Complete the sentence?
(di un corpu celestial) foscate a lumero da o (…)
Cadence and rhythm
Cadence and rhythm
Two things that remain
In my refrain
Time and time
Lost
again.
Tag: Writing
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.
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
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?
Up-Focus from TrainScotting
Í speak in harmonies scaling octavial heights.
Centurians guard my air. Í breathe angels. Í exhale fire. Í burnish with every breath.
Breathless, noiseless despite despots.
The rows planted in keystone symmetry; puzzling eyes ampersand I’s in motion,
Like two horses dying of thirst beside a fresh water stream. The query of the quarry destroyed their shodden hooves. Chipping like fingernails opening soda tab tops.
Lone pylons.
Radio and cellular towers feigned as trees and the refrain repeated from which none refrained.
A bridge over dry dirt.
Í let the bonsai tree grow over one hundred feet. