before, pertaining to, and beyond THE HUMAN BEING AS IT EXPERIENCES ITSELF ‘to be,’ he thinks.
“A pointless matter,” he vocalizes in response to her ‘expression’ and ‘intention.’ “Even among our own kind, sort, and communicable compatriots – we ‘humans’ as we call ourselves,” he states, “’I’ cannot know whether or what you’re referring to, and whether or what of it corresponds to my own ‘human’ experiencing (as we say and apparently agree, confer).”
She cries a little. Wishes something. Or so it seems to him, in his NOW HERE. She intended other-wise. Goes quiet (from a ‘human’ – so-self-called, ‘perspective’).
It is quiet. Perhaps from many perspectives. ‘Human’ science (arts of knowing) claim that snakes (so-humanly-called) can’t ‘hear,’ nor the clocks humans have made, nor cats, nor dogs, days nor plants, nor wood, nor dirt – whatever else ‘humans’ are able to notice and create or differentiate in any given perceptive scenario.
Between like kinds, this is NOT what she set out to do, nor intended…and only the ‘humans’ (“so far as we know,” he says) might even be capable of de-signifying, de-coding, com-prehending (perceiving-together) these sounds, marks, signals, gestures, movements, motions between them.
And here you (perhaps) are … reading (de-coding, de-signifying, transposing, translating) … “IT” (according to your NOW HERE).
What she set out to do she did not achieve, nor he. But of course the proposed possible, capable, or potential of ‘setting out to’ is not known… so WHO knows?
The intention and realization have not joined… or have they? Who or what might measure (and when and how) calculate, evaluate, or demonstrate that? “They” seem left / bereft purely to themselves. If a lion could speak, apparently we would not be able to understand it.
And so ‘he’ and ‘she’ make sounds, motions, and varieties of contact (according to ‘human’ perceivings) on a ‘porch,’ in a ‘house,’ through various ‘rooms,’ ‘spaces,’ ‘surfaces,’ and so on. Birds chirp (according to the ‘hearing’ of ‘humans’), clouds drift, squirrels chitter, grass wavers, and so on all the same (according to ‘human’ sense-making-sense)… ‘he’ sets out, intends, struggles, interacts, and feels with ‘his’ surround (NOW HERE), as does ‘she’… neither achieving their ‘goals,’ neither controlling nor creating any realizations they intend – albeit with NO knowledge of what they might actually be able to evince or conjure – all having not yet occurred.
It would appear (to the ‘humans’) that many many ‘things’ (stars, genes, planets, soil, weather, corporations, arachnids, societies, viruses, equations, materials, activities, and so on and so on…) just carry on their various “natural” (according to their kind) ways regardless, in spite of, in ANY case, in accord with… with no ‘concern’ for ‘hers’ or ‘his’ intentions or settings-forth or out to do.
And so it goes. And so it goes… on… apparently.
Still, what she set out to do she did not achieve…whatever that may have been.
“A voice comes to one in the dark. Imagine.
…Deviser of the voice and of its hearer and of himself. Deviser of himself for company. Leave it at that. He speaks of himself as of another. He says speaking of himself, He speaks of himself as of another. Himself he devises too for company. Leave it at that. Confusion too is company up to a point. Better hope deferred than none. Up to a point. Till the heart starts to sicken. Company too up to a point. Better a sick heart than none. Till it starts to break. So speaking of himself he concludes for the time being, For the time being leave it at that” – Samuel Beckett, Company
“The words spoke by themselves. The silence entered them, an excellent refuge, since I was the only one who noticed it.” – Maurice Blanchot, The Madness of the Day
So, speaking of himself, I only noticed it.
The small furry animal, almost humming in its purr, he had chance, so he thought, to please, to comfort, with a pet, a scratch, an acknowledgment, tender, while it butted and marked itself against him. The illusion. A kind of company in itself (or to).
The ungrammaticality of occurrences. Of happening. What happens to be. Or is not. When speaking to himself. Without voice. I was the only one, as far as I am able to tell – if in fact this is telling – who noticed it. It seems words speak of themselves. From elsewise and through whom. He says, speaking of himself (or to). Without voice.
Devising. Illusion. I devise, he says, speaking to himself, of himself, without voice. Seeking – is he? – Am I? – Seeking…company?
