Nana

…and now it does seem,

great Mother,

that you are upon

a slow Autumn

the final season

of your full life

 

the flock you nested

has long since flown, confident and vivacious

into the bright Summers

which your careful Spring-raising made True

of six 9-mooned Winters

resiliently carried through

 

there are now birds of those birds

nests inspired on those you prepared

the multiplication of your first work, speaking its success

reverberations of your Love, unabated

still spawning seasons, Summers

thriving on the essence of your light…

 

…and so, indeed, as much as it may seem,

great Mother,

that your body has turned on you

and now terminally sheds and folds itself away,

the spirit and truth you have given us to fearlessly fly on

can neither fall nor whither, but prove you, immortal.

What is the person?

beginning to end of

a line

ahead of itself

such that there it is

with its head

feeding

on its own tail

 

but tales, tells

not more self-annihilation

than growth

from something like a self-making self-same

comestibility

 

that is,

starves and satiates

on a hunger for the

meeting with itself

 

whilst also all the time,

of course

spinning out –

out-of-control of course –

fattening itself up on so much more than itself,

yet feeding, and feeding on, foremost

that for which it feeds

(everyday nutrition,

in this sense,

the mere bare bones

of a much more temporal appetite)

 

so, spends time

spilling into itself

after stinging itself

always there also feeding back

 

future biting history

history, the old biting

and old bit

bleeds into the salivation

salvation

of a continuity

that presses forward

by pressing its fangs

probing

into

a hitherto

 

basically, orbit on its own axis

something in time able to time its own questions about time

minimally independent

of the most immediate answers

of an otherwise questionless timelessness;

 

hunger for itself

line forced into contortions

often getting quite fed up

but through that same bloatedness

already layering the appetite

reaching the round-about point

that will be the stomach –

swallowed itself

and out the other way again –

to stomach

the next moment

of a self-nurturing

nutritioning;

 

satisfaction,

the present-ing conditions

of a re-turn to an emptiness

that bites with the fulness of a line

turned to look at itself

 

at once

the opening and closure of something

in time

capable of life –

introductions –

beginning and ending in ways

that do not have to end the way begun.

Company

like from like with me

with me

the sea might call on the sun with me

me-me with me

and the sea might count the nights with me

seas with me

cease with me

sun-seen scenes with me

sea sun­

sea son

sea sin

with me

sea set the sun set me sat with me

with me

sitting with me

setting with me

sinning with me

sands sent on the short side of sea-under-sun with me

with me

coastal with me

it is beach with me

contextual, all that and all that with me

a mess with me

from me: the-desert-with-me with me

have to count the numbers of counting with me

and only desert me with me

and so a lot and then almost no one with me

and then the hope is days long with me

underwater with me

and over the top with me

crystal-ware dolphins on the mantlepiece with me

nowhere with me

contradictory me with me

me with me with me

and someone else not me with me

but who wanted to “me” with me

be with me

“me” more than me with me

seas with me

cease with me

of thirds with me

many many threes with me

meeting me with me

about meeting people with me

me and those people with me

sometimes more than me with me

but always more than me with me

whether people or just me with me

back and forth in population sizes with me

with me

or not with me

many many with me

many more with me

trees with me

on the seas with me

ceasing with me

me and not-me with me

me and me and not-me but then again me again with me

and all that and all that and not at all with me

yes, all that like not at all with me

but always me

with me

 

with me

everything in time or The Chaotician

today

better prepared

for tomorrow

than yesterday I was

for today

because yesterday

for today

there had been an expectation

of something

which, in the end, threw everything;

 

now, today,

expecting tomorrow,

I do not expect something

nor do I expect nothing

but I expect that

even this expectation of neither

will be wrong

and yet somehow also right

but in such a way that it will have been wrong, nevertheless

and even then, on top of that and/or below it,

third-order,

such being-wrong-about-being-right-about-being-wrong

also being

not quite right nor quite wrong either

and so on

to fourth order

and fifth

and on

and on

until the day has gone and what it actually was will have been

which probably not much more than the affected expectation of a tomorrow ever postponed by its being expected per se

and probably a lot more than that, too

probably in such particular amounts of right and wrong that it and us will never quite be settled

and so that, for us, tomorrow, which must be expected, always expected, is still, in-the-making, on its way to us,

as we, same-way, on our way to it via an errant program of expectations

it being, at last in part, the remaking of those expectations about itself

guaranteeing that tomorrow will ever be in such a way that it will never be –

that is,

the total connectedness of the disjointure;

 

indeed, it now seems to me, this neither and both stands a much better preparation

for tomorrow

than yesterday’s had been

for today

having been thrown off by the unexpected problem

of expecting the problem of expectation per se.

A single matter of life and death

life brought

by the rush of blood of two

egg meets seed,

everything

from there on –

meeting adjourned –

is life

bringing to life

the turtling

day by day

one way

intensified

experience of death.

