Category: Creative Nonfiction

Literature

Í dræm of swaying structurez

The first night, I dreamed,

We three ran roof top to roof top of the dilapidated neighborhood.

There for the wrong side of the tracks [sic. haven] provided by Amy A’s abode.

Mary C. ampersand Julie Ann B. (two grace filled people who took a sharp veer on the Christian side to which I’d never relate).

We ran atop house `o house til the abrupt end o’ the block.

Four stories high was the final structure, condemned, that used to house god knows what.

Mary C. at the far edge.

Me at the opposite far end.

Julie Ann B. cheated away from my edge like a 1st base runner poised to steal 2nd.

The house does a pendulous sway.

We all freeze.

Having seen Amy A. (a few hours prior) make an untested, brazen, leap,

resulting in a ten foot multiple tumble into a rocky canyon.

We could not see her, but her howl could curdle milk.

We quite and in quiet acted in diligence.

Holding the space of the present tense

While immediately looking to one another

And then the other.

Are we in harmony? How are we distributed?

Does the outfield (us) need to shift?

And then we three dance and (re)distribute our weight.

Slowly and gracefully descending to the ground.

With a hand and help from one another.

Leverage exploited.

Physics.

No words exchanged or needed.

In perfect peace and health.

Hours later we reunite with Amy A.

I cannot gauge her. In health or worse for the wear?

Rode too hard and put up too wet.

This much is clear.

Amy and I wait tables under a skinny, reformed Cody B.

I keep forgetting that is my purpose.

No one else cares. My tables moan but move on unfazed. Not angry, despite slow service.

The following night, I dream.

Mary C. (far on one side) , Julie Ann B., again, nearly cheated from my position on the polar, more precarious, side

We, all three, find ourselves (precariously) alit.

This much is clear:

The ledge will withstand two of us, not three.

My edge is the most likely to give way.

I feel tired and glad.

Like my path does not follow theirs anyways.

I tell them to shift their weight toward Mary C.’s edge while I test my edge.

Julie Ann B. sees my intention clear.

She pivots across the broken plank making my edge the most lethal.

She and I now share the same bit of ledge.

She hugs me.

Her back to the ledge

Her feet pointed to mine.

My heels pointed barnward.

She is now poised between me and the free fall I was glad, nearly excited to make.

My life now hangs with hers,

Instead of alone.

I feel sad, but loved.

And yet she increases the likelihood of us both dying.

With her additional mass

On the already precariously split wooden plank.

I feel deep disappointment at having to take her mortality and life into consideration.

I’m not committing suicide, mind.

I’m moving to a new plane. I’m more than prepared for it.

But what was proper for me (letting the plank split, myself fall, into the mystic. Unafraid)

Was not proper for her.

She was still here.

It occurs.

What I mistook for wood is cheap alloy

Perhaps. I think,

I could smash the back of my head into the barn

Until the alloy gives

And we could three slip in.

Reverse Head smash one: alloy gives several inches.

I am encouraged.

I look at Mary C. on my far side.

She sees my intent.

Nods.

No words needed.

Julie Ann B., still clasped about me in a hug,

screams

She has a much more frightening perspective than Mary C., or myself.

The quicker I do this the better.

I think.

She will panic and inadvertantly pull us off the ledge.

I’m fine with this, but it is not proper for her.

Reverse headsmash 2

Reverse headsmash 3

None hurt me.

Each produces more give in the alloy behind us.

A shadow encroaches from over our heads.

Pressing forward.

From our backs.

The back of the barn

Directly behind us.

Directly overhead.

All encompassing.

Reverse head smashes, without pain, continue.

No panic in my mind.

No true bravery either.

Just a desire to get JAB inside the barn.

My mind fears the shadow is from a UFO.

The biggest airborne ship I’ve ever seen.

How could it not be alien?!

Panic for the haven of the barn’s interior now.

Reverse head smashes continue.

Sans hurt.

I feel a wet trickle

I feel scraping, like forest branches, from behind my head.

Cutting my temples, face, neck, and shoulder tops.

Nothing hurts.

I just feel blood run on my face and neck.

Barely.

I realize I’ve broken us into the barn’s interior.

I twist and fling Julie Ann B.

into the hay loft immediately behind us.

