Greetings all – thank you for continuing to visit, care, find, read the polysemic stupor this site has been for me. I have felt that I should respond to my extended quiet and lack. As with everyone, much transpires within-without always/all ways… for now I can report that after years of PhD studies into the concept of “nothing”, an ever-expanding and extending fertile void…
Has drawn me toward pondering more intensely what silence might evoke or emit… I should like to say that I have been interactive, con-fused, com-municative, alive/immersed in much (empty-full) space(s). Here’s a card of greeting, thanksgiving, and hello again:
Words of Silence
…dreamt to hush you,
like “now”
or some othered ‘then,’
“here” “you” “?”
It is time now, I said, for the deepening and quieting of the spirit among the flux of happenings.
Something had pestered me so much I thought my heart would break. I mean, the mechanical part.
I went down in the afternoon to the sea which held me, until I grew easy.
About tomorrow, who knows anything. Except that it will be time, again, for the deepening and quieting of the spirit.
Swimming, One Day in August – Mary Oliver
“Most of the time, to give oneself to language is to abandon oneself.”
–Maurice Blanchot–
“A word’s reach extends a speaker’s grasp, or what’s a language for?”
“Penelope remembers having read that of all the liquids and fluids produced by the human body – sweat, semen, vaginal fluid, saliva – tears are the only one without any trace of DNA… Impossible to identify someone from their tears, we’re all identical when we weep despite the many different reasons we have for weeping, something like that. Β Unlike unhappiness, tears don’t set us apart, they make us the same.”
Rodrigo Fresan, “The Invented Part”
Last week I spent with my four offspring at a cabin on the Pikes Peak Massif in Colorado. Β Mostly I register grief and loss in my experience of living… but interestingly enough, the first entry of my vacation journal begins with the simple sentence “I’m happy.” Β Unqualified, that’s it – myself + my offspring + a rich world reeking of “no service” and untellable beauty… “I’m happy.” Β Here are some notes I made throughout the week:
Simple things innerheard during cabin stay:
The stars:Β “We can’t tell the difference: between light or dark, death or what remains.”
The streams:Β “Where have we come from, where are we going? / Where we have come from, where we are going.”
Growing things (grass, moss, wildflowers, mushrooms, wild berries, etc…):Β “Not yet, not yet. Β Who knows?”
The rocks, the boulders:Β “Once upon a time. Β Now.”
The mountain(s):Β “Maybe. Β May Be.”
The cabin: Β “Us. Β Here. Β We. Β With. Β Hold.”
Phrases of my children:
“It’s good to live this way once in awhile.”
“Why do we leave here, ever? Β I never want to. Β What isΒ have to?”
“Dad, everything here is your ‘favorite‘.
And me:
“Nothing is like this. Β Nothing… Belonging, I belong. Β Time changes, it’s different here. Β As if there isn’t. Β THIS PLACEΒ IS ‘BEAUTY’ TO ME. Β THIS PLACE IS WORTH MY LIFE.”
on climbing: “I’m a dad: we ALL make it, or none of us really do.”
on love:Β “If I say ‘I love you’ – please don’t hear it as worship, as inordinate. Β In love we see the ‘too much‘ of the other – that which is always beyond our own reach, the ‘too much’ in each of us we struggle with, and seem to be unable to assimilate or observe in mirrors of our own. Β Perhaps this is one of the reasons the conundrum we call ‘love’ exists?
Addresses to my children and loved ones:
To T: “Always beware of logic – our fabricated things. Β What we may wish toward but doesn’t make matter.”
To A: “Recall. Β There are differences. Β Beware. Β There are openings for more life.”
To I: “You have it. Β You carry your own water. Β Your own dreams. Β Your own beginnings.”
To O: “Heroes also may shrink you, diminish, contain. Β You are deeply your own.”
To H: “Never mind. Β I am not the one who can conquer it in you. Β I believe someone will.”
To ?: “I love you. Β Like literature: the possible of life. Β Impossible.”
Thank you mountains, rocks, growing things, streams….
And that my words are the garment of what I shall never be
Like the tucked sleeve of a one-armed boy
– W.S. Merwin, βWhen You Go Awayβ
Time keeps accumulating on my inability to write, to find time to write, to process living with language.Β Simply to keep this space alive, I am posting a journal-like entry so as not to give up.
