Category: Writing

Reduce (‘to lead back, to bring back’)

On By Alias HarlequinIn being, change, Experience, Fear, Language, life, pain, paradox, Poetry, Writing1 Comment

https://www.etymonline.com/word/reduce

Thrum –

that is the hum of the liveliness

the phrasing which your voice emits

the charging of rememory

the shock that members monsters

–

Thrum spark! –

the difference between hearing

and listening-for, anticipation.

Or expectation?  and its careful ache

awaiting every painful jolt

–

The fear involved –

an awful angst of joy –

timbre re-minding the body,

bodies, of things that surge

–

Like language –

what’s drawn out

and quartered

into inestimable more

–

So like-wise, the idiot

breath and ready veins

fill up with begging

bursted already in the mouths and hands

–

and far beyond.

Reach in, reach out

one motion as touch

the no-one-knows-where

–

Leading back,

bringing back,

reduce:

our introduction

Reduce (‘to lead back, to bring back’)

On By Alias HarlequinIn creative writing, Journallings, Language, WritingLeave a comment

https://www.etymonline.com/word/reduce

Thrum -

that is the hum of the liveliness

the phrasing which your voice emits

the charging of rememory

the shock that members monsters






Thrum
spark! –





the difference between hearing





and listening-for, anticipation.





Or expectation? 
and its careful ache





awaiting every painful jolt










The fear involved –





an awful angst of joy –





timbre re-minding the body,





bodies, of things that surge





Like language -





what’s drawn out





and quartered





into inestimable more





So like-wise, the idiot





breath and ready veins





fill up with begging





bursted already in the mouths and hands





and far beyond.





Reach in, reach out





one motion as touch





the no-one-knows-where





Leading back,





bringing back,





reduce:





our introduction



		
	

			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Some Sort of Inquiry

						

				On  By Alias HarlequinIn Writing1 Comment			

					


		

			


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Something Scribbled

						

				On  By Alias HarlequinIn Writing3 Comments			

					


		

			


…something that/what happens…


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Being something

						

				On  By Alias HarlequinIn being, human, Living, Perception, Poetry, Writing1 Comment			

					


		

			
This is how we see:


a set of brackets, dark,


moving across wires in the sky


(that we placed there)


because of the angle of light


and it’s changing


– perhaps –


and perhaps it’s the change


and the angling,


and perhaps it’s involved with the light


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Self-reflection

						

				On  By Alias HarlequinIn Writing4 Comments			

					


		

			
It all seems like a coagulation of before now and ‘now’ you’ve been ‘given’ something to do something unknown with… an accident awaiting each happening… to be…




			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Writing

						

				On  By Alias HarlequinIn Writing3 Comments			

					


		

			
Image result for weird happy holidays


This is the path I take every day.  I get lost.  And name it “home.”


I am not a good father.


I am not a good son.


Nor…a good lover.


I do not know what it means to be a human.


I do not know if what I do is what is called ‘thinking.’


I assume (PRE-sume) I’m a-live.


This is what I do.  Again and again and again… (ad infinitum)…


I try, errr, perhaps… I am.


 


She said.


 


I was working.


 


Things happen.


 


Perhaps.


 


Every day.


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Tapping at Windows of Words

						

				On  By Alias HarlequinIn creative writing, desire, Experimenctes, Language, Poetry, Traces, Writing7 Comments			

					


		

			
The bestial want


is it ever more?


Evermore.


.


Ache beauty


its terrible


hunger


.


The voyeur


at what is not


“mine.”


.


What can be taken?


What “had”?


In the seeking,


the peeping,


the glimpse


or the glance –


its desire?


.


Such beastly want,


evermore,


grasping


.


forth or out


I reach –


a solid pane.


.


I am limited


constrained


delimited –


.


it would seem


I see clearly


but it cannot be


touched.


.


‘I’ is alone


with-out.


With-in


comes from ‘you.’


.


So ‘I’ scopes –


a feral yearn –


and gazes…


.


tapping at windows


of words.


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Autumn Reflections, their sound and fury

						

				On  By Alias HarlequinIn communication, creative writing, relation, Self, Traces, Unknown, Writing7 Comments			

					


		

			
leaves wind


“Sometimes God, sometimes nothing”


-Franz Kafka –


“Blank page called a day.


God.”


– Dan Beachy-Quick – 


The praxis of empty signifiers : words : full of sound and fury.


If you accept the ‘I’, or find a name to call yourself – like using a credit card received in the mail (illusion of invisible funds), what do you charge to it, and does it always end in debt?


Does it make of you a consumer to believe the ‘I’?  To use self-reference as a token or coin?


How soon do “my” and “mine” follow after, even though each object, event, or transaction, is clearly only a loan?


