An unexpected and happy surprise entered my day yesterday with the announcement of a terrific book highlighting a project I was lucky enough to be involved with – a group of artists utilizing materials being removed from an historical building in Wichita, KS during a renovation – and repurposing (creating them anew) into works of art! I wrote an essay for this and now it is available in a wonderful edition you can peruse here:
a poem created amid the hurly-burly
Re: What We Call “Quiet”
The shift to lesser noise,
an aural field we find comfortable,
one we are able to “manage” (read – “organize”).
We have thresholds.
.
A humming machine; her breath;
pat of a moth on the pane;
even traffic. I imagine I hear moon –
cultured consideration of night.
But I’m at a swimming pool,
boy in red shorts, girl in purple,
or that’s how I see it – rippling
blue-silver water and white light.
.
It’s not that what (or how) I see is –
it constitutes my visual field, as
constituted by my kind of being,
having traversed the paces to here.
.
These words are just a version –
a May-be: true as I perceive it –
relative by type. It’s different
for the fly and the water, oxygen
and surely less than O. Or beyond.
I heard differently last…
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Very exciting new discovery for me!
for instance: A Perspective of the Universe – Massumi & Manning
for Friday Fictioneers during cacophony – July 5, 2013
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
“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 –
“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.
Photographer, Jennifer Koe and myself have a collaborative set in this volume – glad to see it join reality!
(click above if you missed the start)
2 pages in…the new fiction meets a message….
“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…
The books I first encountered today – and in such intriguing titular order….
and when is additional engagement with Olafur Arnald’s work not welcome
“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 –
entry for Friday Fictioneers, June 28, 2013
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.
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All my Words are Silent 