“So the books are waiting. Of this you may be confident: they’ll be ready when the whim strikes you.”
-Alan Jacobs-
Out of the Cave
I really don’t know what these things are I’ve been writing (“Ideas of Home”, this one…). Seem to be open ramblings. I apologize if they waste time for any readers, I think I’m trying to open up channels inside of me with less self-conscious shaping and imposition of some pre-formed concepts of style, order, characterization, plot, even poesy. Opening veins, trying to allow swollen connections between pockets of my body and brain that otherwise occur only in dreams or infrequently heightened states. Not sure what’s going on, just writing.
In the Depression, A Cavern
The outlook that prides its common sense (for those who bear it)
“I cannot comprehend our attachments to beings”
-E.M. Cioran-
Airtight logic. Closed circle of belief.
The end is doom and oblivion, i.e. “end.”
Therefore, “I cannot comprehend attachment” –
to things? Well, perhaps, for personal endurance, a comfort while still understanding their nature (“truth”: “things fall apart, the center cannot hold”)
that all become, belong to silence (no total comprehension, understanding) all is constant change, therefore ephemeral, ridiculous to trust or develop dependence – everything changes, and then you die…
that, well that does not seem to alter much. Perhaps it wavers.
As all things wobble and waver, are insecure, uncertain.
Well, but maybe not “ends” and “loss” – almost certain, almost absolutely so,
but then not everything has happened, as far as we know.
Hold on to joy’s illusions – real experiences – and why not?
Embrace.
Let go.
You better let go
or it will be taken, suffocated, crushed.
Smile, but don’t forget to cry, there are many truths.
And much matter(s) to perceive (momentarily)
But then there’s that: the individuality of perception
and the fact that that capacity will cease.
Heightened moments, erasing duration,
fictions of time and space.
Self and other.
World.
Ideas of Home
Hello everyone! For whatever reason (I’m not always a bigger believer in a source for reason!), a few days ago between cargo-ing children to and fro from all the places they must be S. Carey’s song “We Fell” came through my stereo and the weather was Spring-ish cool and the air was nice and I was overwhelmed with feelings, I guess you’d call them, (sentiments?) of being home. As I pulled in the drive the light struck the deteriorating garage and trampoline movingly, and I took a few shots that matched my feeling. Then throughout the past days I’ve just been letting those feelings/sentiments/ideas swirl about in my head thinking they’d find an organization they wanted. They didn’t. So today I’m just going to post the notes I jotted down the way they tangled and fumbled out of me…In my mind they go with S. Carey’s song and always Mark Kozelek’s tunes (his music often is my home)…
oh, here are the lyrics to “We Fell”
The consonance of drone
And love sounds its own
Your arms wrapped around home
All the in-betweens
Lay so blue beside me
We fell
More than skin and bones
No we’re not alone
We fell
Like stones
Between
S. Carey
And here follow my photos and ramblings:
(click to read text)
THANK YOU!
Opposite of I.L.L – newest treasure!!!
lifesaving Inter-Library Loan…
“Life is difficult. It’s big. One should live as long as possible”
-Viktor Shklovsky-
(see also:
Additional Instants of “I”…I think
“We spontaneously obey and follow an inner voice because we know it to be personal.
What would we say if we learned that in descending into ourselves to find our solitary voice we meet an alien one,
the voice of words?”
-Edmond Jabes-
Wonderful World of Texts!
Mystery Text #1: Of Origins and Ends
Many have participated – untranslatable translations and definitions undefined – signals of the ineffable.
Speaking of texts…writings and utterances, organizations of alphabets.
Writingreading, readingwriting – with an existing text – pray tell me the difference?
On the one hand – anyone. On the other – the same.
Between = a text.
Words on a page are a circle.
No origin, no conclusion.
Who writes this? Is it me? Who is “me”? Was it you? Who were “you”?
Who deciphers? Is it me? And when “I” read again – is it the same “me”? Later this evening in the quiet? Saturday at the cafe? In bed while a movie plays? Is it you?
Reading as continual rewriting in the same alphabets, same words and phrases. But the content? Denotation(s)? Connotation(s)? Connections? Disjunctions? Referents? References?
Who leads? What follows? Who follows? What leads?
I venture to commend the signs of the text are the subject, the object we observe and receive, perceive and interpret.
Who authors? And what is authored by that who?
