Writing – Page 24 – WrittenCasey

Effie’s Dream Notes

Effie keeps a notepad @ her bedside w/ the intention of recording her dreams while they are still fresh. It was a challenge to remember about it when she first began. But, after nearly a decade, she did it involuntarily, it was a natural bodily function.

Blinking.

She had to remind herself just as much as she had to remind her heart to beat.

She records whatever seems relevant in that boundary dynamic of sleepfulness and waking.

Unsleeping;

she does it w/o intending to do it. Reading back thru what she wrote, it was as tough as though

it came from a stranger’s pen

is some other than her own pen.

is not.

Many times, recently, her notes were statements of facts; assertions of knowledge gleamed from some ungnown authority. At first, it was always descriptions of the dream itself.

Now, it was only the revelations reaped in the dreamscape.

The most recent revelation.

Effie is Emory. Emory was Effie. That was before Effie graduated high-school

and Emory went to college.

Exceptional Notebook Nonsense: Install One.

ALL RULES HAVE EXCEPTIONS.

ALL RULES ARE EXCEPTIONAL.

ALL EXCEPTIONS MAKE THE RULE.

THE RULE WITHOUT EXCEPTION IS EXCEPTIONABLE.

[it is an exception to the starting rule

that all rules have exceptions]

You die a voodoo death because everyone else expects it of you.

The uncommon tragedy of the commons is that there is nothing anyone cares to do.

Contagions of group expectations afflict your field of view.

A cursed question put on you–

Would you die if no one

thought you would?

Or, could.

Authority instructs you to confront mortality.

You are part of the totality,

but individually, you are

also, a triviality

What I may be is the value of a binary threshold function.

Insert the prefix ‘looking-‘

to ‘-glass house’.

Suddenly, and without warning (giggle-howl) a hypocrite becomes a stranger in a strange-land.

Forest Down: It snowed Cottonwood

Canary-ied.

A yellow monarch on

bloom flutters-by.

That is not random light, it is a worm

suspended by a satin string.

Spinning mid-air.

Center-stage

of the path.

Is that a good or a bad day for the creature?

Hanging by a plant,

pint and a praeter-prayer.

One branch a’loosened. Snapped. Remaining.

The bark of a

tree’s tread. Rubber meeting road-air.

Veined loam.

Detritus.

Vitriol.

A feather/s lost is no

clipped wing but

Bird might have gone

down-y.

I well-aged pair of companions.

Purple seeps in.

Light hangs in

almost-rainbows.

Gone before you can even blink.

Driven snow around and on the ground.

Have you ever tried this?

Write something.

Wait.

Then,

read it and weep.

Giggle with me?

The forcefield is too big. ‘Cause, it used to have to be, possibly.

Not anyone’s fault.

We can always blame

No-One.

Or bang (bang).

During our REM dream states.

Not in the same environment ampersand; now, the forcefield is energetically askew and effing with the universal grid?

How ostensibly ego-centric to think so, no? Yeah?

What?

Compassion for self.

Self-hatred was that wall that enabled self-preservation.

i hated myself for hurting/you hate yourself for hurting;

i do not hate what hurt me/you do not hate what hurt you.

What hurt me (you) did/does not hate me

(you).

It is that silly and dumb to hear aloud from this fool.

How to answer the question: Can you truly say ‘no’?

Giggle.

Try to say what you mean when you answer that one.

Howl I

(can)

howl.

This is not deliberate confusion.

But, sure seems confusingly deliberate.

Rejoinder?

Indulgence relative. Just do not hurt people.

Three reasons I love a timely, kind laugh.

Apparently.

see 1. above
Authenticity under austerity becomes through sincerity ?
It is not that you pay for what you get; it is that you get what you pay* for.

*we ain’t just talking currency/wages, folks.

It is okay to admit you are enraged at a potentially outrageous situation.

Enrage is your ego yelling.

Outrage is your heart yelling.

Your heart only yells when others suffer too.

Being enraged and being outraged is possible.

Being enraged and ego-maniacal is possible.

What a drag….

….that i cannot get over myself until I admit that I cannot get over myself.

This is silent howling.

This is giggling.

This is authentic, at the least (

Right

exactly now

). Are you over yourself already?

What are these sighs that I imagine?

Whose low end groan comes down the cans?

Speculation: A song that can end itself and not just fade out.

Humm.

Reel to Real

Transition equal

the changing of the

guard or the gourd?

Howl. Giggle.

Does this and that prove x, yet?

Did it hurt, ewe?

Tell me true.

Folks ain’t used to fools acting differently?

Do, do what you do.

I know. and

I do.

allow people to hear anew

Vessel unvasseled.

No game, no simple-tool, not an achievement

not religions.

Love in the key note of the tonic

of a practice of ecstasy.

Just breathe.

Method before theory, dummy.

Fear versus fright

on the fight or flight

that wilt be

pay-per-view

tonight.

Howl I smile.

New does not mean novel, dear.

Praise, you say?

What’s that like, I say?

I caw-ckle aloud but only inside.

Hun, if it is not a game then there is no

prize to win.

Just a desire to hunt and

that is regardless of the financial costs some

enobligate in self-defense.

