Between the Spheres

On May 25, 2015 By NW FilbertIn Art, creative writing, fiction, Image, Neuroscience, thought, Uncertainty, WritingLeave a comment

This is what it looks like, in the one hand

Between the Spheres

I try to wrap my mind around it.

An attempt to connect the two – a keen accomplishment (perhaps unique to all the world of humans) – of right knowing what left is doing, and vice-versa.

Lost along the way.

I describe it as a process – indicating neither beginning nor end-directing goal, but rather recursive procedural motions. Realm of natural orders? Reversible time? Or indifferent to?

Can’t tell one from the other – hypothesize function – track trace with technology. Pretend data. Posit interpretation as theory. Wind up again.

Variously termed reentry. Autopoiesis. Self-organization, containment, production. Ouroborous. Infinite regress.

Middle is muddle. Diversely called. Corpus Callosum. Hermeneutics. Subjective objectivity. The observer effect. Confusion.

Fusion-with. Heads and tails are absent, or amount to the same. Keeping an eye (I) on the eye (I), so to speak. There are no levels of perception, simply additive, truly more of the same. No stacking, just tangle. Alongside, underneath, around, beside, below and through, but ever bound by hemispheres.

Imagine dynamo-balls – activated collectives of interdependent energized cells humming, buzzing or otherwise functioning according to their wired connective wholes-in-part. Betwixt the vibratory masses some buffery twingled transmission zone irrepressibly attempting translation of pulse-sorts, glyph-types, data blips…circuitously globe-to-globe.

I try to wrap my mind around it.

Wrapping, coiling, carrying…sire-wires…another organizational knottage of wattage…behavioral systems, courier-tropes, internal/infernal communications rife with all the residual, syntactical, emergent and scumbling give-and-take, mis-interpretation and noise.

Submarines and warships, encryption and decoding, fuzzily idiosyncratic as love or larger loops. Chaos all the way down or ‘round. Patterning bottom’s-up or through.

This is what it looks like, in the one hand.

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

On January 17, 2014 By NW FilbertIn Art, Experimenctes, Writing19 Comments

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

Scribbling – Formless Thing Things Form Being in Motion Exploring Complexity – week of 9/7/2013

On September 7, 2013 By NW FilbertIn Journallings, Writing15 Comments

Formless Thing Things Form Being in Motion Exploring Complexity

In the first place (after a letter to Seth and moving and thinking and painting with wife and a few hours of homework – reviewing Management and Organization Theory and Design no less) the first thing to do is to write. To simply write by hand, being in motion, that is, setting into motion, and all that follows, which usually happens (like today) first – after folding laundry, washing dishes, required reading, getting kiddos fed, dressed, off to school, checking email and phone messages and new assignments, touching base with wife, drinking (making and drinking) coffee, homework, family, tasks, events, chores, responsibilities, choices – after that the first thing to do is to write, after somehow quieting the buzziness of busyness, at the desk, reading something slow and singular like poems, philosophy, science, or art – something chosen, maybe a walk, maybe music, maybe a task, and then, oh then, the first thing to do is be in motion, set into motion, set being in motion at my desk with a ball-point pen (Bic) and blank, clean, beautiful, hungry, precious, anxious (anticipatory, aroused) lined notebook paper in a loose, forgiving stack, ready, ready, ready…

…for the first thing.

Which is not to say I was an object before, or that anything was ever a thing, or still (static) prior to pen + paper by my hand – no – Formless Things were Thinging Forms in all the other ways of motion, movements, relationships between tools and water, emotions, skin, utensils and hands and mouths and sounds and voices and contact continuous through air, always movement, humming being in motion beings forming thingless things forming formlessness, changing motion swerves and stoops, bends and helps listening to movements vibrations tones noticing shapes and lines and particling waves of substances moving moving attaching disseminating shapes, sequencing, paces, difference all pointing out where everything connects to everything else – the joining nature of boundaries – what is always next to – observe how the line works:

ι

before which space was “empty” but now it holds together, walls like stitches, buildings like blocks stuck together so things stay gathered, movements, lines, dance, breeze, blood, noises, gluing, gluing, gluing every to-gether, difference repetition pattern