A small child (another illusion, devised) passes by, walking a young dog and waving a nod of sorts – I don’t remember which, he says, but I returned a gesture and obtained a moment of calm in the chilly Autumn breeze. There was a sun full of color due to the leaves in their change, and fall, and flutter (due to the nothing-shaped wind). But what seemed a moment of warmth, of calm, devised by a child with a dog and a friendly (fearful) gesture, he thought (speaking of himself without voice), I was the only one who noticed it.
I take to reading then – others speaking of themselves without voice (or beyond it) – in order to devise… company? he wonders of himself, to himself. For when reading, it surely seems the words are speaking only of themselves, no matter who pens them. Such the character of the texts he chooses (I thought of myself, to myself, or an other I devised as myself, like puppets). And in part read and read for the experience or feeling that I alone notice it. That I might in fact provide the company I devise, yet hardly able to tell since I have not penned the words but merely notice – borrow, listen? (there are no voices) – the words seem to speak of themselves. Without voice. (He said of himself, devising). Something like company. Perhaps.
Even in the color-filled sunlight of Autumn days, I at times experience myself as being quite deeply in dark, he says speaking of himself, myself, devising voices, soundless, out of words that seem to be speaking only of themselves and their variegated histories and usages, and billions of potential speakers and hearers and interpreters – creators and devisers – filled with ambiguity and application. Here with me on shavings of dead trees, providing stark living contrast to Winter’s day-night. I get confused, he says speaking of himself. Confusion too is company devised, up to a point, I suppose. Obviously “fusion-with” implies an other, perhaps enough, I said, speaking to myself, without voice, here on dead leaves in black scars. In mutilation. Transgression. Inscription. Perhaps the words will speak of themselves and some other “I” will claim to be the only one that notices.
A strange delusion of company indeed. He says speaking of himself, devising a voice, its hearer, and an himself as participant and therefore a company to keep.
Reading: “only a detour is adequate” (Agamben), and “in pursuing meaning we are pursuing our limits” (Allen), and was perhaps meaning a synonym or metaphor, simile or metonymy for company he thought, speaking to himself, without voice. But with an illness, diagnosed by doctors – those scientific political powers responsible for providing facts or devising happenings, pronouncing occurrences – so in any case he is not alone, being-with his illness, I thought, speaking to myself in an absence of sound. The words spoke by themselves.
Other things as well: the furry animal, its humming purr, its actions; the trees, the leaves, the wind, the light. The child, the dog, the gestures. The books, the authors, the words themselves. Divisors of voices, of hearers, of selves. Sick hearts, confusion, and company. Am I the only one who notices? he says speaking of himself, speaking of himself as another.
So speaking of himself he concludes for the time being, For the time being leave it at that.” – Samuel Beckett
Elf says “ripe.”
Martin responds, wondering. Curious as to that which it applies, or whom, or what. Contemplating reference. Filled with questions. Martin says, “yes,” almost under his breath.
Elf shrugs. Elf walks on.
Martin follows, thinking, looking at leaves falling into blades of grass, alerted by the shushing and darting of squirrels, saddened at the amplified pffft of cars passing by. Wishing for silence. Wondering if Elf will speak a further word or two. Sensing like a dowsing rod for meanings.
Walks on. Shuffles. Walks on.
There’s a relative silence from the two of them – these humans wandering across a concreted trail. Sure there’s the sound of their footfalls, scuffles, even some noise in the pause of it. Or the noise of the absence of noise. But you’d have to be different to hear the breathing, the heart pulse, the slide of muscles and blood. As far as humans-in-environs go, the pair presents retraction.
Hard to say for soil. The squares composing sidewalk must suffer pressure, absorbed by the earth beneath and shared out through verberations for miles. Hard to say for air. Full-grown males, plodding forth like prows along a rickety line-of-motion has to be pushing particles around, making waves. Nothing gives report.
Elf stops and sighs.
Martin responds, slowing, looking out, looking forward, looking round. Lets his hands limp his sides.
Elf crouches down.
Martin scans the street, examines bark, follows trunks and branches, admires leaves and colors and movements. Birds.
Norway, October, 2016
As near as I can be, as near as I can tell, I am far.
Far from. And already alone.
So long I dreamt this cabin, this hovel, this cave.
Some safety, a distance – ‘solitary’ space.
Who ever would I be – were I alone?
