Terrific collection of attempts at languaging mystery around incarnate language: https://maney.us/blog/2014/12/28/meditations-on-the-incarnation-from-select-church-fathers-and-doctors/
Tag: language
St. John Chrysostom: Homily on Christmas Morning
This is another post I made during Advent four years ago, which bears repeating. I have read this sermon by St. John Chrysostom (late fourth century …
St. John Chrysostom: Homily on Christmas Morning
the songs i do not know (iii)
Tell me the songs you don’t know
Dan Beachy-Quick, Of Silence and Song
Light…makes some things seen, makes some things invisible
-SIR THOMAS BROWNE, IN B-Q, OF SILENCE AND SONG
iii. inside the other
.
i walked
caves, hollows, holes
reaching in
wondering, wandering,
exploring
.
wherefore?
in whom?
this forest-stream-mountain
rain
cloud or animal
species
perhaps kind
world
.
else
.
eye, crotch, finger, part
leg, mouth, buttocks, cleave
begin
in prayer
darklight arithmetic
and and and
also
more
.
a line
emotion
an happening
or even
event
what is called
beginning
again
what feels like
entering, entrance
entry
way
.
fuel
to the opening
.
i walked
in prayer
singing
nothing
known
listening
still
to answer
.
call
response
(“Tell me,” she said)
of songs
you do
not know
(“i don’t,” i said
i do
.
begin
again
before
where now
already
The Songs I do not Know (ii)
Tell me the songs you don’t know
Dan Beachy-Quick, Of Silence and Song
Light…makes some things seen, makes some things invisible
-Sir Thomas Browne, in B-Q, Of Silence and Song
ii. “Tell me…”
bluebell. jay.
joy. blank. block.
blur. when.
what?
how. where. ever why.
now
it is very
most unknown
not knowing –
i don’t;
breathe
.
cerulean. youth.
abstract. asunder.
i wonder
what for
then
when now?
how does
one tell
not knowing
unknown
always
it sings
knowing
(its’ icon)
and melody
The Songs I Do Not Know (1)
“Tell me the songs you don’t know.”
Dan Beachy-Quick, Of Silence and Song
“–knowledge is made by oblivion.”
Sir Thomas Browne, in B-Q, Silence & Song
clips, or snippets,
the known as partial
notes
signifying
the experienced
gesturing
hymning (nearly celebrating)
its reverse –
everything
unknown
i didn’t know
the sounds of
as they were
always changing –
ever never
.
so i made noise
my shapes
transparently novel (novice)
windows
framing, marking, visibling
all i do not know –
every word an icon
view-finding
all it’s not
.
Image
Sound
Landscape
Intention
Meaning
Clarity of
.
definition
None
.
thus every song i sing
i sing of what i do not know
or hear or dream or feel
i think
but do i tell of songs
i do not know
or sing not knowing?
.
would i recognize
unknown
song?
do i?
sing?
.
it’s hard to tell
meaningful questions
from questioned
meanings,
meaning
tones
notion
her eyes
the water
sky
adroit
wonder
or passion
.
not known
i sing.
Language/Life
This is the same struggle – (LanguageLife)
this mis-match, trans-mesh, between media (their mediums)
.
A woman arrived – beautiful.
First thought: why isn’t language like her?
no – why isn’t language Her.
The difference. Media.
Eventually I felt this about music, painting, photography.
Eventually I felt this about perception, expression, myself.
.
i.e. Why isn’t one thing another to the same effect? Why doesn’t one temporally unified multiplicity (perception) correlate adequately in another?
.
My writing, these shapes, lines, movements, and possible sounds and touches and sayings are ever as real as hers, (equal), but not her (different) <in so many ways, sort of> <and not many ways, kind of>
.
There is animated material in motion with layers of perception – interpretation – impression / meanings. And here as well.
But they are not the same,
metaphorically, experientially, actually.
And they are.
(We are, species-level, carrying similar realities in similarly leaky containers).
And we aren’t.
- Effect (1)
- Affect (2)
- Mode (0)
- Artifice (N+1 / N-1)
- Occurrence Happening Being (=)
We are.
And aren’t.
Same Difference
.
Language lives. is alive. is not life. is life.
As also language.
And not.
She and I are. And are modally identified. Materially.
And are categorically for many striations,
same.
And not.
Effect. Affect. Also same difference, everywhere within scales. Eventually, no difference?
Eventually…only same? In a thin layer, deep and thickly.
Undone. Coordinated.
Same difference.
eventuates:
AND – – – – OR – – – – NOT
(same differencings, as each require equal potentialities)
.
Endless.
This is a slippery slope of a flat plane.
.
Therefore I love the “Book of Idolatry,” “truth,” empirical methods! Same differences, endlessly, potential, infinite variation and similitude. Swerving curves of identity deranged.
Lo how the mirror distorts in its clarity.
The painting clarifying distorted.
Voila.
Another.
The same.
Again.
Differently.
.
One might suppose differing due to activity – close circle – if static could be posited or possible we’d see (as we are seen). But seeing is active. As is that seen.
therefore, indeterminate
that is, knowably unknowable
i.e. uncertain in its certainty
Voila!
What?
same difference
BEING
matters
November the 24th
Lydian
The summer
almost always,
so hard to endure –
warmth, light –
no solace
no protection –
only so much
undoing
is possible
in light…
heat
.
The autumn:
a young child
aging,
deteriorating,
dear demise,
desiccation,
something almost true
to fact
.
The spring –
its delusion,
deluge,
as if there were
a coming-to-be,
or fascist utopia –
with –
all the bells
and whistles
.
Our winter:
discontented,
and good –
solidity
of presence,
sweet ache
of living,
being,
held,
in place
.
I love.
“I is Another” (or pronouns as shifters; after Jon Fosse)
Like the first,
the every new
dependent of change;
agent of again,
now this
.
the starting
that continues
into while
.
its struck
and tumbled
and keeps rumbling
a murmured name
.
an other, again,
an I, again,
iota, (the smallest mark),
now this
On Thinking
jackrabbit mind, dashing –
here thick grass of nothingness
there a frenzied masturbation –
to and fro, quick left, jab right,
the daydreams, grief,
and absence fore and aft.
It’s a wonder, this pondering
machine, unhinged
of its bearings, moorings,
bodies baring everywhere
and not a drop to think.
What drives desire?
Seems pushed and pulled
and craven. Erotically
erratic, playing at its gloom
“it’s nothing,” says the mouth,
always caught between
the breathing and the axons
blood swelling pounding through.
The feral hind leaps out,
ruminate sparkle, devious
flux of concept, fact, or notion,
swimming in emotion,
nothing known.
Polysemic Stupor 