 

Consciousness would be the giving to death a face.

 

Politics doing

grave-yard provision

grave-yard setting

grave-yard management.

 

Popularity, based on fashionable headstone mineralisation

but with everyone knowing true beauty to lie in the 6 feet lying beneath all of that.

 

Which also means every discovery taking us, each time, about another six feet further into something than before

 

ever more precise digging tools

ever more floorless hoist technologies

ever more permanent writing materials.

 

Where doubt and guilt are about second-guessing 6,

whether or not 7 or more

or 5 or fewer

would have been a better death-depth for the rest eternal

after all.

 

And the religious debate hole and epitaph symmetries.

 

And the philosophers kill time by wanting to know how possible it is to accept life as the experience of death whilst sametime affirming death as the death of experience

and the most encouraged amongst them take up the question with chaotic glee and say:

if no other experience than life itself

then no other experience of death than life itself

no other life than this dead-end dead-ended experience of life itself

all experience dead-ends in itself

which, surely, is fatal enough to constitute a definition

 

with the addendum that:

life as the experience of death is probably more about preparation

for an eventual meeting

since life is already, and death is on the way

the way-ward differentiator

so more about preparation than an undifferentiated state of an ever-dying same –

and does this not indeed look a lot like the patient waiting for something to happen of everyday life, after all?

 

(Death is what differentiates life.)

 

And the scientists getting along best of all, tracking and tracing everything in its deadest form, its most buried state, inert, building and refining a corpse of knowledge more and more suited to the prolongation of death, with arrogant apathy demonstrating just how far out six feet can walk, cataloguing how widely and untidily death can subsist, at all the temperatures in all the darkest and smallest places.

 

And each of them with their own expectations

their own exceptions

their own thoughts on the death of life

 

Politics full of killers who only differ on deciding the most appropriate way to let the people die

 

With the popular always giving death a lively quality

 

The navigators heading to uncover the graveyard of time, histories of the dead and buried, new routes to the roots of burial site historical experience

for there are collective forms of death which likewise lose consciousness in cadaverous form, mummified form, collections buried away in their very own archives of decay

 

whole cultures have to be buried,

their subterranean arrangement setting and resetting present graveyards

and future graveyards, too

 

once declared full

the graveyard itself gets buried

 

The religious, in turn, believe that death is the same as life but without any more death

 

The philosophers become failed poets

because

all poets are failed philosophers

about learning “how to die”

though every time

in the teachings they leave behind

always end up teaching more than they ever meant to

 

And the scientists are all about death by delaying the death of experience

a special sort of slip into the fatalism of the world

never quite managing to match up the experience of death with that which gets deferred again and again by the pursuit of its knowledge: death itself

experience (of death) is their key word

leaving something out

so

philosophically

the scientific touch murders with every incidence

life without death

is life without life

the deadliest of all

 

too much of the scientific

a sociology repeated unquestioned

would eventually leave life and death experientially undifferentiated

 

(of all the different nightmares of nothingness,

immortality is both the longest

and thus the most disturbing)

 

but no one will ever have their own way forever

but everyone will keep making it their own way for all time to come

 

But above all, there are the people who are all-in-all some of all of these

and some of none of them

who mourn despite themselves

and who mourn because of themselves

 

but above all, they mourn the death of those whose experience of death never reached the age of wisdom

the death of those whose experience of death never aged beyond its first experiences

those who fell below lonelier, poorer selves than others given the chance of a matured death, a knowing death

 

young death gives the experience of death an uneven darkness,

gives death a very sombre scale of differentiation

 

but the cultivated death

on the other hand

pickled alive in the positively bacterial

marinated awake in timely putrescence

the least mournable of all

the one thing that should be celebrated

a death that knows death by the time of its death

whose terminal experiences have had the occasion to look back and look back over and see and acknowledge the triumph of the decay

the glory of the finished and the temporarily postponed death of the unfinished

and watch everything, whether in memory or through wisened expectation, die all over again

one more time

as if only finally now staring fully, squarely into the eyes of the face of death

 

the moon of experience, finished, ready, ultimate

to eclipse the light

life and death together, at last

aligned

under one and the same breath

 

this is Death that must be celebrated

since it is Life able to be celebrated,

the closest ever gotten to a proper meeting.

taxography

all-ready

 

a sacked-up

dermis-embalmed

soupy gelatine

of marrow, blood and fat

 

sitting

ecstatically

 

accidentally

prodded

 

the only occasion left

 

flows, shuffles and ripples

in and against itself

sloshing, muffled,

all the way round itself

as one continuous wave,

the perfect dance –

like a spasm of history,

unanchored

                                    moonless

fleshy artefact

of some long since retired modality –

 

now, alone (all-one) produces its own beach

its own music

falling beside itself

to the sound

of the cell-by-cell progress

of its patient decomposition.

 

Carnivalesque

without sea-son.

The echo

I split the sides of the world laughing at it.