Recent weeks have been dominated by readings of Doug Rice, Laurie Sheck, Jon Fosse, Georges Bataille, Larry Levis, Maurice Blanchot, Samuel Beckett, Franco Berardi, Robert Bringhurst, Jeremy Fernando, Elfriede Jelinek and othersβ¦
What a traversal, passage, the past couple of months have beenβ¦
β¦like following the draw of the moon through dire straits
in dark, tumultuous seasβ¦
β¦a feeling that everything is at its limit (Bataille, lβextreme) β EXPERIENCE.
pressured work projects, needs, deadlines, demands
endless and constant family logistics, accidents, needs
relentless parenting, relating, service to others
throngs of people and groups
lack of friends, lovers, supportive presences
fear, health, danger, exhaustion
failure
loss of partner
inexistence of calm or solitude
imposed travels
absence of sleep and rest
indulgence in desire and harm
minimal process
poor eating or nourishment
tension, strain
depression
lack (wellness) & excess (pressure)
β¦a teetering balanceβ¦
Mind you, this is how it feels in me, not how it is.
What “good”? Β “Good” for what, and in relation to? Β Diffuse, azure atmosphere of oncoming dusk. Β Chilly, not cold. Β Nearly pleasant, yet crisp enough for shiver and grip. Β Unsteady, trembling grasp of pen, a striving for control mated to its lack.
Hardly daylight. Β Liminal.
I would like to express. Β What I do not know, perhaps am even unable to.
This is why I approach a page – blank, blind, lined, empty – in “good” light and confusion.
Fusion-with, what? Β Chemistry, alchemy, biosphere, organism, complexity, surround. Β Others’ emotions, experience. Β Possibilities not actualized, each swarming potential of vocabulary, gesture, signification – line, sign, mark, motion – converging formulation, conveying contrivance / re-cognition. What is not, hovering about each “is.” Β To write. Β To write (only) this. Β When…
Once begun. Β Light, terms, cursive. Β Blue Bic ball-pointed pen. Β Moleskine substitution and human and language and in- and ex- perience and some =, some theorized equation of functions and results.
January 29, 2017. Β Nathan Wayne Filbert. Β 5:44 pm according to a Centrally Standardized Timepiece, an Apple product, arranged amidst pages from many centuries and sources, composed music sounding from the last, temperatures…”actualities”?…amid vast, incomputable com-possibilities.
If Nathan had not been “this one,” had not begun with a “T” or a “T + h + e” in this light, in this almost comfortable, discomfiting condition, in this notebook, with this pen and its ink at this time on this bastardized quality of paper, among such circumstances and scenarios, amid these relations as a father, a student, librarian, scholar, male – of this certain (arbitrarily standardized mandatory and countable) age, intimately (accordingly – to strata not set by either) coupled to- caring for-, concerned with-, worried by-, wishing for-, happy about-, and so on…
this word or letter at this time in this space with these extremely idiosyncratic and unlikely determinate positions and scenes in a surround incrementally rare and unreckonably accidental…
“The light is good. Β I am confused” leading itself its own very peculiar particular wave way toward each next and next co-dependent with innumerable constituents and counterparts yet occurring here, now, 5:54 pm CST in Wichita, Kansas in United (are they?) States of America (wha-? why? how? when?) 2017 (by what calendar and whose and wherefore?) at an intersection outside of a centuries-old and decrepit “house” it calls “home” (why? wherefore? from whence toward and…?)…
Indeterminate. Β Indecipherable. Β Unreasonable and incalculable. Β Not accountable or even conceivable…but IS (apparently). Β Simply IS, what is written, at this time, in this place, by this organism, of these relations, in this surround, at this moment, occasion, “actuality”…
[how might it be ANYthing other than ANYoneβs guess, among us, pray tell?Β WHO or WHAT might qualify β among US β as arbiters or judges, experts or prophets β and by what measures or standards (or WHOSE?) as each of us species-specifically WE?]
and it alters β it changes β the stories β generation to generation
depending on the rulers, the beliefs, the βlogics,β the βsciences,β the βmathematics,β
the tools, the techniquesβ¦
and it altersβ¦from season to seasonβ¦
depending on the βoutlookβ or βprognosis,β βfellow-feelingβ or βconcern,β β survival needs
Some call Physics, others Philosophy, some Religion, others S.T.E.M. or art or politic or publicsocialpolicyβ¦some Business (nearly all)β¦das capital
Each and every DIFFERENT time
a βthis is how it is,β a βthis is what we knowβ
i.e., a βTHIS WE BELIEVE.β
*
Our creedal species.