Categories. To keep things adjoined, combined. Lists, minutes, days, tasks, timelines, hours, keeping thingless things attached in their movements – different ways of sameness – being in motion – and so forth →

→ Forth toward firstly, to write. Being in motion, set in motion, slowly faster, faster by slowly, by hand instead of tapping, fluid choices – typing is stop-motion, discreet, discontinuous – comparatively faster but less efficient, slower (by hand) efficacy thinking images or imaginary thinking now less critical (embedded critique): fluid. I stop. Breathing continues with hand thought memory hope – NOW –

A kind of yearning motion movement in letters read as words, phrases, meanings, less representative more relational – unnatural to this and this and that and other. Confusing writing, drawing, space and time, concept object sign symptom, doodle.

To communicate. Being in motion together if sequentially the linking looping line (by hand) tracing where we meet, are joined, in movement against/with, with, with one another – here is where we meet, inadvertent/advertently.

Being in motion, set in motion by hand – to draw writing – an advert for connection, to construct lines to bring things together, to notice. Exploring complexity through being in motion. Reading is movement.

We are.

The Argument Tunnel / A Chaos Tube

On May 8, 2013May 7, 2013 By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes9 Comments

From non-computational directions we arrive.

We may enter unaware or gingerly, with good and caring intentions. We might have plans to rush right through – eyes cinched, hands clenched, heart throbbing – with risk and fear in angry justice or righteous defense. We often stumble in. We get tripped up. It is possible we are shoved. Sometimes we charge.

However we get there – within all that dark and churning – disorientation accompanies our arrival. This temporal funnel – a passage where noise wins the day, interference scrambles messages, things fall apart and the center will not hold – renders us untethered, at loose ends – the chaos tube.

Occasionally we may notice our derailment as our words and thoughts cease mating, time travel whisks us to and fro ‘twixt past and present and some unknown yet desperately predictable future, full of echoey recalls, details smeared and marred, yet panic and terror renowned. Feelings turn to Emotion – symbolic, iconic, religious. We find ourselves grasping, delirious, snatching at this phrase and that, yowling or yelling, whimpering and weeping or delivering laws, lecturing truth.

Caught in the Argument Tunnel. There’s a beginning and end, but they’re tricky, elusive and vague, and no matter. Socially constructed – this moving event, experimental device – of a limiting duration. At what point is haywire? Do body and mind turn ape shit? Humanity parenthetically undone? What triggers, pressure, stress compress an organism toward self-destruction – deconstructive discombobulating dislocation? Unhinged and multi-piloted, the divagations of entropy?

Wind tunnel, spin cycle, a sequencing coming apart at the seams, gyrating out of control, baffled and frazzled by fuzzy and unsolving sets – irrotational vortices of turbulent flow.

Spitting us unknown and misrepresented out the other side. Episodic psychoses, neuroses, and unity. Draining extremes, pushed through the wringer, all flushed and muddied – it’s blood and guts, a birth canal, an orifice, survival.

Of limiting duration. A tunnel, a tubing, a way.

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Sent from a friend…

On April 23, 2013April 22, 2013 By NW FilbertIn Writing4 Comments

…passed along for Tocksin

(and other grammar afficianados)

Mythmapping

On December 4, 2012December 4, 2012 By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Traces, Writing8 Comments

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Were I to map my way. I would be able. By feel I would be able. Blind or no, an inner moisture, dark. We speak of eerie streets at night, that obscure mist. Even like that, lamp posts and all, in there, inner chambers, as if the heart were made of rooms, but inside out, in other words. A cavern of the outside, shrouded in nightmist, my dank heart. Without my glasses I am blind. These are the lights I speak of. Vague indeterminate orbs. Still I could map my way. Even now, were you to plague me, or stand me in a corner of the night’s cold rain, I have no doubts. For maps are made by walking. No one sees.

I can find you.

click image for sound

Of Inquiry (Inquiring)

On November 25, 2012 By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Philosophy6 Comments

Of Inquiry (Inquiring)

“Inquiry, then, is more like running around a circle and back and forth between different points on it than walking in a straight line”

-Stephen Littlejohn / Karen Foss-

Theories of Human Communication

And yet whoever thought of it otherwise?

