Alias V. Harlequin, remembers (via language)

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I always wondered at my naming – “Alias V.” Not knowing where I come from, and finding all locatable Harlequins tricky and at play.

“Alias Verbum” – who would name an infant that? Another name, a word. Also known as, logos. Usually I identify as iota subscript, after Robert Frost.

No one knows my origin, but he’s very hard to find, everywhere, continually on his odyssey.

i‘m reading a book entitled “How Words Make Things Happen.” What have we made? Ideas, spells; subjects, objects, and actions. Incantations all. Beginnings, I suppose, but not the first.

As I understand it, aging along, someone had to be there for me to come about, and coming-about would be my story. Who or what might tell it? Acted, sung, or read? Becoming other after other after other. Known again as… by any other name. The player. The trickster. The Joke.

In the beginning was… and I began, an alias of something… and everything its word.

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With Out

I never had to pay for words

yet how much my words have cost me

.

There is (there seems to be):

.

Experience.

.

I am insufficiently prepared

for it.

[how each beauty hurts so much in joy]

I am.

.

Ever unprepared:

.

Experiencing –

.

always sourced with outside

and ever without sides,

filled up, as is.

.

This is

.

Differing to ‘I am’

An other

Any

other

.

All thens

and equaling nows

complete without –

.

the wolf howls

bear bellows

in woods –

.

my lingering past –

.

with out.

.

somehow

I never learned what words are for

so

I begin

.

Again

almost

Drunk Like a River in Flood

Swelling my banks,

perturbedly turgid,

effervescently carbo-

nated, almost,

(or perhaps it’s entire…

depending on who

&/or what you believe,

with their reason…)

Swollen, in flow,

a thundering racket,

flotsam and jetsam

I wail at the bends.

A “bender” they call it.

I’m here, all the while

passing through. 

Drenched (or “besotted”) –

the rain.

I am home

and I’m rushing

to-ward and away,

instinct with desire,

for which fire

is no  match,

only patience…

I’m a patient

and ill to the bones…

you will see.

But I gurgle

these songs

as I pass..

filled with belches

and farts,

it’s unseemly…

Drunk

like a river

in flood

[too apparent] –

here’s

where the poem

begins

Some Kind of Elegy

Great grandeur of light

Your laughter tinkling its tent

A poet has died

Like a raven

We watch him pass

Rivers and trees

There’s probably more

Words

Are like that

– suspended –

Over silence

You’ve heard her

Read the dictionary…

Everyone disbelieves

Only I drink it in

 – sufficiently –

Everyone’s doubt

Grand Canyons

are like

the unknown

we feel

of any other

(or each)

I put clothes on

have hairs trimmed

appear

and once again

guess at meanings

In other words

I “care”

insofar as an organism

hopes to live

Which I continue

to exhibit

because I think

I love

you

And no one knows

Not-knowing (yet)

What “love” is

“Yet” such an

Empire-ical promise

(some day our greed

will pull through) –

you hear it:

“I love you”:

that evil

devoted

inspired

and diabolical

urge, disturbed

and ravishing

As long as

we win something

we’re almost happy

Tapping at Windows of Words

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.

Distortion of the Perceiving Eye/I

“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.

 

What Words Do

Jean-Christophe Giacottino - Asemic writing work (Having no specific semantic content, Writing without words ... The form without the sense - Secret talismanic writings... Asemic calligraphy)

“language cannot cope with its relation with the world”

– Giorgio Agamben –

“language is a part of our organism and no less complicated than it”

– Ludwig Wittgenstein –

Sometimes it seems that words might do anything!  Connecting things and people; defining, describing, explaining and exclaiming; naming, inventing, questioning… arguing, fomenting, discovering; seducing, displacing, and singing.  Very little experiencing of the human kind comes unaccompanied by terms.  – Is that so?

There are dreams – like signs and billboards of liqueous or exaggerated perceivings… “the sign – is the quietest razor of darkness” (A. Dragomoshchenko)… and slit it does.  We bleed.

And breathing, heart’s-pulse, sleeping along with the intake of food, its output as waste, our birthing and walking, working and running… and dying.  All our play.  Intercourse, of course.  Do moans and groans, grunts and cries and sighs, lisps and complaints (our myriad utterances) – mean words?  mean language?  What of our relative silence?  The thrumming body of the speechless and deaf?  Eye-gaze dumb, its blindness?

The skin has been rubbed off my fingers.

Wordlessly, soundlessly, lust and desire screech on…shrill in body and bone – both where the starving exudes and toward its petulant prey.

What of the growth of grasses?  Is language there?  In rhythmic patterning of rain?  A sense of sunlight?

Sometimes wind whispers.

A cat moves.  Silently.

