Tag: images of self

Our Mysterious Callings, er, befuddling vocations

On By NW FilbertIn Art, Experimenctes, Philosophy4 Comments

continuing qualia…


{eliminating parts of speech and tense(-ing)s}

            Where we began, and when, was next-to-nothing.  How must have been something, and the what bears repeating.  Complex and variegated channels, ganglia alike to beans taking root, nutty and filigreed.

The event is conception and all its pertinent involve (where-when-events) – resultant growth of hairy little what-hows.

What is a theme-and-variations composition, melodies often scarce to trace, but certainly music!  Thrumming drumming subtle, with irregulating tremors, shushing swinging bellowed strings, replete with punctuations.  A human is a riffing thing, something of artist’s collage coupling biological systems and common laws relatively, referred to as patterns.

Person is an unstaid element, living requiring stimulation and acknowledgements, enough continuity to be.  Elaborate contexts of nurturing structures and their vice-versas.  Cells swimming fluids, objects in umwelts, mini-beasts scuttling a globe, as seen from various distances (perspectives not visibly limited).

Existences like screens full of mimeographed transparencies layered and colored by hands.  Bewildering tangles of syrup and string.  Odd combos when mirrored by mirrors, as mirroring means.  Two-sided at least.  Reflected subjectivities / subjective reflections, sort of spinning things set on a gyro turning tilting.

Nurturing structures of what-hows commons: language, culture, environment and arts.  Structuring nurture of sustaining nourishment, awareness (attention) and semblance of security.

And there you have a person (a what-how) and a world (where-when-event); synonymously person-making-world, er, world-making-person toggling looping recursive spirals adjusting discontinuous connectivities…

Perhaps each and overall what-how’s where-when-events all beggar why (i.e. remain puzzling) at which point (or somesuch of the like) there probably arises a who.  Who and why as yet unknown, being conjectured derivatives only from how-what in where-when-events.

All demanding further potentially endless inquiry and study and inventive erasures of conventional grammars and parts of speech.

To be continued…

Ghost-Love-Coherence

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Writing4 Comments

Ghost-Love: Natives of a Dwindled Sphere

 

“If it cohered,

cohered to you, if you were there, to say,

‘Oh, it is not the way we say it is,

not that.  Oh no; that way isn’t the way.’”

–William Bronk-

“We keep coming back and coming back

To the real…

…straight to the word,

Straight to the transfixing object.”

–Wallace Stevens-

“Fleeting,

they look for rescue through something in us, the most fleeting of all.”

–Rainer Maria Rilke-

“No, we had come too far for that belief

and saw ourselves as ghosts against the real,

and time and place as ghosts; there is the real.

It is there.  Where we are: nowhere.  It is there.”

–William Bronk-

 

            If the real continued.  Continues, without us.  Without.  Tree, bird, house, river.  If.  As if.

 

If it cohered.  To you.  But for a moment, now here, where we are, if you and I cohered, making what is between us, what is real.

Eyes and what’s seen.  Hands and their touch.  Ears and the music, the noise (the silence).  And so on.  The real.  It is there.

You called?

I called.  Call.  Am calling.

“If it cohered, cohered to you, if you were there, to say,”

Where we are: nowhere.

Not the way we say.  I say.  You say.  Not the way it is.

There is the real.

We say to the angel.  The halfling.  The between.

“House. Pond. Flower. I. You. Platypus.”

“Oh, it is not the way we say it is, not that. Oh no,” you say.

But the word is.  There.  Transfiguring angel.  Figure marking the between, made between.  Nowhere.

Fleeting, transfixing object, what you say we say I say, what we write.

Straight to the object.

“that isn’t the way,” we say, “not the way we say it is”

But it is there.

We keep coming back and coming back

As if it cohered

We

To things.  Transfixing objects.  You.  Words.  Fleeting.  Now here.

We say to the angel, the between, “is it there?”

Half-cohere, half-cohere, wholly transfixed by the object, fleeting, in-between, being made?  You.  I.  It is there.

Is it there?  Where we are?  Now here.  Nowhere.

Half, tri-partite even.  Thus now then.  As if.

 

The fly is bothering me.  It lands.  I am thirsty.  It is gone.

 

You made an object.  It is there.  I am looking.  While I am looking there is paint, form, shape, rectangular, drips strokes runs splotches.  From here I imagine texture.  With my fingers, it is there.  Where I am.  If it coheres.  Between, meeting point, figuring angel.  Ghost of the real.

I smell.  I smell you.  Between my nose and you and me.  Nowhere.  The connective stroke between w and h is awkward, unmatched.  We have to make it.  Make it work.  Cohere.  Happen.  Fleeting.  Fabricate.