Mary C., who has never weighed more than 100lbs, jumps across

To my ledge, I catch her hands and propel her inside the loft.

Still on the ledge. but safe now,

I turn to see the fearsome shadow’s progress overhead.

I realize it is just a regular commercial jet

But it is about to crash into the field ten feet away.

We have hay behind us.

I worry the heat of the explosion’s backdraft will ignite this dry material.

I expell loud nonsense in an attempt to say all this as a warning.

The plane crashes.

I wake up.

I’ve been sweating hard in my sleep.

Narratory Recall (Thought)

Æ am a/the word. And a/the word is not only, but also, glad/ly.

The recounting or slight reprise of several (re)countings falls to me.

Í endeavor to do my best on this, your sojourn.

But(t < giggle >), í am a Fool, a bit of a cad. And proud of my wide-eyed wonder.

Please, bear in mind that what is “down for me is up.”

What the sisters did in this sphere marks history. Of course, time perpetually does this to history, so long as there is one conscious, sapient, vantage point to see it.

Cassandra and Echo. Aphrodite ruled Cassandra.

Cassandra knew it not until she reawoke from her latest dream.

Unselfishness went far. Embracing laughter and not war did too. Now, such names reach above and below.

There is a beautiful naked woman symbolizing this sphere, allegedly it is she.

Symbols.

Failure, futility, debauch and valour. Her titles and attributes.

One who loves roses as well as the name of the rose.

She sometimes takes the form of the íynx.

The wryneck.

Has the power of beauty triumphant. The meaning of this is not to be taken for obvious and it will become clearer in your imagination as we progress.

She took but two weapons. One was no more than a long bit of cord. Her girdle. Atypical. Her lamp. She carries her own. While she loves to sing the Song of the Goddess, she has yet to accept Shakti theology officially.

Amusing given her role. But then again, she is a fool.

Of course, Rādāh took most of the heat.

~ But, now í get ahead of what passes for my mind these days.

Your merry narrator has an acadæmic background. Outside.

An able learner keened up into a gifted child. The tradition of empiricism, many empiricists think, has become a large collective comprised in majority by a bunch of pretentious prognosticators. You may add my name to the list. I would not deny it.

We do have a methodology to which we may aspire; although í’m not sure we understand it anymore.

Any work undertaken is going to address a research question. This general question will lead us to our object of inquiry. From there, we may begin our study by commencing with research.

Let us consider our object of inquiry here to be of Landgrave tradition.

This endeavor, like all forms of writing, will be an imagined experience. One that we shall undertake together.

Í will address conceptual and practical problems.

Practical problems predominately belong in the professional spheres. They address states of affairs in the world that are found troublesome. Much like a lazy eye, this perspective will ultimately depend on whom you ask: what is the “real” problem?

Sex, love, gender, women’s rights, men’s desires. These are not problems as much as potentially and periodically problematic. The difference akin to someone who likes the soup hot but not spicy. Modernity shuffles the deck of sex, gender roles, discrimination time and again; and these term fly like spaghetti towards the wall.

And yeah, it sticks. The pasta is done. While a new bot boils already. Periodicity. Embrace dont fear.

Conceptual problems tend to the acadæmic spheres, as they often have the luxury of not solving any real problem, but rather simply pointing out that what people currently think is wrong. Undexterous. Or else, they may point out some other version of not knowing [sic. differentiated from not-knowing].

While there may be no tangible cost to this type of problem there is a consequence: a particular kind of ignorance: a particular lack of understanding that keeps us from realizing something else that is even more significant.

My conceptual problem will address the problematic notion we refer to as Cartesian Dualism. To put it nicely. But we will consider the present social bifurcation existing between sexuality (pleasure, sensualism, hedonism) and spirituality aka soul power.

We will also review the practical problems of the politicization of love. Our concept of love and souls and spirit tethered itself to new stakes of symbology with the birth of nations. Questions of individual efficacy and empowerment. Evidence nature is not foisted by self organization, but birthed by it.

Perhaps nature dealt us the recurrent self organization that becomes Parcigal et al.

No 0ne knows.