And a “sign – is the quietest razor of darkness” – darkness visible, darkness speaks – (it has been claimed – via words, the verbal).

Sweet and troubling confluence: activity and languaging (the same): the “verbal.”  Of sound and motion.  Our noise.  Moving sound around in and with our bodies – in speech or dance, in strain and the clamor of being.

What falls (or grows, blooms, disappears) outside the devouring knife – that which segments and shrivels the fluid songs of experience and reverie?  Of presence.  The Slicer-Dicer we’ve composed, posing together to cut from faultless fabric?

As utterance, inscription fondles its way, brushingly and blade-like, sensually surreptitious.  Caressing and crafty, rapaciously blessing its praying and braying of names – who can counter its reduction, repression, its blame or silvery shame?

Ye without words, cast the first stone.

As if genesis were language and time: space to create with.

Comprehensively unknown.

Fog and Birds

In swarms.

The littlest pieces –

– form clouds.

Droplets, ions, atoms.

What is called “molecules”?

.

Faiths.  Belief.

.

Trees standing,

apparently strong,

lost to view,

in dense fog.

.

Molecules…accumulated,

accumulating, gathered

toward some clearing.

Same differences,

at large scales.

.

“For Nathan…with love”

someone writes.

“Nathan” signifies me,

“love” signifies…?

.

Imagination and dream…

a fog and a swarm of birds,

an hypothesis

into the unknown

.

a thing humans are prone to

do by “nature”

– ? –

who or what evaluates “nature”?

what “human”?

if “nature”?

for SummerMLee

Thickets

Thicket

The world overgrown.  At least any accessible sector.  I’ve heard tale of open, of empty, of spacious, of dearth.  Not where I approach.  Even my own body – its in- or out-sides, its wherewithal.  Always where-with-all.

Tangled, almost briny, in some instances.  If able to determine a surround wherewith or whenwith to take a stance in.  Even thinking, even breath, even a pulse of bloodbeat.  Any sound we form toward music.  Any making-sensible.  For us.  Our kind.  Those within the overgrown – the untamable, reckless warp and weft.

To hunch there, immediately becomes here.  How different – if imagined?  To gather, to pre-tend.  To suppose a disposition, a presence somehow differentiated.  How-some?  To curl in, therefore (perchance? per theory?) “to find,” to be able to, to call, to be-in-g?  Yet how?  Or why?  Where is the for?  And what might the hole be suspected to fill?

Where is the gap between this and the other?  Between you and me, he or she, this-that-the-other, between…any/thing?  Something wishes to know, apparently… and this wishing/motion/decision/desire/activity/drive (whatever “  “) begins by implicating violence… bi-lining a world with borders, invented barriers, perceived traces, intuited splits, cuts and hacks that are not there until.  How un-till this supposed “soil” from which to distinguish, fabricate, or function?  From which to “operate.”  Surgeon-species.

What knowledge is expected by destroying?  Deconstructing (or constructing) – both requiring joints?  By suture and slice?  By taking life?  Prone to decompose.  What a trajectory.

What options?  Compelled…to con-fuse…confess…to communicate, express, enjoy, enjoin (what we find ourselves joined to) still even to de-scribe, in-scribe, in-voke, ex-tol, inter-act or en-gage provokes difference, demands separations, dismemberment.  To cleave.

To try to body.  To try to mind.  Attend.  Acknowledge.  Distortion.  To twist and torture an other, as the one or…alteration.  De-pict.

Impossible connection already seems to be.  Each, every add-ition a disconnecting, a cutting, a stitching seam according to a pattern.  Whose?  Whats?

Over, under, whelmed.  Where is the open, the undifferentiated, the is?  Always already be-fore.  All ways, all ready, be-for.  In other words…not possibly worded.  Prior to word.  Involving act (including language) but unincorporated (already corporal), defying design-ation (surprisingly? one would think ‘it’ [not] is at the end of de- or un-signing/signifying), erasure of description, all palimpsests equaling… perhaps (per-happening) – infinite, certainly uncountable, incalculable, without ordination, order, ordaining, without with-in or –out.  Only WITH, inconceivable, imperceptible (perception cuts), irretrievable (the rejection of any re-), disabused, disturbed perturb, a dreaming dreamed turbulence = a happen to be.

Still this thinks with.  Language.  Lost already, displaced and falsified by a tiny thread, an whole fabric, a world-veil at least whilst continuing as world…

Think again.  Dream.  Confuse.  Imagine.  Invent.  Art ducts (vents) for breath… further re-moves, com-pli-cations, furthering within, for fun?  A dance, a play, a re-morse (cryptic codification, surreptitious and additional) some native complicity to immeasurable complexity.  As is.  As if.  And so on…