poetics pragmatics praxis
The motion blur of tonality and texture. The momenta centripetal-centrifugal. The morphemes directional and dimensional. The syntactics and the tactical. The torsion, fuguelike, and petaline, of the semantic. The impetus and compulsion of writing. The controlled implosion of its trajectories. A paradigm, an episteme, a techne, that is merely reason, and rhythm, and rhyme.
sets sequences series
The beginning is a blank page, like glass, a lambent white impasse. That is all. There is. Nothing to imagine, here is no midnight moment’s forest+, here where there is no loneliness, for nothing is alive, and nothing moves. It is only this, the motionlessness of spaces, their unmoving light, an unrestrained impassivity. That is the beginning unbegun. Cleansed, cleared, uncluttered. Scoured, sifted, and distilled. Yet the seamlessness is a semblance, a simulation. A simulacra, if you will. The unseamed exhaled from the cinematic; radiating from the still; the steady poise of fade ins, fade outs, dissolves, and the wide angle. Depthless limpidity which is never quite much more than a montage, or a mélange, of poses. For depth is not merely a layering of surfaces, but rather the surfacing of layers; the tellings, and the tales, each a filigree, a fretwork, a tracery of seams — a transversality of times and spaces, many-timed, multi-spaced. And so, to segue, unseamlessly, back to the reason for this untimed, indeterminately-spaced piece, it is now, eventually, ultimately, time for what is arbitrarily concluded, in collision and collusion, as
the beginning to begin. In time. Within times. Maps of time, discontinuous times, distinct, but bound beneath by the rush of a now here nowhereness that throbs, soars, holding in place the world as close of day+ where day had never been, holding up the skies as the dying of the light+ where no light ever was. While already, and always, A way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, […“the rivering waters of, hitherandthithering waters of. Night!”…] from swerve of shore to bend of bay+, along the endless horizons, is the last line, the ending, the long good night+; the line where the earth stands still and the sky sways and slivers, and streams to meet it, to greet it; although, at the moment, in the moment, it is a line almost inapprehensible through the blank blur of the page, its white beam, the light stall[ing] / between […] like a sheet, a door, a wall+. Since
the beginning is barely begun; the gathering of lightlessness, the tenebrous, shadows; the threads still to be spun from the dim and the dark cloths / Of night and light and the half-light+, from the twill of the evening [that] is spread out against the sky / Like a patient etherized upon a table+. This is where the moments are from, the momentarinesses and the momentum, in the waking from the ether, the rising from the table like Frankenstein’s creature, who in the vanishing beauty of the dream+ it had been dreaming, wakes, breathless, to feel the fell of dark, not day+. It is from this darkness that the strands are woven, from the minutes that halt the sun / one degree from the meridian // then wedge it by the thickness of the book / that everything might keep the blackedged look / of things, and that there might be time enough / to die in, dark to […write…] by, distance to [know]+. The fibre of things. Knitted, knotted, warp and weft, the textures of time, a tissue of weaves and waveforms, the fabric, final and finished, eddying and, hopefully, edifying; the vivid patterns of darkness, the dark shapes fine-drawn and fine-grained, Tribes on the march, planets in motion+, silhouettes and manifestations, converging on the page. Opaque on sheer, dark across light, movement along stillness. That is
the beginning done. And undone. Always already to differ and defer.
It is the unrest of the spirit, its movements dark and opaque, that is a beginning. The exigencies of the psyche, conflicted, conflicting with the character of the mind. It is not [just] that I want to write, it is that I must. A power beyond my powers. Everything in time, at times.
And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings, […] Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.+