I am fickle, am I?

I am love and love hated.

Loved hatred and hatred loved.

I submit that I am written.

Tolle lege.

The lesson is

it does not matter what

The lesson is

Don’t overlook the symbols.

I was taught we inherit the problems of a previous, now non-corporeal generation,

but, I don’t believe we can

blame ourselves for their

patterns within which we

now

find ourselves.

A carbonic processing of your pinot.

Noir.

Dark.

The guy in the corner?

A martial artist.

A soldier in disguise.

Blacklisted for the blackbelt earnt in logistics.

Written Whence Who Gnosis

Complete the sentence?

(di un corpu celestial) foscate a lumero da o (…)

Cadence and rhythm

Two things that remain

In my refrain

Time and time

Lost

again.

Parabolic Paean

https://wp.me/p8mRAJ-MQ

Sorry for repost.

Seemed timely.

The Nature of the Forest Today

This is juxtaposition

This is not syncretism.

Chains trying to work in nature.

Snake espied. First thing.

Black

Sea Foam, cool green.

Longitudinal and kindly striped

safe.

Per se.

Feedback on me.

Otherwise, the robin in the rain makes better company currently.

Such a saucy fellow.

Showers always made

him…

…wait for it.

The sky confused and

confusing time changing.

Protective turns opulent in opalescence.

The beauty of opening.

The beauty of splaying.

Time-resistant skin.

Elegant rhinosarus-dermis.

Still moist, somehow.

Meets the confusion of curves.

Collective noun style.

In ever widening circular cases of you, ewe.

In you.

You in.

I hear you, here.

Look at you bellowing, pretty thing.

Cottonwood seed absorbs in its resonant, spidery remains.

Arching in ecstasy.

Boughing and bowing

Bowled over.

Divisors.

Create foam.

Some tire so completely

they resurface on their

backs

and asleep.

Three such gents just this week.

Suppose it makes the fly’s feast.

Do you remember meeting here?

Where tree grows out of

stone.

Dog esshit or esshinola?

The buzzing of the approaching nearing the a’spread.

Alit on the globe.

Buzz, you say?

Humm, is what I say.

Also, Howl.

Late Night Con-side-ration

He asks me: Do you know the distinction between ‘conceal’ and ‘reveal’?

I ask him: Is it a con-, rev-?

Gigg

Ell.

Balance & Proportion (News After Rain)

Wary berry blooms protect their own.

Just because bizarreness manifests does not mean it is unfriendly.

Though sometimes I relish your impatient sounding voice of exposition.

Giggle.

Who ever said it would be easy?

The last bit of seed supplants itself, even unto the blacktop of ass-fault/y/.

. {Hopeful} .

The early days of summer are the dying days of spring.

Seedlings waiting to naught-be

Vain

And take true blue

Root-

Ed.

Dead leaves from other tomes fallen and caught by wooden paper and branches

wearing white, kid-gloves.

A lady’s fingers.

Lady-fingers. Fingers hanging down and reaching up.

The gate entering the wetland and off-leash area is lush today.

A coyote trotted before me two days ago. I thought it was a German Shepard.

He grinned from ear to ear.

The heron appeared twice.

Humid and water-heavy.

The colors hang incorrectly correct.

Let your spine chill or feel your own fear.

Impeccability in being over time without attempting but always trying.

Hail.

The crane that reaches after being broken.

Its own feathers have become moss it may molt then eat

Regeneration of self.

If you want to take a tripe trip.

Drink the swill and see the seepage of the col(our)s’

Saturation.

Oil from the trails from shimmering slugs.

Nautical foliage present like rocks that move on accord of their own.

Forest coral corrals.

The summer eyes of the serpent peer in protective ampersand near-maleficent passion.

In through the nose, out through the nose;

In through the nose, out of the mouth;

In through the nose, out through the nose;

In through the mouth, our through mouth;

In through the nose….

Juxtapose and toes.

Shower riffs and drips

Hot

Then cold

Water

Diabolical

Pendulous.

The twist of a circle

A lobster boiling in a shower stall.

Slow breath

From the shudder shock of

A sure stock

Maverick

Unmarked.

A’howl at a new moon.

Like everytime

But, anew.

Getting the feels

At every hint of the new news.

Tell your aunt you did what you said.

Made

Got

And slabbed before anyone else could grab.

Shake and look you in the face.

Where’d you get the notion that a sea is an ocean?

Disposition Reflection

Doorways, arches, and gates.

Magic.

My repetitions are a fact.

Tree roots gnarl like the five fingers of one hand.

Wisps of ether become yours in the visible spectrum.

Everyday.

Plain

Magic.

It is in our air.

Scandalous fleshed exposure of a barely leafed tree.

How can you feel on stage in a clearing alone?

Prowling.
Stalking words on stilts over creeks.

Let us fly our kites here.

My stone panther re-enlivens from winter as a summer moss.

Humid and heavy on the trees.

New from the Forest: Throwing Shade & Sunshine

The high wind shook and shimmied the foliage-heavy forest like a candle flickers the refraction of light on my white door.