Author following, adapting, borrowing and conceiving the text’s arrangement. Or reader authoring the significations, meanings, referents(-ces) and possibilities of thusly arranged words?
Double absence. Absence of the one constructing the text, absence of the possible recipient. Anyone (or no one) at the origin, no one / anyone at the end. Text(s) of no closure and of ever-questionable intent.
Text as ever-ready presents(-ations), like letters – always between the past, the void of dead, or the future, the empty potential and the unformed future, unknowable recipient.
Remarkable, to me, to be capable of participation in such a vital and energetic, ever-evolving and malleable, yet lifeless matter – able to be as stable as an inscription in marble –
the artifact: word or image, painting, photograph, text: gestures of the dead or the missing, yet constantly enlivened, resurrected with each encounter! This is passing strange! Out of the unknown, toward the unknown and lifeless in-between!
Ever a-rising out of no-more and availing the not-yet: unnecessary necessity of authorial entities – the necessary unnecessary of receipt. The still spinning wheel of lifeless matter on a page… in potentia.
A marvelous mystery to behold
Another opportunity – for collaborative creativity
my spouse/partner etc. posted this this morning and I find it instigative – love to see/hear what comes of it for the rest of you!
http://ekphrastixarts.com/2012/05/10/ekphrastic-opportunities/
Friday Flash Fictioneers attempt
Remembering the wolf and the maid, but never the moon in the trees, not last night.
And what of the whispers? Not those. Where are they? All had been silence. Or noise. Perhaps an enormity turning to absence.
Now mirrored. Must be lying down, in order to see, like this.
Yes, this: bright pupil, diseased sighs, and the webbing aging around.
“But, in fact, the eye sees itself in the above phenomenon merely as it does so in ordinary optical reflexion.
If the visual organ proper really were fire…if vision were the result of light issuing from the eye as from a lantern, why should the eye not have had the power of seeing even in the dark?”
– Aristotle, The Senses –
http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/2012/05/09/photo-prompt-for-100-word-flash-fridayfictioneers-29/
The Unknown and Unnamed recalculates and barrels on…
“& knowing from
the look of the others
that a panic has come
into your own eye
to know yourself only
as an instance”
-Ron Loewinsohn-
Am I indeed no/w/here – is this a place to founder?
Are you here too? Now? And what might that mean? (Or is that already to abstract, extract, exit to a changing no/w/here?)
I have my concepts. I have my doubts.
I am unidentifiable, no/w/here.
If you happen to find me (or dis-cover?) would you please point me out? Just a gesture will do.
You can use the simplest sign, that concept, just a dash, a briefest line – “/”.
Or a slapdash curly loop to momentarily contain it all in, all of that malleable nothing with thousands of experiences passing through: .
Loop-the-loop-de-loop go the organs and wires, the pores of the flesh, the nerves and the neurons, the veins and cells…
I am bewildered.
I think I am a concept. (I thought I was a verb).
I get the joke! “I think” – I am a verb.
So runs the conception.
Selah.
The ?/’I’ Barrels On…(the Unknown and Unnamed recalculates)
Empty concept or full flow, he advances (advances?) – he verbs.
Verbalizes.
He acts. The marking concept, the tiny scratch – ‘/’ – goes on, regardless (of my regarding).
No/w/here.
This is IT. (was IT and becomes so again) as ‘/’ act.
This unknown, unnamed subject/object absent presence moves like a filter screen being swished through a tub of air always tagged “IT,” (if this were a game). Is IT?
Beginning from no/w/here and heading there too, and always at once…
it’s downright unsettling! (literally – there is no settling or pause!)
I find (without actually locating a thing, even a speck or a fragment, not “conceived”) I am always no/w/here, and that no-place is always (ALWAYS) changing, moving, different(ly).
Unknown(-able?) Unnamed(-able?) Unlocated(-able?)
Homo Scribus (homo-anything!) – person-as-verb – erases as it writes, deletes as it constructs, falsifies as it truths, acts in its passivity,
ever equaling the equation at zero!
(no/w/here)
I’ve gotta steer clear of math, of physics…I don’t compute!
“Some Blind Alleys: A Letter”
Should you have the time…and it requires a bit…I would love to hear responses to the following essay by E.M. Cioran from all you interesting minds I observe! Thanks –
-E.M. Cioran-
