Terrific collection of attempts at languaging mystery around incarnate language: https://maney.us/blog/2014/12/28/meditations-on-the-incarnation-from-select-church-fathers-and-doctors/
St. John Chrysostom: Homily on Christmas Morning
This is another post I made during Advent four years ago, which bears repeating. I have read this sermon by St. John Chrysostom (late fourth century …St. John Chrysostom: Homily on Christmas Morning
the songs i do not know (iii)
Tell me the songs you don’t knowDan Beachy-Quick, Of Silence and Song
Light…makes some things seen, makes some things invisible-SIR THOMAS BROWNE, IN B-Q, OF SILENCE AND SONG
iii. inside the other
caves, hollows, holes
cloud or animal
eye, crotch, finger, part
leg, mouth, buttocks, cleave
and and and
what is called
what feels like
to the opening
(“Tell me,” she said)
(“i don’t,” i said
The Songs I do not Know (ii)
Tell me the songs you don’t knowDan Beachy-Quick, Of Silence and Song
Light…makes some things seen, makes some things invisible-Sir Thomas Browne, in B-Q, Of Silence and Song
ii. “Tell me…”
joy. blank. block.
how. where. ever why.
it is very
not knowing –
The Songs I Do Not Know (1)
“Tell me the songs you don’t know.”Dan Beachy-Quick, Of Silence and Song
“–knowledge is made by oblivion.”Sir Thomas Browne, in B-Q, Silence & Song
clips, or snippets,
the known as partial
hymning (nearly celebrating)
its reverse –
i didn’t know
the sounds of
as they were
always changing –
so i made noise
transparently novel (novice)
framing, marking, visibling
all i do not know –
every word an icon
all it’s not
thus every song i sing
i sing of what i do not know
or hear or dream or feel
but do i tell of songs
i do not know
or sing not knowing?
would i recognize
it’s hard to tell
This is the same struggle – (LanguageLife)
this mis-match, trans-mesh, between media (their mediums)
A woman arrived – beautiful.
First thought: why isn’t language like her?
no – why isn’t language Her.
The difference. Media.
Eventually I felt this about music, painting, photography.
Eventually I felt this about perception, expression, myself.
i.e. Why isn’t one thing another to the same effect? Why doesn’t one temporally unified multiplicity (perception) correlate adequately in another?
My writing, these shapes, lines, movements, and possible sounds and touches and sayings are ever as real as hers, (equal), but not her (different) <in so many ways, sort of> <and not many ways, kind of>
There is animated material in motion with layers of perception – interpretation – impression / meanings. And here as well.
But they are not the same,
metaphorically, experientially, actually.
And they are.
(We are, species-level, carrying similar realities in similarly leaky containers).
And we aren’t.
- Effect (1)
- Affect (2)
- Mode (0)
- Artifice (N+1 / N-1)
- Occurrence Happening Being (=)
Language lives. is alive. is not life. is life.
As also language.
She and I are. And are modally identified. Materially.
And are categorically for many striations,
Effect. Affect. Also same difference, everywhere within scales. Eventually, no difference?
Eventually…only same? In a thin layer, deep and thickly.
AND – – – – OR – – – – NOT
(same differencings, as each require equal potentialities)
This is a slippery slope of a flat plane.
Therefore I love the “Book of Idolatry,” “truth,” empirical methods! Same differences, endlessly, potential, infinite variation and similitude. Swerving curves of identity deranged.
Lo how the mirror distorts in its clarity.
The painting clarifying distorted.
One might suppose differing due to activity – close circle – if static could be posited or possible we’d see (as we are seen). But seeing is active. As is that seen.
that is, knowably unknowable
i.e. uncertain in its certainty
a view from nowhere?
he can only be distracted by nothing (the reflection of everything), light uncontained or perceived, even though he cannot cease registering her flesh and its forms, thigh-lines, tone and texture, fluidity of folding and motion. Nothing refuses to contain it, and rather brings it back, and forth, or all at once space, always “this. this here. here.” Nothing missing mirror, his emptiness replete.
Bends and scent, nonsensed, indelible.