It all comes apart because I am an example.

Like a comedy of maps whose puzzle-piece first appearances dissolve in the yet much more puzzling ocean they spill into the gaps left unfilled by their drawing.

All that drawing drowns itself.

Very funny.

Cartography describes space at a distance, through the distance of abstraction; laughing is acknowledgement of things at a distance, through the distance of abstraction.

I laugh because tragedy is what will occupy the cannot-be-filled-up space

The one whose filling-up just retraces it

Repeats the distance

no cancellation

just more delays

Throws fresh water into the already very in-salted ocean))))>>/

De-lay: an impression of something is the renewal of something under the perforated umbrella of a part-hiding part-showing phenomenology; no stopping the rain; something shows up again meaning itself beyond an every-piece-of-the-puzzle collection entirety.

The shore never quite reached, despite however much mapped, hunted pen and paper, mast and sail, beneath near and distant suns, over shallower and deeper waters, with and against world-trapsing winds, current-sitting equators.

The share never quite breached.

The shadows never quite embeached.

The strip of possibility that narrows everything.

That makes it impossible.

and thus

interregnum meaning of this really

piece-by-piece-never-finished

gives it its possibility.

Here and, therefore, not-here, too.

Shown and, therefore, hidden, too.

Laughter speaks the impossible language of the impossible. Keeping the distance. Not overwriting it with a repetition that de-lays it with too much presence, all over again.

A meaningful voicelessness.

When saying anything is too much.

Laugh because it is the only way to resign without giving up.

Laugh

at the silliness of being involved

at the misery that involves us without a second’s notice

at the happiness that comes as a result of sadness managed in some bearable form.[1]

This and that

happiness and sadness

but never either totally

just both in differing degrees

winding each other up.

Family resemblances. Therefore, probably some sibling rivalry.

The puzzle is the puzzling.

That is,

even a full-on resignation has to do too much, make its own way to the grave, step-taking a many-ness that stands against its own reason

has to make a difference that does not absolve it of the world

but repeats the world under its own terms

which is a world-determining thing to do

world-changing

more tied down than ever before

so procreatively non-procrastinately involved…

I have to laugh at the nihilists

full of meaning

The shore they describe, the map they puzzle-piece into the ocean of puzzles,

sends them pen and sail into the very worldliness initially set out to be decried.

Boat-taking makes accomplices of us all

It is funny. Because the world is funny like that.

Just as I must laugh at the optimists

who think that the shore is really there, and that its correct writing shall tell us once and for all the procedure of being.

I laugh at myself for finding all of this funny

because it is not funny

nihilists retrieve examples ample from the wars that optimists – out of their unwavering correctness – repeatedly induce

there is nothing funny about this.

It is tragic.

And the only way to bring hope back from the des-pair of war and war-thought is to laugh –

in other words, speaking to the impossible in a careful manner. To regroup

to side-split a little

let out a little pressure

let air out

get inspired

a different air in

making the most of difference

of repetition

before setting out again

to speak once more with the nihilist

the optimist

the sure knowers of the shore

one tells me it is definitely not there

(burns it alive to my eye. Oh, the excitement of red vision)

the other that it definitely is

(which puts it out all over again. They say orange. I go limp)

The same story

They share so much without sharing anything

and repeat the distance without even realising it

as we all do

but they who are distance’s true lovers

possess the required indifference to make their own torch-light shaping of the invisible show up

fornicating and breeding endless difference

which

given what they believe

is funny

quite literally fucking funny

whilst I try to make them laugh at themselves before they make us all cry again

with their either-north-or-south-pole erections.

Laughter promises a spherical reach.

 

TL; DR: fill the gaps with a sense of the gap. Like laughter that really echoes.

[1] Thank you, Frank.

Autonomy and Dependence

Part 1 – Autonomy

 

A fickle tickle

eats at my pickle

 

beep-boop-bop

beep-beep-boop-bop

 

right through the middle

beat-beat

loop

a simple riddle

beat-loop-flop

 

loose

loose

weep

 

dimes to a nickel

soup

soup

leaps to a wiggle

seep

seep

her favours trickle

boot

boot

shot

 

cope

cope

her winter’s drizzle

boop-boop-cape

beep-beep-cope

descends un-hymnal

boop-boop

beep-bop

on my hot whistle

 

boop

 

boop

 

barely a fiddle

boop-beep-beep

the fickle tickle

boop-beep-beep

grows to a fizzle

 

beep-boop

beep-boop

seep-soup

soap

soap

 

futureless signal

 

boooooooooooop

beep

get me a sickle

boooooooooooop

beep

beep

beeeeeeeeeee….

 

Part 2 – Dependence

A fickle tickle fills the main Signal,

Brain drained and jarred like a doped-up pickle,

The trickle of Time drives Need insane

With each feeding more starved of First Symbol;

Pleasure self-harms, deflates and makes plain

Nothing can Presence ever-retain.