chp d.r.k.

in the back in the narrow length of stunning the alley or the neckline
slim, you retreat the angle of a sentence breeches, one taught thing, one
split, the frost the panoptic loss the hour the ear, one hears the move west
one breaks to hold to mark to centre. Unsettle, select, I see nack, you hear a,
song is where it lies, the lie the necessary the nack the lust. One is or one is.

Must

bring out the guitar again.
Oh let it be a shell pink 69 tele.
please.



And this. Wow.

Rimbaud considers me middle aged
we talked
it's o.k.
I've already outlived him by 5 months

although I don't feel middle aged.
I don't feel anything.

He had nothing to say about that.

After reading Barbara Guest

swallowed          throat
leaves       to end forgiveness
picked part a part a bande
a broken
descent
a means to mean an end an outside or
water       salt
in the mouth

are you lighter
are you in the zone are you
a direct line
of intimacy of fields of voiceless
stone

here where ___________ shivered an answer on her skin
exiled flame
exiled

Old me

Some things I used to do.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6CSJhAn1cPA

Mm mmm

Holy shit its a poem

In the name of the closet
in the
jealousies in boxes at the back what good advice
it is
in the closet, where decisions.

You’d think I’d forgotten
how to spell how to get along get
by
make
sleep, the mystery right out of it.

The mistake a body makes made
no the boat is an essential thing or
etre et néant
this practice of conversation
a field, concrete or whispering,

remembered, the first
of the greater triumphs
the in and out and
end, and then again
it is true the hands have it.

What is it
what it is
not to move.

Gave a presentation on Jack Spicer at McGill today.
Cool.

Love his mirroring, dictation and "core"respondence (my play).

Had I not reserved the flame for myself, I should have nothing to call my own.

Goethe, Mephistopheles

I need some opera.
New York calls.

October Musings, in Time for the Turn (of leaves, life, etc.)

October. Possibly the best time for les pensées. Death and dying abound, the air is thick with the scent of it. The heart pressed as a sieve. What extractions shall this years press produce? Exciting times. The fruits of alchemy and medicines almost cured. Prepare for the big rest. Well, not the BIG rest.... and so,

"Death is not an Event in life. We do not live to experience death." (Wittgenstein)

Fascinating reading, Badiou and his ruminations on singularity, truth, universalism. He writes of Events which occur and (perhaps) do not occur, and other such trickeries which enable the mind to continually pursue infinite combinations of possibilities. As a friend of mine once said to me, nothing is impossible in a world of possibilities. Jean-Paul Sartre weighs in on this in his wonderful writings--of which continue to sway my feminine mystique.

Lucretius, Epicurus both also weigh in on death. I'm part Epicurean, part everything else (everything in the slightest and broadest, most fragmented perspective). Inclusive and not. Binaries switching at the rate of sound. It's a wonder I remember to turn off my shoes (yes, that's the connection my brain just made, and I'm writing it here, for posterity. There is no hope!).

Epicurus on death. Do not fear it (and so, do not fear (the) Event): "Death is nothing to us. For all good and evil consists in sensation, but death is deprivation of sensation. And therefore a right understanding that death is nothing to us makes the mortality of life enjoyable, not because it adds to it an infinite span of time, but because it takes away the craving for immortality. For there is nothing terrible in life for the man who has truly comprehended that there is nothing terrible in not living. [Death] does not then concern either the living or the dead, since for the former it is not, and the latter are no more." And so we fear more losing the grip of consciousness. Is the idea of that "which gives no trouble when it comes, is but an empty pain in anticipation."

Be gone, empty anticipation. Welcome, forwardness.



Too, Epicurus believes that "unhappiness is a kind of "disturbance in the mind," caused by irrational beliefs, desires, and fears." Oh how familiar. I'm convinced once one begins the journey inward, down Freud's unconscious staircase (further narrowing dark chasms, but always with handrail--if you're watchful and guided by "something"...) one must proceed with caution. Although once begun, the journey invariably changes the pilgrim. What's sought? Awareness. Thrills--little and big ones. It's where they live.

Gestalt:

The theorists of gestalt sought to connect how the mind perceives Entires out of Incompletes (elements). "To the Gestaltists, things are affected by where they are and by what surrounds them...so that things are better described as "more than the sum of their parts." Patterns from chaos. Patterns from chaos. What else is there?
http://www.bastoky.com/Perception.htm

Don't even get me started on Form.

Amantes sunt amentes.

These are the days.

I am slipping away, the hours are too long, and not long enough. Treading time, I falter.

At once a mystery, the mind, it begins to dim or shut off. There is lack, much. There is time, too much. There are ideas and threads. I've sampled the wine, the affection. But am no closer to the truth. No closer to love. It is an ever evading dream. Only a dream, perhaps. For twenty years I've been chasing a dream. It's no surprise then that reality's sting, once in the "vast open"--to quote the poet Ashbery--is so harsh. That aging is such a dilemma. Who will want me now. Who would love an aging woman whose body cannot compare to those still in their bloom, whose face changes wildly with each passing day. A stranger grows before me. It is not the dream, it is not the love I've never been given but have fought so hard to keep. Is it true that which you pull at with all your strength, desire, and thought can simply defeat you in the end? What does the end look like? Is it empty? Is it love? There is no love. There never has been. I've been fooling myself all these years. I am a fool who points to the moon. How can one sacrifice so much of themselves in the hopes of gaining love and be the one who is left empty handed while the other one, who loved and still loves, knows he will find it again. As if love is cheap. A commodity. It is nothing. There is no love. There is only pain.