Him, there (here), composed observer, unable/disabling any view from nowhere. It is without a not…
our small lives are traversed by momentous movements, avalanches in the depths of the everydayKnausgaard, Summer
How much longer still dreaming of a language
Not enslaved to words as it is today…des forets, Poems of Samuel Wood
so we use words in order to go beyond wordsMarkides, Mountain of Silence
What constitutes unbounded in literature?Knausgaard, My Struggle 6
…still she remains a remarkable beauty (how so easily contorted from inside?). If inner bodies resembled outer, how different life would be, observable reversed as well – cultural ugliness/fear/repulsion softens from inner loveliness, even as prettiness suffers its evils. That being said, the inner therefore rules the day for beauty, and earth must be divine.
Veins outstrip hand lotion. Wrinkles give the lie.
he depends on his non-mirror, and many come to light. Refractions, glints, unending activity – a world (or however you attempt to measure the imagined) exists as relation alone (all-one) – infinite interdependence ‘to be.’
slope, angle, apparent rest – the wrist, the knee, the curve to ankle, each knuckle and blade about the eye, how else to distinguish hair from head from air from skin from water – its relative.
all i do is sense and praise (that poorly) – relation, gratitude. Awareness – attention – all act. Calves, puppies, elbows, crooks – sway and struggle, chaos-strife, relations of same differences, now.
he calls out, a wave of vibrations; he smiles, a rippling fabric; looks (out or in at once) – “becoming” (some have spoken or written) – enacted, enbodied, at-once ‘taking place’ – now. Here it is, they are, him/her with in of. It goes. Nowhere but here (it comes in other words). his left, your right, his east, your west, up-down-other: relation. Occurs.
No else. No one. No thing. No where. Never. All depending, relating to this, us, that, here, now. Without which? Unknown, inconceivable, imperceptible, nonsensical…only possible.
Nocturne with a Line from Porchia
Nocturne with a Line from Porchia Everything is nothing, but afterwards. I rise and the moon disturbs the darkness, revealing symbols, a few stolen …Nocturne with a Line from Porchia
Terrific post/re-post…feels like a birthday gift… & Porchia! thanks poet(s) – Okaji moved through Porchia – ah literature!
Cabin Letter, cloud fragment, Colorado, July
Dear – (names of loves, Colorado cloud formations)…
to follow scent and slope toward where words are to be tasted. Summer. Diction. Pronunciations of a walk, a caress, of noticing and discovery
Aspen, pine, columbine.
Grasses, marsh, and pebbles.
Sand and water.
Bodies in the world. Of.
To lose reason and perception in being.
A sense of that. Sky. Fluid. Water flowing and founding, above and below.
I can still imagine desire,
Clouds never ceased converging and changing,
even when they weren’t.
Berry referred to this as “the space between the leaves”
“I,” for instance, mind or body both.
Smoke and drink still, even in absence of.
A carriage of conversation accompanying – in the form of silence, – inscriptions, all that is nonhuman, waiting for or presenting any of its forms.
Written language or music recordings, for instance: grasses and bushes, streamsongs and trees along with birds and stealthy deer.
All bodies of the world, in and with it, too.
Making presence like a meal. A party. A walk, a hike, a bath, asleep.
If I named you to bring you near – what would you be? Who?
(shuffling the cards of names)
(faces all worn off)
A tiny pine responds, fake empire.
Eyes are everywhere, like leaves, like air molecules.
The spaces between.
I go out.
Nights are maps, are dreams.
Cloud formations. Always.
“Russian blue.” Vodka. Confusion-in-fusion. Withness.
-to cease the spirit
The mosquito, intravenous. To “draw” blood.
Spirits. (extraction versus infusion)
Extrusion. No medicine.
Aspen quiver, laboring breath. Alone. All becoming one.
(so much any named “you” as an “I”)
Caught in the trees, slipped in the stream. Thirsty.
Asleep again. Watching clouds.
– you. fire. rain. bodies with and in and of the world. Here, not-here.
Results this letter. Address. Silently.
Solitude as a freedom to be alone, to become (how slowly?) all-one.
Alone there’s nothing there. Cloud fragments.
Sky rains its portions. With, in, of. Neither for nor against.
Perhaps awake now.
Air in, air out.
Is all I’ve learned to suffer.
Storms. There is a darkness, a swelling uprising (not grand!) in me translating the transformation of Alone/All-one, a kind of grit and pollution I add.
Bones. Rock. Stones
(it was left for the voices) – with/in/of.
Dear Marguerite, Helene, Clarice…
Hello, I am (not) alone. With/in/of the world. Neither for nor against.
Yet imagination and desire
cloud formations, I was expressing in
such great heights