What is charged to the ‘I’ must be paid back – to put it in legal or religious terms.


Be careful what you say.


Wittgenstein claimed that we mostly speak without giving full meaning to the terms we use – that we ought remain silent whereof we cannot speak with adequate comprehension.  Where we sing beyond our knowing –


very few (if any) utterances comply.


But how learn anything (even the untrue) without not-knowing?  Without composing walls to break apart or knock upon, to breach or to climb?  Without making it up to unlearn and repent of?


A word changes direction.


It’s happening as I write or think or imagine this.  As if.


As if it signified something.  I write with sound and fury.  Into silence.


It’s what ‘I’ do – so I should do it!  (shouldn’t I?!)


I seem to know I’m alive by touching, tasting, smelling, hearing, seeing – things other… feeling, sensing, perceiving… crafting empty signifiers like nostrils, like a tongue, a kind of eyesight and ear, my fingertips.  My flesh on loan.  To be paid back.


In debt to what then?  ‘World’?  To sing.  To sound.  To dance a little.  Imagine.


If ‘I’.


If I am given the sound of leaves as they crisp and color the Autumn breeze, refracturing light; if I can smell the moisting decay (debts repaid by undoing what was charged), if I can gather them with my hands and roil about them with my body, if I can bake the seeds and chew, take them in…


…what does ‘I’ owe?


You sentence me: two I’s.  I hear your melodious song.  You whisper, close.


I say ‘I love.’  Terms lacking comprehension.  Metaphysics.  Their meanings beyond knowing.  Unlearned.  “We” are (whereof we cannot speak).


Charging invisible funds we become responsible for.  Obligated.


Swiping our cards for contents.


What do we owe?


What do we know?


What can we?


Each their own set limits.  Sometimes raised, sometimes lowered, depending on our fidelity to pay with interest.


We owe.  We all of us owe.


Even for our silence.


Even cash-only – that empty signifier – words.  Even simply action.  ‘I move’ – is a statement on credit, like breath.


Sweet burst of being!  To “is.”  To “I.”  To “we.”  All so heavily borrowed, contingently.  Imagine.


Imagine what it means.  To owe.


Again I break the silence of what I do not know via signs of repentance.  These words.


All the silence they require.


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Distortion of the Perceiving Eye/I

						

				On  By Alias HarlequinIn communication, creative writing, Language, Perception, Reading, Writing2 Comments			

					


		

			
“the turned-to-water book…


with all that has room in it,


even without


language.”


– Paul Celan –


Decide to write the book-that-turns-to-water, as speech-that-turns-to-air.  All that rippling silence, even without language.


Someone asking: what is gesture?  movement?  expression-in-its-being?


Signification the silent razor.


Someone mentions music, which it claims “represents nothing at all,” (Michel Seuphor) and I doubt that: is there not expression?  confession?  some sonorous and vibratory friction or exhalation?  A “constant inscription of birth in innumerable ways…language is metaphor and metonymy, one cannot avoid it.”  (Helene Cixous)


[“where trace becomes existence” (Seuphor)]


I am tracing letters without a model, refusing to hub any wheel…


.


Out of its mouth: communication sounds.  The body moved likewise.  Undulant, suggesting.  only sounds, no discernible words.


Signification, perception, emotion, feeling, sensation… and then translations: prefrontal cortex: “meaning”?


A blockage.  Refusal.


Andre Malraux: “You are human when you can say no.”  Remembers Bartleby.


What is called ‘agency’?  Only negation?


This is how the story goes?


Prefers not to.


.


“Pleasures,” “pains.”  Pain wakes.  Pleasure lull(abie)s?


.


And when is the “system of nonknowledge” (and unknowing) not “unfinished” (Bataille) posthumous.  Post-humorous.  Generations.


What was it?  Ah, yes, the Book-that-turns-to-water.  Speech-to-air bubbles, balloons.  Hot air, as they say.  They?  We.


“even


without


language”


(someone wrote, silently saying).


.


“all that has room in it”


(same).


.


Of truth and genesis – constant inscriptions of birth.  Unthinking the point and the line.


“Not to worry about the rest of us.  Love you.”  (someone said).


.


This is the shaping of chaos, this hell of stories.


Unthinkable.


.


Unbearable lightness of being, this breath or stream of life.


Mismaking is an art (or so we hope, we think, desire, demand).


.


Men and apparitions.


[everything I letter down is plagiarism]


These – the margins of philosophy, a way of life.


Saying I no more.  Interior distance.


.


This is the writing of disaster: the book-that-turns-to-water.


Speaking turned to air.


Philosophy, the posthumous.  Dust.


.


Listening.


Abolishing freedom.


.


Text (from textare: to weave).


My documents.


My notes in the fog.


The trouble with pleasure.


.


Myopia.  My opium.