And Iβ¦
I sayβ¦
Some sayβ¦
βNo Matter,β
βNo Substance,β
βNo Essenceβ
β¦βWHATEVER.β
*
Always a begin β always a play of language (nigh-universal) and power (universal).Β PERHAPS β
And so it goes (or so βIβ imagineβ¦or βso it seemsβ to β βMEβ) and so forth, and so onβ¦
β¦the playing field remaining species-equal betwixt athlete and artist, philosopher, scientist, politician and doctor, worker and ruler and indigent intelligentβ¦so far as βIβ can tell of itβ¦
*
HERE NOW I.Β NOWHERE ME.Β Language β experience β meaning β species: HUMAN.
Iβve been thinking a lot this weekend about a kind of βcredo,β or some sort of explicatory description regarding foundational experiencing that informs my perspective on being / world / living.Β I.e., what have I experienced in 45 years of surviving as a human organism – as a bookseller, musician, philosopher, father, academic librarian, various conventional-cultural-relationally-roled son / spouse / sibling / friend / coworker / writer; student of multiple disciplines – that comes so close to a similarity or repetition, a near-consistency, that it evinces as near as I can imagine to a belief or pattern, a compiling evidence or seeming-steadiness, structuring a framework for my perception and navigation of being a living thing.
As a bookseller, librarian, and philosopher (βprofessionallyβ for nearly two decades) β I find I operate with a kind of conviction (yet to be foiled) β that ANYthing ANYone can concoct or intuit as a query, theory, illusion or idea, dream / hope / fantasy or wondering, can be uncovered pre-existing SOMEwhere in the recorded history of homo sapiens.Β I interpret this as indicating boundaries and borders of our specific kind of organism β albeit changing, adapting, extending and diminishing over and throughout time β limits or inherent finitude to our capacities, contextual whelmings, procedural experiencings of being human kind.
Conceptual development, creative expression, technological or theoretical βadvanceβ or novel efforts or elucidations, all seem to come about as recombinations, complex reformulations, convergences or collaborative emergences and collusions of ever-present conundrums.Β The sphere of human being bubbles at mysteries and limits, βrealitiesβ intrinsic to our kind of existing.Β We seem to design and develop varieties of βtoolsβ with which to supposedly plumb and plunder the ever-expanding cosmos of unknowing, but also seem to be simply drilling differing holes into an amorphous void β conjuring observations and explanations, combining fanciful analyses and results – constrained and directed by our βtoolsβ of inquiry (whether conceptual hypotheses, technological apparatus, socio-political experiments, mythico-religious imaginings, practical experiences, and so on).
We are limited beings, with (to our aspect) unlimited potential.Β Over millennia, this would not seem to be the βcaseβ of the world.Β We are limited at every angle and turn β another being alongside many other sorts of beings and organisms, each restrained by our compositions and abilities, our frailties and affordances.
(Apparently) potentially endlessly individuated differings and nuances of activity-in-the-world / also (apparently) insuperably restricted frontiers to our possible activities-with-the-world.Β Like any other species (given our βways-of-inquiryβ or βpoints-of-view/sensingβ) we arise or arrive via incredibly (and genuinely unknown) complex processes and will likely desist and depart via incredibly (and genuinely unknown) complex processes.
Given the limitations of our kind of being β with ALL things composing our surround and withins β it would appear:
There is an inherent IRREDUCIBILITY to our existing and its conditions
There is an apparent INEXHAUSTIBILITY to its potential recombinations, convergences, deformations and in-formations, and
These things are essentially UNSAYABLE / INEFFABLE – non-computable, sayable, expressible, conceivable – to the kinds of being we happen to occur as.
Principles we only (it seems to me) slightly comprehend β incompleteness, complexity, irreducibility, relativity, and so forth β whatever these ideasβ standing might be in relation to anything we might posit as βrealityβ β (only ever from our miniscule, or relatively very limited sphere-of-experiencing) β combine to intimate that:
We are βof the stuffβ that any/every-thing else is, and therefore (in the conjectural βscheme-of-thingsβ) are likely to appear and vanish in similar fashionβ¦with any consistency / repetition (or βuniversalβ) occurring as something we might term CHANGE, andβ¦
We are faced with options on a scale of AFFIRMATION / MEANING / SIGNIFICATION or PASSIVISM / NIHILISM / SURVIVALISM / ENDURANCE in regard to our occurrence and election/selection of guiding behaviors, traditions, emotions, sensations, intentions and interpretations of existing.
