Category: Writing

It’s Language – Must be a story of something

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Writing6 Comments

for Friday Fictioneers during cacophony – July 5, 2013

Copyright - David Stewart

Scales, rituals, angles and lines.  Struggling to make sense, instead of staying on the ground.  Design, construct, infer, deduce.  Climb that ladder.  Circle that ring.  Aching for a view.  We’re earthed here.  But we keep on grasping.  Incessantly.  Invent equations, theorems, rules and laws.  Apply to sensation and perceive.  Revise.  Repeat.  Try numbers, letters, words.  Try gesture.  Communicate.  Calibrate.  Be social.  Get everyone to make the hike.  We make sense by making abstractions.  Distractions.  Bastardizing metaphor.  Some things go deeper, some things go out.

N Filbert 2013

 

Experience, anyway. Empty, the space of life. (page 3)

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, WritingLeave a comment

“To reach, not the point where one no longer says I, but the point where it is no longer of any importance whether one says I…

…A book has neither object nor subject; it is made of variously formed matters, and very different dates and speeds…

…There is no difference between what a book talks about and how it is made…

…A book exists only through the outside and on the outside.”

– gilles deleuze & felix guattari –

3

“My relation to others is staggered all the way to the infinite;

from the bottom up, never horizontally, the distance from here to there…

…what you call ‘distance’ is but the time of breathing in, of breathing out.

All the oxygen man needs is in his lungs.

Empty, the space of life.”

-Edmond Jabes-

            Passage to and fro.  Fore and aft.  Passing through.  So many streams of signs and symbols, sounds, referents – in some pores and out from others.  A long and endless middle.

If photons, neither particles or waves (or both) – packs of energized events.  Here, then there, everything on its way.  As if life (the verb) is journey.  Booking passage in a network of traces.  Slug-lines.  Marking, evaporate, recombinant maps.

Convergences – sense/perception/neurons and quanta.  Convergences – weather and molecules and thises and thats (write “I” and “you”) and light and air, ground and other conjoining disjunctive matters.  Convergences – roving planets in orbital trajectories, distances sustained by what is near, all the kinds and classifications.

Descriptions and errors.  Adapt, adjust, revise.  And err.  Trial err trial err, survive.  For now.  Temporarily.  This way.  The always-conditioning clause: Now.  If.

A stone Buddha, or just its head, being drawn by an artist.  A trace, remark, a transcription – transformation – another form.  For now.  And then…

Tracing convergences – our qualia – as events describe – the meeting and meshwork of lines, of motions, of pathways and bendings in travel, of stars and their dust.  Refraction, reflection, sharing directions, constraints.  Opportunities for pulse, for pattern, for wave.

To journey then, to map.  Now, if.  The long and ever-ending middle always already begun.  Trajectories and knots, unravel.

Experience, anyway.  Breathe in, breathe out, the trace.  The empty plenitude, the pregnant space, and timing’s distance.  We join.

Collaboration

On By NW FilbertIn WritingLeave a comment

Photographer, Jennifer Koe and myself have a collaborative set in this volume – glad to see it join reality!

Experience, anyway. diverted toward Empty, the space of life.

On By NW FilbertIn Current Reading, Experimenctes, Reflections, Writing3 Comments

Experience, anyway.

(click above if you missed the start)

2 pages in…the new fiction meets a message….

Empty, the space of life

“My relation to others is staggered all the way to the infinite;

from the bottom up, never horizontally, the distance from here to there…

…What you call ‘distance’ is but the time of breathing in, of breathing out.

All the oxygen man needs is in his lungs.

Empty, the space of life.”

-Edmond Jabes, from A Foreigner Carrying in the Crook of His Arm a Tiny Book–

perhaps a title change, but certainly a deepening of the layers…

anyway, Experience, anyway. goes on into the encounters…

Synchronous Display – Serendipity

On By NW FilbertIn Current Reading, Music, Writing1 Comment

The books I first encountered today – and in such intriguing titular order….

and when is additional engagement with Olafur Arnald’s work not welcome

Nourishment during a lunch break

On By NW FilbertIn Current Reading, Philosophy, Writing2 Comments

Fynsk - Claim of Language“Here, I will observe simply that fundamental research (in the humanities) diverges from much theory in that it is always seeking the limits of its language in responding to that to which it seeks to answer: those dimensions of experience and symbolic expression that summon it (as a kind of exigency for thought) and to which no concept will ever be quite adequate.  Such research is impelled by its own neediness and its sense of being answerable, whereas theory, governed by the concept, proceeds with ever-expanding appropriations; fundamental research proceeds from encounter (always from a sense that something has happened to which it must answer), and it seeks encounter.  In theory, there are no encounters.”

