Wallace Stevens, from Prelude to Objects
Wallace Stevens, from Prelude to Objects
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.’”
“We keep coming back and coming back
To the real…
…straight to the word,
Straight to the transfixing object.”
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.”
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.
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
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
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.
The Unknown and Unnamed: the Conception
A few days naked and I’ve bewildered myself.
I was never good at math.
But I do love the rain (absorption, immersion, ambiguity).
There’s no accounting for taste.
I think I am a concept.
“a concept is a convenient capsule of thought that embraces thousands of distinct experiences and that is ready to take in thousands more”
What’s in a name?
“the function of conceptions is to reduce the manifold of sensuous impressions to unity, and the validity of a concept consists in the impossibility of reducing the content…to unity, without the introduction of it…the conception of being, therefore, plainly has no content.”
I ran into a sign.
I was flooded, I saw and I seemed, I heard and replied, have been undone in my doing… I’m a roving mark, like a vessel constantly being filled and emptied, at once.
I can’t perceive without a concept, why not the simplest one – a single mark, a dash, say “/”?
/ fear it “plainly has no content.”
“I am what surrounds me”
Advancing “empty,” a flesh-coated collection of organs replete with a coding of operational signs (we’ll call them ‘language’), I foundered. Considering no one in pursuit of no/w/here, I became wherever that was (is?).
“This conception of the present in general, or IT in general…is before any comparison or discrimination can be made between – what is present – must have been recognized as such, as IT without parts abstracted and attributed to it…”
No/w/here – nothing – no one: “embracing thousands of distinct experiences (while attributable or identical to none of them) and ready to take in thousands more.” ALWAYS.
Every/w/here, everything, every/one: I conceptualize a concept, a mark to attribute an infinity of experiences toward : “/”.
Names changing by the millisecond.
A concept without content, or all conceivable content.
A baffle, a paradox, distinct and unidentifiable (in essence).
Here “/” come! (the unknown and unnamed) possibly sporting any knowledge, any name – perhaps heading your way even now! Beware! It’s conceivable, whether intended or not, that all of us are empty concepts, flooded concepts, without content, and all of us heading no/w/here at once!
“Here is where one seems to be”
“The place I really have to get to is a place I must already be at now”
“’I’ can only be identified by the instance of speech which contains it, and by that alone”
(to read all the Unknown/Unnamed writings thusfar accumulated
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Zoe Ereni is a writer, performer and activist who would have been a style icon and comedian a century ago.
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