Thank you : I don’t know what I am saying…

received this little garland today and a congratulations from WordPress – my account is 1 year old!

“Express only that which cannot be expressed.  Leave it unexpressed.”

-Maurice Blanchot-

“The world eternally turns round; all things therein are incessantly moving, the earth, the rocks of Caucasus, and the pyramids of Egypt, both by the public motion and their own.  Even constancy itself is no other but a slower and more languishing motion.  I cannot fix my object; ‘tis always tottering and reeling by a natural giddiness; I take it as it is at the instant I consider it; I do not paint its being, I paint its passage.”

-Michel de Montaigne, 1580-

“Sincerity – it’s the insatiable process

of transition, of fluctuation…”

-Arkadii Dragomoshchenko-

I began one place, and become another.

Wallace remarked that the most difficult thing to teach young writers was the difference between expressive writing and communicative writing.

“Two utterances cling tightly to each other, like two bodies but having indistinct boundaries.” (Maurice Blanchot)

A notification informs me that today is the first anniversary of my experience of the blogosphere.

Humbled over 365 days.

And thank you.

.

I imagine many writers/artists start out, in the youth of their writing (or creative work) from a singular sense.  There’s this “me” experiencing this “world,” it seems like – an I and a chaos, an identity and a multitude.  When the I (or eye) feels full, it is like to burst.  Things touch us, hurt us, impinge on our locus, our “self,” and it seems something must be done about it – we must exert – strike back, reach out, kiss, craft – exhibit our presence.  Interact.  The dualities are clear.

Are confused.  Experience turns out to be very mixed, an impossibly confusing weave.  As we begin to plunder these “moments,” we’re countered.  Things that happened to us, we were there for, in all fairness, our activities encroach.

We begin perhaps to recognize our existence as agents – not only done to, but doing; not only recipients but respondants, reactive.  The wrestle of expressing ourselves through materials (language, movement, matter or sound) teaches us this.  The Other’s inextricably woven – what occurs and results is the same.  Is unlike.  We lose balance.

Conceiving the work as a subject toward object (our creating) deriving from object to subject (our experiences) – our investigations quickly expose this  unclear.  Attacked by requirements of how.  Stubborn like marble or tricky as oils, even recalcitrant conventions, we begin to comprehend a falsity to working on, as a single direction, and realize it’s all a working with.  And we struggle.

Even working with.  The earth, or people, or bodies, or clay, things rarely abide our intentions.  We set out to disburden ourselves, get incited to construct or create (to “use”) and find ourselves consistently foiled.  Reality doesn’t care.  We find precious little room for expression.  Compromise and nuance, novelty or style – ineffective to the longings we exude.

Perhaps at this stage we lose faith in our voices or visions – what we seek we does not seem to obtain.  This is fine.  This is something no product can resolve.  For there isn’t.  There is no solution to life.  We are IN it.  And there is no replacement for death.  Then we’re OUT.

Whether language or matter, movement or sound, our “I” never works on an Other.  We are INsulated.  INextricably.  Communicative activity means cohabiting the spaces, simultaneous-ing the times.  Realities – experiences – accord.  Everything possessing the prefix co-.  It’s admitting the reciprocal, the recursive – we’re not separate beings being, we are beings expressing ourselves commensurately.  Perhaps control is adjusting to convention.  Accepting agreements with place.  Expression living IN and WITH, communication the word for the weave.  That we’re behaving, creating, co-mposing in inseparable connectivity (inexpressible process) – transition, fluctuation, IN –

– attempting to paint its passage.

entanglement. emergence. complexity. matter.

Thanks so much for  reading, joining, my attempts.

N Filbert 2012

On the Anniversary of Our Wedding

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The Forest of Marriage

(Happy Anniversary Holly Suzanne!)

 

I’ve never felt sexy or young, my memory is chained like an old growth forest accumulating decay.  Remains tough to destroy.  Why would I want to?  Perhaps for you – so lovely to me – youthful, vital, your non-submissive and consistent new growth.  Your winding ways, nubile bends – how do you regenerate yourself?

I’ve no doubt my dying fertilizes and enriches, our scent expands.  Some wreckage crumbles beautifully, overgrown and softened by corruption.  But it’s not the same as planting seeds, a puppy’s not a dog.

Steep.  A word for danger and infusion.  Calamity filters through.

Seed.  It is not uncommon for your resources to sprout fresh things in me.  Renewal, come in.  I am fertile in layers.

Steep.

I’ve aged tall and long and twisted, hoary with moss and tangled by vine.  Formidable, while spongy in places.  Your green shoots pierce me, exposing my slowness and rot, my muffling stance.  You crack me open, engender new soil.  I collapse and give way, I adapt.  It’s a marriage.

I wouldn’t say “handsome,” thought at times picturesque – in a rugged way, and worn – tendriled with you growing green.  The occasional strength to bloom: I mushroom, you flower.  I fungus, you shine.  Together we develop our wonder.  Some stop and look, others stay awhile, everyone traveling through.  The coupling is not unfortunate – providing nourishment and shelter.  There’s always damage.  Having endured, still I am fragile, and you, with your gentle, tenacious roots, ever purposeful and true, yet transplanted and remaking, storms can threaten with uprooting.

We are called by one name and belong – a vast generality for incalculable kinds.  We don’t mind.  Old or new it’s still growth; what dies and what’s born construct a joined density.  I lean on you while providing shade, you straighten me as you fight for necessary light.  We are one seething thing, steamy if un-sexy, cross-generative and moist.

When the fire burns, it destroys and begins.  Gaining as much as we lose.  It takes time – symbiotic – establishing roots we combine and recover, shed and absorb, co-create and depend.  Relying on the same in our differencing.

Reaching again in each instant’s climate.

(I love you beloved wife – happy anniversary – and here’s to continual renewal and the sustenance of old growth)