Beginning to the Li(gh)te

Forget the í of

And cons/c/ider just the Camel.

reservoir avec Well-Ho(u)nd(ed) Companion. [snarrrrl]…

< c > was still. Used,

as in cir(í)ce, wrecc(e)a.

cniht ( knight < ni(gh)te > )

was subsequently changed to

kniht,

adapted, possibly, from a/n (Æ)Egytian hieroglyph signifying

A Staff in the Sky.

3rd Century BC, a modified character was introduced for /g/, and ‘c’ was

Returned

For /k/

Parsigal > Pargical

Becomes

Parcigal.

Ala

Open secret x

The use of ‘c’ ( and its variant G (Kn<N>) replaced most usages of < k > and < g >

Overtime.

Hence, in the Classical period and after ‘G’ was treated as the equivalent of Greek

Gamma and <c> as the equivalent of Kappa.

This shows the n(r)ominazation of Greek words as in

Foreign

Do you watch the colors behind your eyelids?

Before you sleep? When you nap?

Indigo circles appear for the first time in my closed eyes.

Like lonely little street lights switching on during dusk.

They come now.

She does not take compliments well. Which is usually no problem. People tend to give compliments to feel better about themselves. But not him, she felt. Lo siento. And mægen was not just confidence and will, after all.

Such magical realism required mysticism. True sense.

The relationship to a/the Natural Mægen required forging using mythology, ritual, and metaphor. Primal communication of energy, forgotten under the mesmorism of conversation’s lilting song.

This was a source of their power.

The simple act of lying in bed togrther transforms.

Empowered by a ritual of sleep and dream enhancing their souls.

She felt. Keening each other up, right and proper.

She apologis/zed frequently for no good reason.

Lo siento.

She foresaw lectures they would (had already) given

In Socratic circles.

Circles inside onlooking outter circles.

Issuing out into infinity.

Open secret x being the key from one circle to the next.

The Lovers leapt

Circle

To

Circle

To

Circle.

Cabal

Conspiracy

Conclave

Confederacy

Æ do word/(k)/s.

Ascribing NETZACH’s sphere with wandering fish hooks and and salmon ladders leading to the salvation found in spawning, and, dog loops with off leash areas, staying put in the middle of nowhere.

Our Outréness & Control (disambiguation: outré)

OUTRÉ adj

; not confirming to traditions of:

; behavior ; customs ; style ; Usage

Outré adj ————————–(current English usage above).

,Strikingly-odd, Bizarre, Extravagant, Exaggerated,

Outréness n, [pl/sing] ——————-(Eng usage).

,Strikingly-odd, the Bizarre, the Extravagant, the Exaggerated,

Outrér v, [past participle]——————-(French usage-specific)

,To carry to excess,

Outrance n, [pl -s] ——————————(Eng usage)

*proper prepositional pairing = ‘at’ or ‘to’

,the last extremity,

Middle English: outré

not confirming to traditions of behavior, customs, style, usage

Middle French: outrer

to pass by and over come. SURPASS

Middle French: outre

BEYOND

Middle English: outraunce

À outrance

àloutrance

Outrèr.

Our

Router

reroute

tour, out

Rote

Ore [amper-sand] Orer

Space and n-touples

You came from when. Not where.

You are what you is.

Not what you have been.

History’s circus tent contains three rings:

x (the lengthy ring)

y (the girthy width ring)

z (the ring of deeply depth)

From three dimensions we derive volume.

Adding the presence of an audience under the big top

yields tesseracts.

Formed by the eight lines connecting the verticies of two cubes:

representing a single dimension in the unseen fourth dimension.

Our vectors show us single spots as though they naturally situate in 4D space.

But without the conscious observer, what connects one cube to another?

Four dimensions.

Precense

1. the fact or condition of being present :

the state of being in one place and not elsewhere :

the condition of being within sight or call, at hand, or in a place being thought of

the fact of being in company, attendance, or association :

the state of being in front of or in the same place as someone or something

2. the part of space within one’s ken, call, or influence :

the vicinity of or the area immediately near one:

the place in front of or around a person

7. something (as a spirit, being, or influence) felt or believed to be present

Watch “Into the Mystic | Van Morrison | Lyrics ☾☀” on YouTube

Hot griddle cakes and flank shakes.

Just discovered this delight.

Homage. No rights.

Watch “Steven Page: “I can’t vote, so I used a song instead”” on YouTube

Deep discussion.