Cotton(wood) splays itself across the path like nymphs waiting to be swept up in collection. Spattering of coral-esque moss. Sea foam green.

My spine becomes alit. Some exhalations come out like breath on a cold day.

The first few days of summer in the forest, we see as ampersand from below before we can see from above.

Death of the early summer days. Dead moleskin leathering in the sun. Pecked out banana slugs, the spoils of the war of the early birds.

Snakes sun mid-path, unconcerned with your intrusion.

Ten feet later this sun vanishes. Ten minutes, later on, it returns.

I cross eight and one half bridges. But, there are only five bridges.

Life begins as rabbits run into brambles. Fresh, with ears not fully grown.

(Groan).

Ducklings fatten on the now enshallowed Salmon Ladder pond.

I still espy you, sweet and lovely dummy.

Seated among the tall grass like a forested catacomb.

The first of the summer berries ripen.

Ruddy gold.

Bloody red.

Some

(already em-)purpled.

The serpent’s red eyes open.

From “The Way of CHUANG TZU”

“The invention

Of weights and measures

Makes robbery easier.”

Parciful’s Own New Intro

Start

So now, gather round the children and elders, as I will tell a tale of once, way back when we all lived in the forest. I assure you the tale is nothing if not both authentic and novel. I readily admit the probable likelihood that you will dispute this axiom once I have told the tale. Saying you have heard it somewhere before.

“And there isn’t anything I can say to make you believe me. I can only state the facts as they are and hope you will believe me. Here goes….”

What conclusions have I, I will deduce for you now–

The situation persuading you that my tale is not novel and authentic, is itself my empirical evidence I assert supports my axioms of novelty and authenticity. For all we are is tales of once, way back when.

Put in different words, we are (the) story, our lives are the stories of the story. The story/ies allow us to experience being a person.

What it is “to live a life.”

Anthropologists study man and groups of men.

Anthropologists believe it necessary to define their object of study concisely and explicitly before any other work may be done.

Anthropologists say “humankind” instead of “mankind,” now.

Anthropological professors at universities all begin their first day lecture with a projected digital slide of Indiana Jones on the projector screen. And, they say, “Anthropology is not Indiana Jones.”

I throw up in my mouth a little. Who said it was?

A biology professor once told me that he studied what it meant to not not be alive. Highly instructive once I got over the voice yelling “h0wl pretentious.” Giggle, just because someone is paranoid, for example, does not mean they are incorrect in their assertion. A drug addict told me that a decade ago. I think he fixes cars now.

VVonderland Minor. 2009.

You Seeking That?

I cannot

I want to

Music hooks my attention. If ‘decent,’ it moves through my spine like currents.

Time changes.

Threaded to be unwound

Like a record’s groove.

Linear thread to unwind in the minotaur’s maze.

Did you bring your own thread this time?

Trying to attune to the ephemeral and corporeal energetic grid.

Doing in contribution, perhaps sight unseen.

Tao.

Tao of the mystic

Doubt everything and everyone

while

simultaneously

trusting people and things to be who and what they ‘are.’

Method of attempted peace and openness.

An alarming ‘joke’ i heard abroad

“It cannot possibly be true, so I won’t even trouble you with the notion,” he said.

“What notion?”

“Well, the Orwellian idea that America is a corporation. But it cannot possibly be true.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, you know the curse of ‘why not’?”

Taken from Recollections of Sartre

Words are, for some, living creatures.

They persist in being and as such they insist on being noticed. The bound and covered, silent sirens contained on the leaves between the book’s cover.

If words live, then literature can possess.

If I read and share the a sentence that crossed Plato’s eye and mind too, has time and distanced ceased?

If most celebrated literature spouts from the community of dead authors, their words become free of their original sin of the author(s) having possessed physical existence. The sentences are not devalued by the messy work of the author living his/her life at this point. The lens becomes free from the shackles of selfhood. The lines now belong to the public. There is no greater authority to which they may appeal, who will explicate their “true” meaning.

In the Company of the Moon

In the company of the moon, H. tells me:

“Come, woman–here is shelter from the rain ampersand sun, to warm your coldness and dry your dripping self. I have brought these to ease your mind.”

But, a perpetually stubborn, broken woman am I:

“No, H. I rebuke your compassion and love and block out all rays of your light. I refuse to accept everything for which I beg. I’d rather be here yelling for shelter, warmth, and dryness than actually receiving my heart’s desire.”

But, never deterred, H. is a’glee.

“I like to play with you too.”

and by my side he remains today.

Humm

Audacious but also perspicacious.

You are specious?

Mavericks engage, enjoin, but remain unbranded unless approached.

Preempting pretensions of perhaps not.

Predating any prior existing periodicity,

Yet, í would still underwrite your risk again.

She keeps the tiny medal from your coat’s

pocket

Attached to original brown bag wrapping.

She sleeps by it every night.

The true meaning of í am almost always thinking of you

Right,

exactly,

Now.

She had learned sleeping is tiresome.

Right side, fetal about the pillow to consider this

Left side to mediate the other side.

On my back when a moment is needed.

That it hurts a little.

That mystery of an unknown answer holds me fast and securely.

Could he and it too quicken?

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