A Letter of Yearning Light – Friday Fictioneers 1-17-2014

Copyright - Erin Leary

It mingles as I tarry here.  Fence and branches joining what they distinguish.  From here to there I yearn.  Details all so near.  In my reaching they grow hazy.  I long for you.  I follow.  I wander.  Toward you?  From me?  Out beyond?

There was a time.  It’s lost its focus.  Forward, back, I cannot tell.  I am here.  A something-is divides us.  Even as it joins.  I reach across.  I feel you back.  And yet.

Yet not.  The moony sun illuminates.  Draws attention.  Drawing all the lines connecting us, all the angles between.


Many thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and Erin Leary‘s image

for the continuous and faithful prompts to compose 100 words

responding to instigating images and the Friday Fictioneers participants



the sounds of the shapes of what’s sounding in me….

a story or writing that seems to be growing/assembling by slow accretion…

The Writer: a context out of context

author sketch by Holly Suzanne
author sketch by Holly Suzanne


Faced with the blank page, Writer runs.

Confronting the white spaces, Writer enters.

Emptiness indicating gaps.  The writer attempts to cross.

In theory this is “bridging” – the ability to construct a bridge.

In practice, Writer uses words like rope.

Without them he would fall.



In the presence of what infers silence, Writer hears patterns and rhythms.

Sometimes also sees.

Constructing shapes of nothing, this is sometimes called.

Creatio ex nihilo referring to no context.

In absence of recognizable sound – the infinite conversation.

Writer holds there and eavesdrops.

Writing is a device.


Responsibility ends where opportunity begins, which invokes responsibility.

Writer fills the margins.

Working at the edge of labor.


If the tracks are laid, Writer composes rails.

The network is for nothing – conversation going on.

Creatio in contextus refers to complex emergence, a result of adaptation

and leftovers causally unexplained.

Writer is compelled into absence.

Children skipping cracks, stuntmen leaping canyons.


Writer is friend to correspondence

ecstatic moments

the distance in between

threading disconnections

shooting gaps.


Setting aside is opening doors

in land without land a Writer’s building.

Writing represents a reference

context woven out of context

Writer spins.


Portrayal is errant copy.

Narrative a fabrication.

Sentencing – destruction.

Every symbol plugs the whole

cluttering conduits

Writer can’t escape.


Writing is abiding time.

Never yet, always almost.

Writer leaps

with nothing there

into now + here

which equals…..

 N Filbert 2013


Waterplay – a triptych by Holly Suzanne


Waterplay – a triptych by Holly Suzanne

Waterplay – a triptych by Holly Suzanne


What we know for certain is the steady stream of life, the flood, the flow, replete with bits and currents.  Immersion.

What is less clear is whether we are rising or falling, whether paradoxes hold true, what that might look like.

And if we’re swimming together, how that alters the land, changes the buoyancy, rearranges our standards of measure.

We – individuals – no longer a fixed point of reference.

Now “I” that formerly looked oh-so-much like a “1,” is just a needle in a flurry of dried whirling pines.

Rising up, rising down, in relation.

The self, the other, the flood.

In certain light, it shimmers.  In little light it bleeds dark.

It’s not as if we’re provided decoders, infra-red goggles, enlightenment.

I’m as much in the sea of life as you.

We share, in this sense, an equal, fluid, ground.

And not as something to step up or out of.


The self, the other, surround – weighted flotation devices.

I’m in, at a kind of “over here.”  So are you.

There is no escape.  We sink.  We rise.

N Filbert 2012

(My apologies – these pieces have proven very difficult to photograph in a way that presents the depth of layering and colors truly present.  These are fairly large oil paintings created of Autumnal colorings and glow, many more greens and yellows, oranges and hues filling out the originals.  It is painstaking to present them here struggling with glares and digitalia in a way representative.  Forgive me, and if you are able come see the originals through the month of November at Mead’s Coffee House in Wichita, KS – they are rich to behold!)


Sentence Strokes

About running small.  Over a surface made of paint.  Exhilerating lostness.  It is then I know texture.  Arms draped over a streaking swell.  Scritches and scumbles underfoot.  Are there this many colors in the sea?  Splattering like sparrows.  Am I getting the picture?  I lie down.  Cairns and edgings against my back.  What seemed soft – crisp and poky as briars.  What looked hard and smooth gives like dried glue.  I scurry in the trenches left by brush.  Spin through dips and curls.  A painting is a planet I inhabit.  Directed through the paths of subtlest vein.  To explore I engage.  Guard asks that I step away.

N Filbert

What Once Was Here…Again

A couple of days ago I reblogged Searching to See‘s incredible posting “What Once Was Here.”   Their pictures lived on and wriggled their way into my psyche, so I asked if they would be open to me composing some paragraphs responding to the images.  What follows is the result of that…

What Once Was Here
images – Emily and Alex Hughes
texts – N Filbert
  1. What’s left hanging, a dangling or loosened shadow, often ends determining.  A note you left with simple instruction opened on unprepared mystery.  Unable to handle and afraid of the dark, tiny conduits tunneling everywhere.  The twine wobbly and knotted, but the lines of the threshold so clear.  When things are left hanging, though exciting and ominous, possibilities frighten.  The key to what once was here is risk.