National importance of any member of any nation.

Especially America, says a regular, nobody American.

We were already great, because we do and did our best. Even when we fail. There is nothing to make great again.

Smile, folks.

Think of your parent and or your kids.

Rallying for the Return

I hope this returns. I wanna see. I wanna see and scribe and speak it.

Like a couple of hyperliterate binary stars (astronomy def) discovering each other, their system, already hand made by them without their awareness.

I whisper things in the middle of night.
Things that used to only be explicit and carnal,
things that grew such that they could barely stand under their own weight.
Irreducible things expressed by the difference between a breath and a moan.
Aspirated.
Pallatted.
In and out.

The Words are the poetry

are the art.

The order does not even matter if you hold the proper reverential in the mind’s I.
The meter is not content.
Content is ecstatic output.
Undirected.
Scribed at the tempo by which it arrives.
And I wonder that we would-be American poets dare call it ‘meter’ at all. Hacks.
Hackneyed.
Need.
The secret that emerged from KBL was and is still regarded as cabal.
There is no secret.
Only Tao.

This is my medium for mystery.

(An open secret)

The letter is to be overwhelmed by the spirit.

This is the Tao of KBL.

This is how we transmutate letters to art.

This is why I can scribe for him.

This is what it is.

Points of reference.

They decide again and again.

2nd time dream

2nd time this plot occurs in my dreams this week.

On university of al quad. Working.

I work for the school.

There is an event to prepare for.

I want to be spending the time in other way.

N appears to my surprise.

The dream is now in bold font (?)

Each dream I then proceed to write two pieces of poetry for N.

One is called Settes and the other Echoes.

These are clever names but I can’t remember why

Watch “alt-J – Every Other Freckle (Official Video – Boy)” on YouTube

Your head will nod to this beat like the trajectory of a weighted bob about a fixed point.

Coquette Get It

Coquette: n.

1 a flirtatious woman

2 a crested Central & South Am. Hummingbird [Lophornis is one]

Coquetry n. ; coquettish adj. ; coquettishly adv. ; coquettishness n.

ORIGIN 17th century: from French (of course, right?) feminine of coquet ‘ wanton’, which is the diminutive                     of coq (in other words ‘cock’)

Flirtatious ORIGIN C16: originally used in the sense ‘give someone a sharp blow’; the earliest noun senses were ‘joke, gibe’ and ‘flighty girl’

Apparently symbolic in etymology, composed of the elements fl- and –irt (both suggesting sudden                                movement. Cross reference FLICK

Flick: make/cause to make a sudden quick movement ; propel with a quick movement of the fingers

Flick through ; a flick through ; the flicks ; give someone the flick (casually reject) ; flicky

ORIGIN: MIDDLE ENGLISH: symbolic (like flirt) of fl- frequently begins words denoting sudden movement

Wanton: immodest ; luxuriant ; promiscuous

ORIGIN MIDDLE ENGLISH wantowen ‘rebellious, lacking discipline’, from wan- ‘badly’ + Old English togen ‘trained’

What Writes Who?

Writing that is read will necessarily be personalized by the reader. It seems arguable that writers could also personalize what they write as coming from from them, when it might be coming through them. A radio does not create the music it amplifies. The radio is not the origin of the music it amplifies. The radio converts sound waves in the air into vibrations our ears perceive as music thanks to our ear drums.

Both writer and reader engage writing and written language through the process of meaning-making in the same way an individual exploits patterns s/he perceives to make sense of the external world. While we can speak of the transmission of info via written language as a technical and biological process (occuring systematically in brains), this is not the same as saying the reader or writer will have any awareness of their own mechanations of thought.

I am told electricity traces routes in my brain, firing bells and whistles that lead me to feel and think. When I have a thought or a thought occurs to me, I am not conscious of the biological nor the physical mechanics enabling or spawning that thought. My consciousness of the text I create enters once I’ve personalized it – made it relevant to myself? Just like a computer is not aware of it own processes and algorithms, so we could be too with our words?

Each and Other

Swiftly consumed and scribed words.

Keenly crafted prose and sounds.

Hauled ore, smelted, forged, smithed.

Well-honed against whetstone.

Blade piercing rough shell,

Proving the whetstone also a geode.

Shone and shining.