Still sometimes we use logic, as diversion, among the so-called “points,” letting it go. Circular, perhaps, in that way. Much as we’d like to, never quite constructing a web. For capture. Or a moment to observe, re-flect. Rather, more de-flect.

If you get their picture.

Would be something like this:

“Intention provides the field for inquiry and improvisation the means for inquiring”

-Lyn Hejinian-

The Language of Inquiry

That is, I assume, if for “improvisation” we substitute some creatively imagining wandering – the wonderings of intention or querying of some inceptive experiencing? After a fashion.

I’m prone to argue the “point.” I.e., “What/where/when/how – a ‘point’?” Inconceivable for me. As my understanding of ‘point’ is like my comprehension of ‘god’ or ‘time,’ ‘truth’ or ‘being’ – concepts as moving targets without definite characteristics – indefinable insubstantials. E.g., the falsity of my diagram.

It wouldn’t surprise me if I thought of inquiry as motricity. When we intend to inquire we’re moving (point-less) and inquiry moves us (point-less) among (therefore, obviously) moving things (thereby point-less), if only in relation to us. The denial of a dead present. Pointedly.

No stasis for the living. Life (logic leads), as, literally, pointless.

So how do we refer? Index? Sign? “Point” to – in all this motion? Commotion?

Language levies us these lies. These helpful and distorting machinations and maps of partial, hazy truths. Like mathematical “laws” providing invisible scaffolding in which to graphically refer. To question and inquire into falsely stable invisible objects. Creative and imaginative markers. Hypothetical space-time convergences – true experientially – but unlocatable save for the traces in ongoing movement – unstoppable, uncharitable, unrecordable – each stoppage (representation), chart or reading of ‘reality’ being an-Other, a deflection, an improvisation and wandering (i.e. a new experiencing)…

…dropping the term “experience” as blatantly false.

…retaining till death “experiencING.”

Not, then, “to question,” but questionING, one and same with observING, evaluatING, inquirING, seekING, readING, creatING, fabricatING the impossibility of a truthful past tense.

…running round and round and back and forth,

not between points,

simply, actually, between.

N Filbert 2012

“Bless Babel.”

On November 21, 2012November 21, 2012 By NW FilbertIn Current Reading, Traces5 Comments

Below I am going to share with you an essay that I promise is worth every hour or two you lend your attention to each paragraph.

It is written by this person:

(Donald Barthelme)

and it is called: “Not Knowing“

from his collection of the same name.

it contains statements like the following:

“Any work of art depends upon a complex series of interdependences”

“tear a mystery to tatters and you have tatters, not mystery”

“What is magical about the object is that it at once invites and resists interpretation. Its artistic worth is measurable by the degree to which it remains, after interpretation, vital – no interpretation or cardiopulminary push-pull can exhaust or empty it”

“The combinatory agility of words, the exponential generation of meaning once they’re allowed to go to bed together, allows the writer to surprise himself, makes art possible, reveals how much of Being we haven’t yet encountered.”

“Art is a true account of the activity of mind”

“The aim of meditating about the world is finally to change the world”

and so forth.

Please understand me, if you maintain a blog, take photos, love your children, think about your self or the world you live in, dialogue with books or pictures or animals or people or movements…

take a little time to read this

Thank you.

Not Knowing

I’m Learning

On October 28, 2012October 28, 2012 By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Traces, Writing5 Comments

Within the architecture of participation, she asked for plausible promise. More is different, she said. I was learning a new society. Worlds become foreign in very small missteps. I am learning.

It’s never one-to-one. Each encounter multiplies complexity. Even the same. Identity remains to be found. Only hints and surmisings.

In that look I believed I had found you. I suppose I did, and so many, pronouns always plural.

We disparage our language its labyrinths. Drowning in oceans of context. Each arriving a slipping away.

How else might it be true?

“Language discovers what one might know, which in turn is always less than what language might say.”

– Lyn Hejinian –

*phrases lifted from Clay Shirky’s Here Comes Everybody