DFW

“In Infinite Jest, for instance, Wallace provides a long list of lessons and exotic facts that one acquires from hanging around a “Substance-recovery facility,” a list that goes on for four pages. You will learn, he writes:

That certain persons simply will not like you no matter what you do.

That most nonaddicted adult civilians have already absorbed and accepted this fact, often rather early on.

That no matter how smart you thought you were, you are actually way less smart than that.

A few pages later he sneaks in the line:

That no single, individual moment is in and of itself unendurable.

-Laurie Winer, https://lareviewofbooks.org/essay/choosing-not-to-be-on-david-foster-wallace

On how I miss my therapist.

Please take the time to watch the video.

Messages new and old

and an extra from the new release…

the last 4 minutes are so beautiful

“telling a story means tracing your finger through the ashes left by the fires of experience” – alvaro enrigue

I love drawing from the world – almost anything, almost everything – ingesting, sensing, feeling, digesting (transforming, processing) into me to pass it on again.

I love the encounter of humans – frightening, fragile things – the desire and revulsion our fullness brings.

Hope.  Dread.

I hope to be loved and wanted.

I dread the opposite.

As if it were about me.

As if there were a thousand suns

And we were one of them

 

Time doesn’t work that way.

It’s been called an arrow

but it’s likely not –

likely wrinkled, warped and bent –

just like us

giving life to it.

Love is like this.

Like our memories.

 

I remember clearly what is incorrect –

if anything’s erected so.

I doubt it,

along with me and you and everything else…

 

just enough to believe.

An Ultimate Prompt

What “prompts” us?

A pain.  A joy.  Surprise.  Loss, meaning, something that crashes, crushes, alerts or in some way causes blurts or blasts to our system that create cross-connections – surge energy / electricity / pulsings between links and channels that otherwise run their own course.  Unexpected.  Expected.  SIGNIFICANCE.

I am intrigued by what “catches” us, “moves” us, CHANGES us.  As many times askance as head on.  What gathers and whispers behind us.  What we are confronted with.  Explosive, erosive, evolutional.  You could call them “shocks to the system.”  Sometimes cumulative, sometimes immediate.  But they effect change, and attention.  Design, and process.

I’m thinking of them as prompts.

There are a few works of literature and art, throughout my life, that ALWAYS “prompt” me.  A few authors.  A few painters, sculptors, musicians.  I do not know why this is, but it is so – some voices, some styles, some appearances and sounds unfailingly “move” me, by which I mean continuously change my orientation to the world.  Often subtly, sometimes radically, but surely.

Macedonio Fernandez is one such creator.

MacedonioHis writings NEVER FAIL to alter me.

I could query my analytics to find how many times I have quoted him, referenced his “first good novel”

Museum of Eterna's Novel

and today I am passing the PROMPT that this novel is – and IS contained in it – on to you… from Fernandez himself – I have lived with it, considered it, dreamt of it… a prompt he left us that haunts and inspires me… an ultimate sort of prompting….

To live, deeply

British Museum mummy

There was earth inside them, and

They dug.

– Paul Celan

 

Composition

for Friday Fictioneers – January 31, 2014

Composition

Copyright -Claire Fuller

He heads to the room in the attic.  This is where it happens, where it all occurs.  Everything needed is there, at the ready.  A factory for making.  The tools and materials – this is where the work gets done.  Such a tiny place – 53 cm of circular feedback.  Yet somehow within it expands.  Almost limitlessly, it seems.  Whatever is needed appears, is created, invented – “on the spot” manufacturing “just in time.” Manufabulating.  Manuscripting.  You can almost make out all the details – electricity, wiring, elaborate connections – the inside, the outside, and back – and yet how it gets done is quite hazy.

photo by Claire Fuller

Spillage.2 – ecce homo

 

another entry from the distant past…

ouroboros5.jpg

I am that I am

(click title to view)

 

 

The Situation of Poetry

Alias Harlequin's avatarSpoondeep

two poems by Wallace Stevens – evincing the reader, the text, the poem, the world – poetry’s situation – realities…

Stevens - Man with Blue Guitar

Stevens - House was Quiet

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Spillage.1 : Action Writing

action writingIn searching through the files on my computer for particular photos, I have been running across many files of which the names are unrecognizable to me, many dating from months and moons ago.  Some of them startle me, some are encouraging, all provide record of where I’ve been, how I’m thinking, what’s at work in me at various given moments.  I thought I’d share a few that seem worthy of being shared, they will arrive under the tag “Spillage” – detritus left to the side when my focus is on projects.  Here’s a sample, found labelled: Action:Writing. (simply click on title link to view)

Action Writing