Intolerable Vulnerabilities – the fictions

Intolerable Vulnerabilities – fictions

lonely old man


There comes a time when being referred to as “sir” by 100% of an establishment’s wait-staff is no longer over-polite and ironic respect, but simply a pronouncement that in these contexts you have no peers.

Eventually you’ll be skeletal, perhaps before too long the way things are going, you’ve never been difficult to avoid.

And it’s never been easy to know what you want – are you being selfless or self-protective in the attention you pay toward your lovers?  Are your emotions inaccessible (some stunted empathy) or over-attuned in such a way as to pay your own processes no mind?

Whatever the case, you’re threatened.


And now you are old, sir, and alone.  And both nothing and everything is safe, because you are no one to lose.  And any potential of personal contact – some sort of opening – would inevitably create leakage, exponentially multiplying your probabilities of loss.

If only it could be viewed as sport – this frolicking across the page.  (It’s not).


Who lays the trail

in the white sand

of the page?


Who explains it?

-Cees Nooteboom

            You.  Not you.  Here.  Not here.  Ever trapped in beginnings because of so many ends.  At this age, sir, you must force it.  Opportunity becomes a consolation called survival.

No one is fooled, particularly not you, sir.

But she reminds you of something, probably someone, which is no help to you, just an increase in the accumulated weight of what’s past.  You’ll go on, because why not? – You are nothing to lose.

Aspects of Writing: The Beginnings – Conception. Inception.


The Beginnings: Conception, Inception

To be thinking about thinking about thinking the origins, the inception, where/when/how the movement-act, a specific verbal urge – that is, to write – conceives.

“To form or develop in the mind.”  “To become pregnant (with child); to grasp seed.”  No when, no how.  No description.  What? – it is a verb, it is verbal.  Con– implying, for inference, a with-ness.  Form requires relation in order to.  Something grasped, taking shape, coming to be.  Wombed – a gathering and a nurturing growth.  Where? – the mind, the gut – of imagination and body.

Inception, then, a beginning, a change, necessarily requiring an other, an outside – entity or energy, movement/matter, to be taken, grasped, to form and develop.   WITH.

Lodged “under the skin,” catching “in the throat,”  sticking “in the mind.”  Festers and swells.  Obstructs and impedes.  Reminds and welcomes or avoids.  Alters, morphs, catalyzing change in and with the host.

Conception: to take with, grasp with, grow and develop with.  To begin is to become.

Alter your position, feel what meets your body, even if only air.  Step forward or back, turn – ceiling, sky.  Nuzzle your nose inside of your neckline – inhale.  Be with all that you are with.  Take it in, work to grasp it, and let it grow and develop, in and with you.  Change.  Begin.  Become.


Otherwise inception, impossible.

 other Aspects of Writing

The Unknown and Unnamed: Sees and Seems

Unfinished Encaustic by
Holly Suzanne



I venture to say this piece is unnamed and unfinished, but I tell you it’s alive and it dances!

I can touch it with my hands.  The wax is smooth like flesh, the collage like scars or scabs – where the texture lies.

Up close – I am underwater on sand, watching the fluxing of weeds.  Looking for retinal patterns.

At a distance it traces a woman, her dress kicking out, a-twirl and limning the lithe.

I’m entranced!

It’s Chinese scriptwork of wisdom and way, a beautiful nude languidly branding the air with her limbs – fertile signs and images prodding me – “move!”

Move myself.



What looks like dark ink stands out, but in reality swims under the surface – blotting, inscribing and guiding the paths.

Emotion and gesture alike: drawn swiftly and sourced far beneath, or pressed on and affixed from outside.  Each leave their marks – stark and prominent, – resonant emblems of what lies beneath, what responds.

I pretend I am calm, blank canvas to world – but when it brushes or cuts, smothers or slaps, what is bold in me reveals.  The fears, the wounds, the anger and dream.

My vision scatters in rage.  Vehement dashing and strike.  I can promise you this: the world will reveal me.

I have told you: you are with the unknown of the unnamed – a nothing answering to nothing – a cooperative become.

At the end I will be named, will have accumulated and inscribed them.  Surface, object, ground: our object.