– Christopher Fynsk – 

 

The Meticulous Blur

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Writing7 Comments

entry for Friday Fictioneers, June 28, 2013

copyright - Indira

How it left my mouth, toward her.  How long I’d ached and labored it.  How meticulously prepared.  From amorphous origins – a preoccupation and urge, a hunch, desire.  Like longing + some desperate attention.  Had I shared this constant process, they’d have named it “obsession.”  A phrase, a statement, a promise, a claim.  How it left my mouth when the moment arrived, arrowing itself toward her.  A chiseled and hair-thin fibre of sound, a core-content-chain of DNA, let free in the matter between us.  How it blurred and whooshed past.  Disintegrative and smeared in possible meanings.  How quickly the resulting compound decomposed and deconstructed.

Experience, anyway. cont’d

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Writing6 Comments

2

            Like before, but never exactly.  That’s why similar and memory, and that’s why it’s new.  Begins.  Never not change.  If only pennies.  It works.  It goes on.

So that what seems a chasing, a tracing, a spy-archaeology-sci/fi-breathless-fragile-safebreak (i.e. “creative writing”) is also dirgy dredging, slurry stirring, re-invention redone renewing some old search.  If he wrote “to get it right” it would be wrong.

Standard unlocatable with too many variations depending on, all boundaries shift with each decision – though it feels less freedom of choice than compulsion to find – where there’s nothing to find that’s not making (constructed – what’s there getting too little credit in general) – what’s done with what’s attended.

Not meant to be confusing – but from quark or qualia, wave-particle to universes full of looming holes, it plainly is.  At least what we’re able to tell of it – representamen – hingey symbols we careen from like units of mobiles in wind or gyring pirate swings.

There is that.  Is, is, is, is : handy set of markings and concepts “to be” the seeking and the sought – condition and conclusion – of begin.

Listening now – the statue the only Other besides the dogs – well, and whomever all conjoined to craft these scribblings to serve as silent sounds filled with elastic contents over meticulously-constructed time.  The billions.  And infinite (as far as he’s concerned or capable of “counting”) quanta of wave/particle/atom/molecule/element – dithering thoroughfares making up ginormous pervasive systems within systems in which he depends and participates toward is.

– To music, quiet head of Buddha lurked behind, no longer staring with the eyes as much as ears – sense shift and collusion – never one without another – it goes on.

New Fiction: “Experience, anyway.”

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Writing9 Comments

For some time I have been lacking for representation.  Processes and patterns go on, no doubt, but nothing materializes save scattered words, informed thoughts, scholarly papers, and so on.  Spouse says of self: “I need something to shoot for, develop toward, to propel…otherwise I stagnate, repeat…” and I agree with her – I’ve been itching for fiction – a larger project – something to belong to and build while fulfilling responsibilities, learning, parenting, husbanding, being “professional.”  But the pages have been blank.  This morning I began, and it started like this:

**************************************************************************************************************

Experience, anyway.

            And stared at the head of Buddha.  As if literature were whatever could be fitted to symbols.  There were experiences anyway.  Complex goings-on.

He started.  As if starting were the only thing he could do.  He, she, self, other, organism – whatever.  It had begun.  If there were a god, it might know where, but they – for the life of them – could not figure it.  Not literature.

And for all the anyway-experiences, also.

In other words.

They stitched and thatched and wove, tore through, ripped out, clipped and pasted and tagged.  For all the cross-hatching and shading, foregrounding and back-, no image came through.  Or if it did, it never matched.

Representation.  Representamen – for a more mystical suggesting.  Arcane.  Obtuse.  That which is metaphor’d.  That which signals, indices, or forms.  That which functions.  Which can be acted on, or with, within, without.  Functioning ephemera.  To latch.

And undo.  It passes.  Lock on – decipher.  Pass around the room.  Agreeing by argument, it becomes.  Difference.  Evaporate.

The head of the Buddha is shaped out of stone.  More likely poured, cast.  More likely art – official.  What is artificial? – But human construction of world.  That radical deflect.  That begin.  In symbol.

At a certain time (constructed, invent), cross-purposes : experience.  Anyway, perceived.  So aroused – appreciation, cognition, desire, belief – purchased (bought, fallen-for, faith-in) : acquired.  Experience, anyway – head in corner on bookshelf knick-knack antiques, money (that wasn’t there), and taken away.

Evaluation = meaning.  Interpretation.  Somewhere whereabouts and how, or when – experience, anyway.  Action occurs.  It’s started.

Welcome!

On By NW FilbertIn WritingLeave a comment

Because…yeah.

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