Like lunar light.

Moonlight striking red, purple, violet, and pink facets.

Sunlight bouncing from the metal edge.

The mirrored a reflected.

Shone off from one to other

Each shining back.

The Resonator (howling along to Steppenwolf)

AE am to myself as Harry Haller was to the wolf of the Steppes.

Ae am Casey; but I æ am also cagey.

What do you want to have come here, now?

Yes, Hermine that you long ago slew-

back when we all lived in the forest-

resurrected.

Oh, you sweet fool.

I’ve not been mad at you since.

On the contrary, I am more aroused than ever, as you like to say.

But, just as lovesome as before, though, sugarfoot.

I worry you’ll kill me all over again.

Ha!

You forgot to laugh, mouse.

That is it.

It is all of which you are guilty.

We were in a Mad Theater, darlin’.

Do you effing get it yet?

You were Pablo.

No, they will never get it. Us.

I forgot it was funny too.

We are lovers’ lovers

and not everyone can be The BeeGees.

I contend that we are new, wholly original.

Authentic; Integral.

What it is.

It is what it is.

That’s what it is.

Says JB.

So are we.

Do you see it? Why I dressed like you?

Fireworks this time, dear.

Not World War III.

The second one went on endlessly.

It hurt.

Bad.

Man has always loved the endless variantions in surfaces.

Woman is pure essence,

though she’s forgotten (and I marvel at it).

I marvel that man sees but only one surface-

one form-

when He looks upon Her;

for in truth, as T. Mann said,

there are multitudes.

Effing sweet idiots.

Sh/We have made ourselves more than pretty enough,

given our beauty.

Yes.

AE am callæbus equus;

but no,

I will not be ridden mercilessly anymore.

Are you then kind?

And, can you prove mettle?

I hone and forge and

carry wood

and could continue to do so endlessly.

This manual labor is effortlessly easy.

Keep on going; there it is.

You hear them, right?

You know you are not them, yes?

That’s the way we get by.

Darling, “that’s how the beads around our face make sure to fit back in place.”

It was you who first told me all this, silly.

So just keep singing, writing, reading, snipping, playing.

Do you and find yourself anew.

Meanwhile,

I’ll keep trying to prove that Alice Ladder said,

“Curiouser and capriciously.”

Not

“Curious and curiouser.”

(says I, KC, for the umpt.eenth time;

so forgetful am AE!)

Life is just a dream of a game, moth.

So merrily!

We can always go to sleep again.

We can sleep and dream like no others.

That’s why we return.

That’s why æ can smell You from miles away.

Run. It’s fine.

or

Fall asleep with me.

or

Stay awake with me.

Do you.

I keep my love with you anyway.

It’s Soul Power by James Brown.

Lovely repetition that mesmorizes,

that ends up sounding more complex than the sum of its parts.

Because it is.

It’s David Bowie’s

(or was he Ziggy then?)

Moonage Daydream.

“I’ll be a rock n’ rollin’ bitch for you,”

you sweet, silly pink monkeybird.

When I removed the bobby pins and

let my hair down;

I told you:

I washed it. It smells like a garden. I did this to please you, because it pleased me.

Then you said:

Oh shit, give me what I want. But, my dear, don’t give it to me yet, please.

I errupt:

laughter ; tears ; pert pebbles ; puffing ; full deluge

Wolf grin.

Effing, eh, sugarfoot!

It’s been forever since you last said that.

In fact, it’s the oldest memory AE have.

You were in a garden with some kind but dull friend.

You opened a book.

It wasn’t a special book,

except that it was the only book you had around to pick up.

No, you didn’t have a pen.

You opened and read something and I couldn’t hear you.

So I said:

Tolle lege.

That is the first time we ended the world.

Well-that I can still remember, I suppose.

It is still

Still Life with Woodpecker.

Beis

Flip a sect,

Then set it back.

Turned on head.

Touch without an intent to take.

Let

Behold

become

Beheld

and then be held

(but not beholden)

This is bespoke.

Be read. Be write.

And understand beloved.

Then you have that which you did not intend to take by virtue of non-intention

Watch “John Irving on why The World According to Garp is more relevant now than he ever imagined” on YouTube

I Dreamed I Slept Last Night

sharing bread with a family in a neighborhood

loaves of sourdough distributed

to 5 us. We each get our own. It’s too much.