It is there.  Between my eye and the page: “wh” “Nowhere” is there.  Cursive broken.  Either way.  Visual puzzle.  Ancient.  Reader supplying breath breaks tone punctuation.  Reader punctuating piercing, when I listen, ears to your lips, to your voice, I perforate, puncture, separate, we make.  It is there.  Angel.  Between.  As if it cohered, me to you, if you were there, to say “Oh it is not that way” as I punctured it, broke it down, chewed to fragments.  Fragments (fleeting) it is there.  Hands, voices, bodies, where we are, suture, stack, come back and come back, house.  Conversation.  Fence.  Pool.  Kiss. Nowhere.  As if.  Angel.

In a perfect world…”Oh it is not the way we say it is, not that”

“No, we had come too far for that belief”

Fleeting fleeting fleeting and coming back coming back

here

 

 

There is no coming back, either to nowhere or now

But the word.  Transfixing object.  Painting.  House.  Yard.  Bed.

 

Squirrel on the trunk, I swallow, skitters away.  Not there.  It is not the way I say it is, not now.  Except this: if you go straight to the word, it is there.

 

Painting, photo, body, voice – transfixing objects – if it cohered, cohered to you, if you were there

If I was, I am, now here.

You are not.  Now you are.  Words, the real, I keep coming back and coming back, writing

You are.  You are.  You are.

 

I hold the page close.  I look.  Youareyouareyouare, I puncture, punctuate, I wonder if it coheres, cohered, if you were there, will be, the words are, the page, a barely thing, ghost of a horizon line held straight to the eye, nothing between eye and edge, very little, almost nothing, but I see, see something

It is not the way we say it is, oh no, not that,

but we keep coming back, coming back, saying again, each time new, different, again, same words, written they are there, angel, we are, we are, we are, nowhere, now here, if it cohered.

Decompression: A Process

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Journallings, Philosophy, WritingLeave a comment

it goes on…this emptying search…

(Re)Assesments

 

At something of a loss, what feels like a “crossroads” except that perhaps nothing in existence is really either / or.

That was not a sentence.

Bewildered without anxiety, I approach a sort of noisy blank.  A surfeited absence.

I have the amorphous sensation of being entirely undone and woven up as a satchel of my everything.  Every instance of myself threads the material of an empty knapsack that is me, dangling from a stick over the shoulder of the world I inhabit.

That the bag, indeed, is empty.  No objects or trinkets in that wee darkness to finger or grasp, no spirits to set free, emotions to unstopper.  Nothing within to escape, not even air.

My entirety fabricated as an emptied bag.

 

All I’ve ever written, attempted, every action, thought, adventure or relation.  All my labors, abilities, acquisitions, emotions and dreams; every word or intuition, fear or blatant risk, all ongoing consequence(s)…EVERYTHING – internal, external; past-present-future: is the skin of a being, the form and the boundary, the grafted substance of an absent individuality.

 

I experience this neither as a blockage, nor an impasse; no meaninglessness, purposelessness or ennui – simply a vague, obvious experience that all I am as a being is my interface with the world within and around me, idenitifiable without essence.

Responsible, shaped, recognizable and devoid of identity – no narrative or plot, character or definitive name, just an inextricably meshed passel of experiences forming a pliable veneer around a vacant hollow.

That all will carry on, as such, until its end.  Experience upon experience, before experience, during and after experiences and experiments – weaving, threading, joining…this being-form, this walking thinking speaking shape, this perceptive living husk or porous shell, a wave and trajectory of experiencings.

To feign a purpose, an intention or choicy action as this reality requires some arbitrary groundwork – hypotheses and rudimentary organizational operations.  What might this handbag proffer?  Or emit?  What song might be huffed from this void?

 

This is where I seem to be.  Evaluate.  Assess.  No pillars, few givens, a smattering of beliefs and bones and hunches, a median vocabulary of gestures.  From this – what pretend to build?  What fabricate?  I find that I want to, have desire to, create.  Make out of what is woven – everything that forms me / allows me to be – but in what manner?  Open.  Free.

 

As if the absence is realized, the content in-formed, substance resulting from wafting motions and play.  Capacity for invention.  Something like soap bubbles – materials forming a translucent and wobbly funhouse mirror of shapes…leaking…nothing!  Yet capable of popping fragments like droplets or spittle, or words.

 

This seems to be where I am.  I know not what might emerge, but I’d like to leave some trace of the fabric experience has made of me.  Scraps or ephemeral stains, artifacts.

 

I, for instants…renewed?

On By NW FilbertIn Art, Experimenctes, Journallings, Philosophy, Photography, WritingLeave a comment

Neologism

I wish I were an I, some gathered locus of selves, remarkable.

A fullness that might be characterized, signified.

Even the assortment of lines that structure my name – hundreds of corners and swerves, crossings and redirections, don’t represent much of me.

And the little pronouns – they might direct one toward the objective subject that I am, but they’re pointing everywhere.

So I scribble, sketch, doodle and draw, adding lines upon lines, erasing, rewriting, deleting and searching thesauri and definitions…

It comes out looking like this:

or sometimes this:

signs and diagrams, theoretical possibilities, charts and patterns, fantasies, dreams

ever in search of the neologism

some necessary invented term