This is long, and really, perhaps, does not belong here. Reading through notebooks to find references to Alias and Laramie in order to continue the trail or trace of them… I happened upon a set of pages that seemed like something under or inside the emergence of Alias and thought it might be interesting to some. Or, just something to not lose to memory, but archive in this auspicious and fragile space.
Do I think this is my last probable chance (at 45)?
(it’s undecided, presently)
then this would = my final
What would I tell you – you few that have made the time worth being?
T, A, I, O, S, K, H, J, perhaps J. Arvo Part, certainly Blanchot, Pessoa, Bronk, Dostoevsky, Kafka, Jabes, Cixous, Rilke, William James, Schiele, maybe MK. Assuredly TWDY, Bach…well, too many to mention.
Whom else? Whom else, really? Dad? Mom?
In any case – the children, H – H because truly the past two years demonstrated an adult, freely-selected relationship in a way surpassing but only referenced by S, V, PJ, perhaps, no, perhaps J – what H has explored with me re: the world and life really I’d only imagined before.
Therefore – indecision (as ever).
IF the “best” experiences rise up out from the worst (often), out of ‘end(s)’ – beginnings surprise, then how can I know (as I age) if a better-yet does not exist?
It becomes a decision of ‘enough’ or not.
A personal decision.
If I can only imagine repetition with variation, and I’m already tired and starting to ‘ail’ – then the logical decision is to stop. To peace. To quiet.
As re: T, A, I, O (my children) – in EVERY case what lies ahead is far beyond repetition with variation – much unknown, much novel, much uncharted territory to experience.
As regards H, and adult self-selected relations of emotion/passion/intimacy – probably (seems to me) little could surpass…only possibly in elements, but – enough?
That is the question – always
If “stop,” no more. Yes it will effect, hurt, harm, perhaps enable – the others (T, A, I, O, M, D, J, H, etc.) but I won’t be aware of that anymore. It’s just DONE. OVER. SIMPLY.
If “keep going” – then demonstrating a care/concern/attention for the others’ lives – T, A, I, O, etc…) that THEIR lives are worth staying alive to see, and that – who knows?! – maybe my own life still offers more truly worth experiencing.
Perpetual conundrum, weighing lives – my own little one versus a host (however small) of others – it would seem theirs count for more than mine (alone).
Hard to say.
I guess we’ll all find out tomorrow what “I” decide. Not ambitious to keep working just to feed and pay bills. I have little confidence I’m capable of making something world-enhancing. But as a parent, a friend, etc., it doesn’t feel fair to make the decision without considering their preferences as well.
I like to think I don’t like to be selfish.
I would live in the country. Woods, preferably, mountains not too far away. And rain, plenty and regular rain.
There would be hours in the day. Hours for loving, hours for reading, for working, for learning, for play. Enough hours. Hours to think about the hours, the learning, the loving, the play, and hours to think the hours writing.
I’m aging. Hair, beard, muscles, flesh all going long. Mind. Long(ing). Time, not so. Seems shortening, shortened, fore-shortened…by the hour. I wish for hours. For time. For children, partner, places, books. For human.
She would be there. Close, somewhere, sometimes. We would wander, would work, would learn, play. Would be there, away.
The children would come. Would visit, report, eat, learn, work, play. Sometimes we would laugh. Sometimes perhaps weep or cry. Contact.
Wood would be sawed. Water drawn. Yes it hurts now – knees, shoulders, joints, bones. Slowed. Steady, almost. Still dark but peppered, frosted with gray. I’m aging. Tired. Memory almost all made up already. Thought always seems new, possible. Touch. Strength. Sound.
Hours. Gone ever so soon. Thought, then paper, then feeling begins (or the other ways around?), then gone.
The pen. The paper. Lust. Flesh. Language. Learning. Where is the time? Too much required for each daily need.
A joker, a harlequin. Another, another. Another other in the midst of me. Mottled mangle, Alias. Running out of time. Running down the times, the memory, the full flesh of desires, its theory and knowledge, its aspects and affects. So very many aspects. Hand gains speed, cursive loops thin to lines. Skimped satisfaction.
I like it to take time – loving, learning, working, play. But the hours grow thin. Shortcuts, swerves, abbreviations, tastes. Hints now. Breezes. Nostalgia.
Growing monument – what cannot be said – will not – the ineffable – unsayable. Ungrasped.
How though, to here? Piecemeal person. Farm labor, religion, sport, education, family. Plains, harvest, accidents. Mountains, Mexico, Europe, lists. Music, poetry, philosophy – earliest companions – a few pets, kaleidoscope of selves, the river, the sky.
Deaths. But no death here (yet). Just on, scrappy, incisive, insecure, haphazard. Books. Remiss without mention of books and relentless ache for books and ‘broads.’ Women and words, the headstone says. Women, words, wisdom(?). Nature.
To explore. Internal, external, outward, inward bound. Sciences and arts. Creativity and logic. Psychology, anthropology, complexity and chaos, nihilism. Literature and lust. Words and women. Matter and mind.
I’d have quiet mostly. No mouths to feed, no herds or pets or things to tend. Nothing to care for. Hours. Hours to tend. With mind intact, a library, papers and pens. And lonely land, mostly cloudy, cool, drizzly, wet. And legs to stand on, arms to haul. Eyes to see, please keep these eyes a-seeing – yes they’ve heaps of assistance – but please not a final fail. Not the inner darkness, nor colorless clouds. Hearing first, before vision. If the vision is gone – ?
Breath. Biosemiosis. The sign and signal of being – a body for meaning. Complex. Confused. Barely contained. Unspecified. Though wobbling to, fro, sound, precept, percept, interpret, sense. Hope. Hope of vision, of sex, of knowledge, health – something, something – beyond, more, still…
Alias sighs. Perhaps beautiful still, but soiled and tired. Undone. Who is this one? Which one? How. Who this be? Alias i. e. Harlequin. Unnameable, the attempt to name, creating traces of not-these.
“man is but a patched fool”
-Shakespeare, Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act IV, scene i