Sunday, September 27, 2015
Variation on a theme by Stevens
I am not about to get up and make coffee. Nor am I going to even get dressed. Putting on some music and returning to the comfort of the blanket is all I require. The only encroachment of dark catastrophes is the workweek and the procession of tiny thoughts aggregating to aggravating.
The crows are outside considering and trading news, but they are the only ones. The rest of the world seems as silent and lazy as myself. Others are perhaps snoring, trying to find underwear, retching or quietly addressing God. Even the music of the blue guitar was made decades ago.
I look forward to the Sunday evening. Why should it be the end of anything? Does it matter? I can only think of crows in fire maples—wings furled—waiting and dreaming the darkness upon the world, freeing Sunday night from the week that follows.
For all of that, it is difficult to find the divinity within myself. But in the naked island that is the woman on the bed, beneath the blanket, dozy, I find the solitude of moments blurring into now. I am not even sure there is an I here beyond the marker made of language. So I play with logic just a little, turn upon the bed and test the air with one bare foot.
If there is no me in isolation, then I am not alone.
Friday, September 18, 2015
The line of reasoning has vestibular uncertainty. It veers and leans, going places it never intended to. The line of reasoning may very well lie down at that point and hope the vertigo goes away.
This post may very well be nonsense. Writing nonsense, that is.
It all depends on whether writing is a verb or adjective. I cannot really tell from the fragment I have left myself.
1. Either I am writing out words that do not make sense, which may be what I am always doing.
2. Or, there is a specific type of nonsense characterized by a predicate of writing.
I might live in a careful universe that pretends to know everything I am saying.
Really, I am nothing more than a child. I know this, know what I mean when I write it, but then I can think of a number of things that are "more." I am certainly taller than most children. I have "more" years. I possess "more" ignorance through the seeming paradox of maturity: i.e. the older you get the more you know how little you know.
The other main difference is that I cannot see many people who have any authority to nod their heads as I babble. Parents perform this act.
Instead, I seem to be surrounded by other nothings-more-than-children. Perhaps wiser beings in the universe can nod with authority? With authenticity? Celestial dragons and Rilkean Angels?
But do they understand me? Do they try?
Do they patronize me?
How could I possibly understand them? Perhaps that is why I do not see them.
Or am I like a dog? With people giving elaborate explanations for why they will either beat or feed me when all I really care about is getting away or eating something. They speak as though I understand them. Which I don't beyond the general intents I have just described.
It seems remarkable that people can agree that a series of lines—most which are terrible artistic renditions of things—can constitute a mutually intelligible communication system.
Either there was a great deal of consternation, argument, compromise and bloodshed, or it was an unconscious accident. Considering human history, a messy mixture of the two hidden beneath the strata of time, dirt and dissimulation is the real truth of the matter.
Sitting here, I am well aware that writing is different than speech.
But is that any really different than speech?
Gibberish becomes a communication system when two people agree on what it means. It really becomes a language when one of them can lie to the other person with it.
|Tadahiro Uesugi: NHK Cover Illustration|
I feel attracted to his sense of rhythm, how the flat planes of color suggest quadrilatitude but are not exactly perfect if you take the time to look closely: the shady street in trapezoidal contrast to the triangular buildings in light and especially that bow window.*
What does the woman's hair color actually mean? Or is it there as a flourish? The visual equivalent of "so as I was saying" which usually adds nothing to a sentence.
What is going on here? What is this saying to me?
It isn't saying anything. I am interpreting, but without the rudder of language. This is often the problem with art.
Or: I don't know if Tadahiro is lying to me or not. But unlike a piece of writing, this illustration does not appear to be nonsense.
So, as I was saying, words in conversation might mean something by being noise.
Yes, silence is important and also a sort of lie. Or a large container we grub around for in the darkness to fill with lies. The darkness is neither silent, nor empty. For the ears and the body the darkness is full of fur, viscosity and metals of different types.
An art critic or parent (or both) can explain all of this much better, I am sure. But she still uses words.
Sometimes the lies are well meant. This is all I can hope for. I feel I have written nothing. But I look over all of this. Nothing written does not seem true. Nonsense written could also be true.
*For more of Tadahiro Uesugi's illustrations, please visit his site.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
I am pleased to announce that "Let Me Fly Away," a story about growing up and moving on, which was published in Silver Blade has been included in the 2015 Write Well Award Anthology!
Currently you can find a version on Kindle, and there will be a print version available soon. This looks like a sumptuous collection of stories that will "touch us, amuse, intrigue, resonate--stories take us places we have never been, make us think, and that we cannot forget."*
On behalf of myself and Hagengard Studio (and that illustrator of mine) I want to extend sincere thanks to the editors at Silver Blade for believing in the story, and Rick Taubold for his work on compiling the anthology
*from the Write Well Award About Us Page
Update: I wrote too soon, there is a print version available as well!