What am I – alone?
Where is one – alone?
Silence quickly transforms into noise. One’s ‘self.’
These window cubes, cut from concrete.
These thick and stony walls.
Such noisy fire.
I am far.
So very long – already alone.
And yet I’ve just arrived again.
It is cold.
Often, always, winter.
Sheer, spare, space.
Hardened, austere, edges, boundaries, shapes.
We are separated. Blocked. Reaching…
I am. Here. Alone.
But not really quite.
Not really quite – all one.
Alone, never seems to actually equal – all-one.
Even though it’s used as stand-in.
Here in this far-removed, distance-sequestered solitude.
Yet I only AM…
…in relation to.
I am not, not ever, NEVER ‘ALL-ONE,’ ‘AL-ONE,’
‘I’ am all-ways, al-ways, IN-RELATION-TO
in order…to BE…even ONE. Even singular
And so forth, and so on…
I…am UN-ABLE to ‘BE’ without an-Other, another,
a note, a chord, a color…
a line, a shape, a term…
‘Language’ as we’ve come to consider, think, imagine…it…
‘simplified’: NOT ONE BIT W/O THE OTHER.
NOT ONE BIT W/O THE OTHER
My youngest son (10 years old) has heard
a strange, elaborate, convoluted and contested myth/story/fiction/fantasy (hypothesis)
about the “Origin of the World”
involving particles, waves, heat, light, sub-sub-sub quantum symbols & movement –
all sorts of scientific (& notably human) inventions
from Professor(s) AZIFF…
these might declare, or describe, inscribe or explain
about…EXISTENCE…EXISTING… (EX-is-tence, EX-is-ting…’out of’)
I heard stories as well (as-if)
that A god (or many) breathed, touched, loved, crashed
SOMEthings, ANYthings into be-ing…
that there ‘likely’ (or MAY HAVE BEEN – according to human conjure)
a “Big Bang”
another Big Daddy of heat…of particles…of waves…of sub-stance…of light…
[how might it be ANYthing other than ANYone’s guess, among us, pray tell? WHO or WHAT might qualify – among US – as arbiters or judges, experts or prophets – and by what measures or standards (or WHOSE?) as each of us species-specifically WE?]
and it alters – it changes – the stories – generation to generation
depending on the rulers, the beliefs, the ‘logics,’ the ‘sciences,’ the ‘mathematics,’
the tools, the techniques…
and it alters…from season to season…
depending on the ‘outlook’ or ‘prognosis,’ ‘fellow-feeling’ or ‘concern,’ – survival needs
Some call Physics, others Philosophy, some Religion, others S.T.E.M. or art or politic or publicsocialpolicy…some Business (nearly all)…das capital
Each and every DIFFERENT time
a ‘this is how it is,’ a ‘this is what we know’
i.e., a ‘THIS WE BELIEVE.”
Our creedal species.
Always a begin – always a play of language (nigh-universal) and power (universal). PERHAPS –
And so it goes (or so ‘I’ imagine…or ‘so it seems’ to – ‘ME’) and so forth, and so on…
…the playing field remaining species-equal betwixt athlete and artist, philosopher, scientist, politician and doctor, worker and ruler and indigent intelligent…so far as ‘I’ can tell of it…
HERE NOW I. NOWHERE ME. Language – experience – meaning – species: HUMAN.
“All the Same?”
Equalists all, at fundament.
Inequalists all, at experience.
“Might”…a PERHAPS…a possibility…a WE (species-specifically): DON’T KNOW.
It is thus I invent and inscribe.
Detract. Distract. Distrust. Conjure. Conspire.
Attempt a BE-come…becoming…convergence.
Attempting to BE.
And another is able to write “Why the World does not Exist”
And another “Being and Time” and still more “Being and Nothingness” and still more
all kinds of SOMEthings and SOMEones and ANY’s…
with their WORDS.
and mine, and ours, and we
As near as I can be, as near as I can tell, I am far.
Far from. And already alone.
“The experimental dimension is precisely where thinking at its limit takes place, where the singularity of a given thought is being shaped…”
– Michel de Beistegui –
“the present is as long as a walk when I am walking”
– Chryssipe, quoted in Francois Jullien –
Or, “the present is as long as the sentence I’m composing…” the tune, the breath, the weather… the lunge, the gaze, the listen… the sex, starlight, heartbeat… presence determined, according to scale.