Innately, as it were, we elect/select these recursions and available gamut-of-human-existing ideas, processes, habits and practices (beliefs, behaviors, relations, stances) β all funded and founded on arbitrary groundings in individuated recombinations and experiencings suited to an effort at survival, that might be characterized (scalarly) on a wave-patterned range of βlivingβ – each variable individuating occurrence (βselfβ) may characterize from βmore-thrivingβ to βmore-survivingβ β or roughly resembling individuated differentiations of what we might interpret as experiencings of βpleasureβ or βpainβ and ever-changing self-selecting imaginings of ends or goals (telos).
For some of us, the very play and experimentation of extending and investigating limits and grounds, via the widest variety of human endeavor and activities we can surmise or imagine (currently) is a sort of curious βthrivingβ in itself.Β I would call this something along the general web of βphilosophizingβ β but finds its application and practice in ANY human capability.Β Whether adventurers, scientists, artists, inventors, warriors, parents, killers, children or politicians β ANY human might be experimenting and investigating, attempting to extend and elucidate (for their particularized occurring) their limits and groundsβ¦ what distinguishes what we might think of as philosophy or conceptual-knowledge involves a notable self-illusion-conviction of βreflectionβ or βrecursive inquiryβ (something variously nominated βawareness,β βthought,β βwisdom,β βfaith,β or βfantasyβ).
With the caveat (doubling as a confession of faith) β that the βwhole ball of waxβ as we are able to conjecture it β is ALWAYS BECOMING β with never a moment of stasis or rest.Β There is never a moment to pin down or set grounds or fundamentals on β multi-relational interactive complexities never cease BECOMING other.Β So even this βcredoβ is in fluxβ¦and will alter without notice.Β Exactly as the livingβ¦
Compulsion, I supposeβ¦
par example:Β https://creativisticphilosophy.wordpress.com/2016/04/24/formalizability-in-the-english-language/
Increasingly I find myself filled with the desire of simply saying what I think about. Β To some generative effect.
“We live. Β We die. Β We wish the living mattered.”
But “that’s too simple,” you say.Β “Everyone knows that.”
And you’re right, again, and it’s the best that I can do.
Not that I don’t do other things, in living. Β I hold jobs and work for pay (at nearly ANYthing) to keep a home, feed and educate my children, and attempt to convince them to try to try.
And then there’s the dynamo of desire. Β Urges and drives, lusts and obsessions simply to have someone who will allow me to be close to them – to touch them and smell, listen and taste, copulate and serve and talk back and forth. Β I don’t expect them to love me. Β I’ve long given up being wanted or desired. Β Can’t imagine I’ve ever considered myselfΒ necessary to someone or something. Β For connection – to world, to literature and art, to thoughts and conversations, to knowledge and nature.
“No matter,” He says, “Try again. Β Fail again. Β Fail better,” He says.
I cannot. Β Oh I try. Β I try. Β I try again. Β But never imagine proximity of others not involving pity, and my failure seem ever further from their marks. Β Not better. Β I’m 45 now! Β Or 80! Β No matter.
No matter, indeed.
No matter, at all. Β Perhaps. Β I know this, that, some other stuff. Β No matter. So I crave and wish and hope. Β Failing further, and worse, never better.
Long hours of days pleasing others (or trying). Β No matter. Β Family and employers, students and friends. Β No matter. Β Perhaps?
But to say something simply. Β How that? Β I feel caught in a tangle of discourses. Β What language to say in? Β What field? Β How to be heard, perhaps evaluated, to “count” or to “matter.” Β I read something years ago by Nathalie Sarraute comparing the dreams or demands of Dostoevsky and Kafka to be recognized…no,Β acknowledgedΒ (“From Dostoevsky to Kafka” in The Age of Suspicion).Β To matter. Β Appear. Β Have a voice.
Said simply:
“We live. Β We die. Β We wish the living mattered.”
is a phrase and a theory I have queried, contemplated, spelunked and pursued for the past few decades of my βliving.βΒ Since (apparently) before I can remember, Iβve been addicted to a kind of figuring-out – some offspring of βunderstanding,β any concept / idea / or belief-faith β that might elucidate to me my (experienced) compulsion to βmeaningβ or βsignificanceβ β to matter as matter-in-relation.