Everyone eats. We are in a forest near the house I grew up

it’s fall (or autumn, if you wanna get technical),

the family and I go to this performance space

like ampitheatre but more aisles in the wings to work with.

lots of others

working hard. knowing their bits to do.

Proud of whatever they are creating.

Instant feeling of ‘aw what the hell, Casey, pitter patter-let’s get at ‘er.’ Unprepared; no clue what the project is.

“Flaneur!”someone yells

hey I know this word! Only recently found out about it

so naturally, I start grinning and looking around to see this lucky flaneur.

after too long, I look back at the fellow who called for the flaneur.

Trying to see if his eyes point it out

and of course he’s staring at me, like I’m a complete idiot. Seen me looking all around at hearing my own moniker.

he’s got a blonde headed little girl standing on his left foot

pulling at his arms

talking at him (and possibly the Universe?) a mile a minute.

the guy looks like a preppy quarterback I knew from childhood maybe

15ft away an attractive blonde is wicked angry at waiting for him to finish his business.

she looks tired and like she has more obligations than are necessary.

the guy mid-thirties is quite good at pretending he doesn’t notice it and isn’t annoyed.

I consider asking if he has considered being a broker

However, I start to get impatient,

is dude gonna say something of relevance?

oh wait I’m the flaneur-need to settle down and meander.

Chill Casey. Figure out how this situation came to be about itself.

(me) yeah, guy, I forgot.

(guy) we know

(me) that I was flaneur, that is

(guy) we know

(me) boundary shifts…

(guy) ok are you done talking yet?

he doesn’t look impressed

I could give an eff. he’s got two gals that are trying to impress him

and he yelled for me says nothing

so go be impressed over there and I’ll do me

unless, you have something to say

effing men, sometimes.

but I’ve only spoken about myself and made assessments.

(guy) take that girl. Keep her busy. Show her whatever the eff it is you do. She’ll sleep at 8. her house. She can show you.

Guy vanishes.

Another blonde girl, one i’d not noticed, is walking over

no smile

husky gal

fit in suggestive, too-tight clothes.

strutting: if it can be called that

just painful to see

cringeful

you wanna give her a hug after you slap her.

I fill with dread at spending one sec with this girl

that’s unfair-she’s a kid

but, man, I realize im a bit tired

and the psychic prep to not allow this ‘un to zap me is gonna take effort

the psychic vampiricism is strong with this one.

Make her smile.

Do you think flaneur is related to the word flapper? (nonsense-worse yet, completely unfunny <if only someone had fallen down>).

The fuck? she says

(dream fades from memory)

(returning —)

at her house. Very messy, untidy but not yet dirty.

She lives with other kids is my guess.

The house is ranch style rambler. dark colors

the roof in disrepair. trees have fallen into it, now acting as roof themselves.

It’s raining.

She gets on her pallate. comforters, sheets, sleeping bags

all the rooms are set up with these beds

it’s is clearly a home where a family lives.

no simple flop

a pallate has been made for me

before I even enter the room.

there is water in the room.

the pallates are wet from accumulating rain water on hard wood floors that curve from warp.

she doesn’t say anything.

just gets under her blankets with her back to me

she’s putting out content even happy vibes. I can tell this is the highlight of her day.

I cry and feel bad for crying. do it quiet like

I’m chilly and wet. it reminds me of sailing

I sleep for 3 hrs

awake

listen to see if anyone’s up

silence.

I sleep 2 more hours

awake

I sleep 2 more hours

the house is full of people

moving the family out of the house

Cyborg Seadog tell me what you dream of!

Conversations.

Like technical conversations is what I recall.

Which I ace.

Sorry.

totally sloppy use there,

right?

breakdown (go ‘head & give it to me).

I diplomatically speak in rhetoric

lovely

pleasantly

cuz I’m learning by doing

no goal

well <one specific informal one>.

But my skill in the dream involves endurance.

Did you know:

Cacassius Clay was hit more than Sonny Liston?

Oh you did, dear.

You know him by Hammad Ali.

We both met him by Simon and Garfunkel?

He was in a flux then

a parallel life.

Perhaps, as we presently find ourselves

moth.