“…as long as the thought I am thinking…” that leads to the next, and the borrowed, the other, imagined. The languages lent, or made new, bastardized, reconstructed, remingled…
Therefore [have I now ‘left’ present/-ce?] the present writing is present just as long as it presents itself? Does this explain run-ons and magical realism? The refusal to pause or to finish? Avoidance of punctuation, cessation, or periods…in order to be writing? (as long as it is writing…living written?).
I am drawn in writing presence. And I aspire. To be writing as often present-ly as possible (in all the senses of the terms you might conceive). Working, present-ly, with presences that present themselves in the activity of writing – ages, layers, eons of language becoming toward these significations I am physically inscribing NOW with evolving, accumulative, adapting and erasured meanings over times and places, persons and presents/-ces. This continuous bodily activity and operation marking whatever presently transpires on lines – between my organism, this instrument and matter of lined pages – creating a Mobius-like twisting endless loop of circuitry, a breathless action (almost afraid of interruption, disconnection, or cessation) as if it would disqualify present/-ce with unauthorized and arbitrary finite personal breakage.
Yet I know (or believe) the present/-ing will continue all the same whether I am writing or not – ever assailing with near-infinite (perhaps infinite) encountering and engagements…be-ing… regardless of my regard, participation, choice of action, and awareness. Unconcerned by my present/-ce as I a grain of soil or blade of grass, singular molecules or mosquitos, the hairs dropped from our heads. Matters of scale of what matters. [To/for us. ME. At our scale, at whatever scale, DEPENDING].
Interruption occurs. Into, inter-, enter: an eruption. Anything that commands response. A call from another, a locusts’ buzz, tonal or temperature flux. Changing track and attention. I plea for intervention versus interruption, that the breathless present/ce might go on, unintruded but intervened. Eventuation, eventually, new contents entering veins of the stream I am searching, spreading, scribing…at the limit of…
Intrusion. Inter-eruption. Or inter-vention, intra-venously… WILL OUR PRESENT PRESENCE all bound up with, knotted, wound and intersecting, inserted and inserting reciprocally or complicitly…go on, remain, continue? Will it be dissipation or dissension, distension, desiccation or decay? Can we have, swerve, welcome an irruption intravenously? I hesitate, I turn. A response.
Staccato desiccation. I’ve been bombarded. Like tragedy, untranceable. Persistence and flow stuttering, gives way. The stream of thought polluted, a turbulence assigned. Coming undone, branch drying up, kindling, that is to say…
Yet if to say, that is – perhaps we’re crossing, coming-over, over-coming interruption as irruption. Response-able, disabling, but hearing more, lines converging with complexity, a chaos, a banking flow…or spilling over and dispersing?…who could know. What means – BECOME?
“the present is a write, as long as I am writing” – this presence fractured into fragments, presents, now, perhaps beyond deciphering. The mode of ciphers, potent codes – standing for?? Standing for??? Which represents THIS…what you read. Read in, read from, read into and out of. We do not step into the same stream twice, it has been said, or three times, or even once, even, again. We don’t know “same,” yet use it like a God, destructive hoping (“identity,” “non-contradiction,” even Truth(s) or Fact(s)) – that SOMEthing might not change.
NOT in this world, and we know no other. Conjuring zeroes, ideals and myths, utopias (literally “no-places”) and lines of imaginings. Hoping for control? Security? Continuance? – of what, of which…presence. Scales to track the motions with, fallibly. Attempts to stay the flow, stay with the flow, re-cognize, re-member, re-main. What continues to fall apart and reassemble, ever ‘new’ but only partly, in its occurring, range of scales ever irrupting, erupting, interrupting as comings-to-be in all their goings, it’s going…a fragile now.
But I digress along the stream, exposing fragments, perhaps connected to a mouth, a trunk or mother. Dispersive river, interminably con-fusing elements transgressing finitude. Number, line and term. Concept, law, or theory. None of it works, and some of it seems to. All may belong, depending on scale.
A matter of present/ce perhaps, and of movement. Some matter of species, perception and dream. Susurrate surround, full of disruption, riding waves, but not for long.
“the present is as long…as a singularity of thought is being shaped…”
– Chrysippe + de Beistegui –
(much later and rescaled)