Iβve encountered many gurus (preachers, priests, philosophers, psychologists, scientists, mathematicians and artists, farmers and engineers, poets = βpeopleβ) along the way who have sent, directed, swerved, commanded, troubled, commended, interrogated, suggested and questioned this impulse of mine.Β From sarcasm to scholarship Iβve been told I will not find that which I seek.Β Or recommended resolutions that donβt withstand my particular scrutiny and skepticism.
It is sunny and light, Spring-y and gentle in Kansas today.Β I took my lunch, after a walk, at a table among trees.Β Birds were active, dogs ambling by, flowers in bloom, and a breeze.
For the most part I βeatβ cause Iβve believed that otherwise I would fail (as a being) and die.Β I like to enjoy food, but most often itβs presumed βpreparationβ falls to me, and therefore becomes a complication of time I would prefer not to.
So I sat and I drank (so much easier).Β Water & coffee & other things to my pleasure.Β And βpondered,β I guess – what I do, when (apparently) no one requires immediate need of me.
I was alone, in a way.
And thinking of βmeaning-making,β and βknowledge,β βbeliefβ and βdesireβ β human shit.Β (Itβs what I do β that compulsion).
I am rambling.Β And have decided to do so.Β Readers, you must know, I donβt write because I have something to say.Β (15,000 things).Β I have drives to express (inexplicably) β and most often what I write is precisely a declaration of what I donβt know.
βThe more we know, the more exposed we are to our ignorance, and the more we know to askβ
– Marcelo Gleiser, The Island of Knowledge–
Well thatβs a positivist view.
When I write, I expose all my ignorance.Β Compose hunches and urges, fascinations and fears.Β Ache to pull my ineffables toward tongues.Β Talkingβs the same.Β I donβt know what Iβm saying β just hoping experience finds text.Β Immaterial materializing.Β We might get βsomething to work with.βΒ I donβt understand any of it.
Sitting then, in the sweet Kansas day, 20/30 years of my life gained a traction.Β βMeaning-making,β to make meaning, was obscuring infinite unknowns.Β Underlying such a contention β that meaning is made β swum its absence = thereβs no meaning βthere.β
βPerson-hoodβ aptly decreed β βpersonβ a βhoodβ that we wear.Β βPerson-alityβ β some ability we possess to appear asin situations.Β βMeaningβ β a something we might craft to suit our unaccountable occurrences.Β I donβt mean anything, significance is made.Β If Iβm lucky the people around me choose to do so with my existence.Β Otherwise itβs matter of course.Β Weβre Matterβ¦of course.Β But who knows?Β Also the problem of βknowledgeβ β the only βknowledgeβ we have is our own and some idiosyncratic communal bastardization of what our Species has MADE.
Not quite nihilism.Β Just meaninglessness.
I like the idea of βmeaning-makingβ β finding it in the relation of atoms, of stars, of humans and beasts.Β Of dreams and delusions, of science.Β I like βknowledgeβ β created cultural artifacts and residue, flotsam & jetsam, structures and practical theories.Β AND it would seem it obscures what surrounds.Β For every academic discipline that drills its way into a world we experience (as humans) and stacks up hypotheses and βpediasβ¦thereβs still the wide world there from every other perspective and experience β the ant, paramecium, subatomic particle, sky.Β Your spouse or your child, parent or friend, or the foreign, the stranger, the Other, the βthem.β
Myopia.Β Perception.Β The experience of meaning.Β Attribution of significance.Β What matters in matter to ME.Β IF matter β for even matterβs a human contribution to what seems to be.
Perhaps it comes down to particularized ββhoodsβ and β-abilitiesβ β βeach oneβsβ momentary personhood and personality – whether experience is an occasion to βmake meaningβ or glide on in its unnecessary meaninglessness.Β I donβt know.
What remains is my deranged and crazy compulsion β my βhoodβ I guess, and ability.
I often feel that Iβm dying.Β Killing myself with disease. Killing myself via the activities of my βmind.βΒ Killing myself with alcohol.Β Killing myself by over-extension, -exertion, lack of self-regard.Β Β Β Worry.Β Anxiety.Β Perfectionism.Β Wishes.Β Desires.Β Dying from the absence of sex (and yet orgasm is also a breathless βlittle deathβ).Β Dying from lack of joy.Β Dying of disuse, depletion, or disregard.Β Dying of my own engulfing life.
Which only emphasizes the insistent FACT.Β One thing we know, perhaps the ONLY certainty weβve understood in the thousands or millions or billions of years weβve been species-al (spec-ial) and aware of such informationβ¦is that we are dying.Β Constantly.Β Continuously.Β Unstoppably.Β Irrefutably and inescapably.Β Inevitably.
Whether we do it to ourselves – amplify or expedite its course – or are at the mercies and whims of some enormous cosmic complex entanglement; whether our cells turn against βus,β or we turn our βselvesβ against our cells; excruciating or peaceful, ecstatic or terrifying β WE DIE.Β ARE DYING.Β WILL DIE.
For some, this undeniable evidence and unstoppable knowledge instigates a kind of βdead-alreadyβ worldview or perspectiveβ¦a nihilism for some.Β A not-ness.Β A foregoing of LIVING, a preemptive attack, or some strange passion of alignment with the TRUTH β some subversion of the FACT (at the same time true, and as certain) β that a DYING thing MUST be LIVING.
An βit doesnβt matter.βΒ Usually tacked on with an βultimately.βΒ Meaninglessness.Β Pointlessness.Β Purposelessness.Β Something some supposed βscientistβ (devoted to βobjectiveβ observable βtruthsβ) like a psychologist, biologist or physicist; doctor or therapist or mathematician β might call βdepression,β βskepticism,β βcynicism,β β when in FACT it is adherence to one of the ONLY FACTs weβve described or descried that has held TRUE while all of our tools, technologies, expansions of knowledges and theories, inventions, medicines and so on carry on their wars against it.Β A veritable CERTAINTYΒ (indeed, perhaps the only occurrence in which a human being accords with reality).
DYING.Β From there β who knows?Β βAt oneβs own hand/operationsβ or βat the mercy ofβ environments, situations, circumstances, worldβ¦ who knows?Β No one.Β Uncertainty.Β The process of being-alive to being-dead is fraught with everything else we are able to imagine.Β And almost entirely UNCERTAIN.
It happens.Β Living.Β Then Dead.Β Each one.Β Every one.Β βMe,β βYou,β βIβs,β βTheyβs,β βWeβs,β βThoseβ and βThese.β Β Whatever beginsβ¦ends (in some form).Β Whatever emerges, converges and devolves.Β Whatever occursβ¦deceases.Β Ceases βto Be.β
And so what do we doβ¦what do “I” doβ¦with this LIVING?Β In full awareness of the synonymity β LIVING/DYING β why is the awareness of dying and depletion of a potency that oft outstrips its necessary , indeed indubitable counterfactual?Β LIVING.Β LIVING.Β LIVINGβ¦
Laramie and Alias followed the tree-lined road into the woods ostensibly seeking a lost calf trapped at the stream.Β Β Lost and trapped.Β Deciduous acres.Β They shuffled the gravel in silence, which evolved to branches and leaves β a crackle and whisper.
Considering age and death, feeling lost and trapped β Alias.Β Laramie pursuing a calf, something young.
βSorrow is sorrow,β Alias vocalized in his head or his chest, his throat or his gut β wherever we hear ourselves.Β βAging β decay.Β Watching oneβs world erode.Β Losing and trapped in the stream.β
Luckily alive after all of these years, Laramie felt hale and sturdy.Β And the bluejays, the owls, finches and starlings.Β The titmice.
Alias thought he might keep living each day βif I could think of at least one reason, event, thought or experience that justified enduring that day.β
βThatβs unfortunate,β Laramie contributed, aware of Aliasβ delimiting logic, βfor youβre the only sanctioned arbiter in that case β fixing yourself to a very strange loop indeed.β
The trail of the calf, sunken hoofprints.Β Age faltering for beauty, youth, and strength.Β βsomeone refers to this as βan attachment to loss itself β a condition otherwise known as melancholy,β Alias intoned.
βFor fuckβs sake Alias β is this how itβs gonna be?Β The βapophaticβ way?Β Via negativa? Only what isnβt there, what ya havenβt got β jabs at the pure potential?β
Fox, weevil, deer, cow.Β βYouβre only 54,β L declares.Β βIn a culture worshipping youth and perpetual childhood β the nubile and ageless and free β augmented and cyborg,β Alias retorts.Β βNot me.β
βI told ya I choose βOFFββ Laramie chokes.
βI demand or command or beg of it,β he continuedβ¦βOFF.β
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All my Words are Silent 