How I write. The short. For now.
A bricoleur’s portmanteau montage.
Takes, retakes, technicolour. Déjà vu. Doppelgängers. Shades and shapes of static [spaces] — charged; electric; a rustling, iridescent hum.
The strata of a subterranean labyrinth; its compartments hidden, folding, sliding; its topography tenuous, propelled by the currents of flotsam and jetsam. Thought, and the self, scattered, caught and tangled, languishing, anguished, over the details [that contain within them deities and devils — and entire multiverses]. To sift through; shifting the surfaces, the layers; sculpting, structuring, resculpting, restructuring, as time and space and gravity and centers of inertia align and realign in a kaleidoscope of coordinates; to re-work it all by moving around stillness and space. Fixing things that aren’t broken; fixing things that are broken; leaving some things the way they are, broken and unfixed.
The parenthetical and the transpositional. Fiddling and tinkering. The configuration and the conflagrations of musicality and meaningfulness. The abstract concentrated, the dimensions calibrated, the material fabricated, from a transitory lambence, luminous and liminal — through the acoustics of scaffoldings, and the archaeologies of silences. Carpe debris; detritus diem; where shadow, and echo, are shards in the tessellating flicker, and flood, of dimensions; every word and every world inchoate; an eternity of reflections entangled with[in] each thing, each thought. Coherence and cohesion, with the combined and compounded senses of [the reaction and the relation between] adhesive and articulation.
It is all, always already, fragile and fractional, fractural absolutes of timeless decimations, the rhythms, logarithmical and algorithmic, of the inverse, of exponentials, of proportionalities [constants, variables] — if the logical steps away from the mathematical, nothing will add up, nothing will make sense, ever again; dreaming the transient and transcendence — seeking the transversals, the tangents — gathering topologies and tropes; moving with the detonation of denotations; working through the collusion of these collisions; finding the right worlds, in the best of all possible words.
Mapping the mind’s dys/functions, its minutiae [the dark matter — the dark fluid], onto the white spaces of the page; the linear places, and the curved, and warped, spacetimes. Threading the nodes through the endless layers, the swerving planes of graphs barely discernible — but as palpable as a phantom limb. In an iridescence of coordinates, existence streams, as consciousness knots and dissolves along the multiplicities. From the furthest edges, to the corners, to the other sides, the lines resolve into continuous sets of fractals and Rorschach blots — the coruscating clarity of the indeterminate, its illuminated opacity.
There remains, however, shuttling on and off the page, atop some absurd conveyor belt, the unsightly and unsettling bulk of baggage, bundles, blankets, within which rests the rest, and sleep, and dreams.
Where are the seams that separate same from similar, family from the familiar; what makes a thing that and not an-other; when it is all, over and ever, deities and devils, strangers inside outsiders, within our selves — the fractal knots of details, of orbits, inside the worlds, in universes, in multiverses, in an omniverse, within our words; while without — it is the seaming other, which on all sides seems to hold a thing together; every surface is shadow and reverberation, each space is an alternate dimension; the logical steps away from the mathematical; and within its places, inside its patternlessnesses, mind and matter and meaning are unformed and are nothing?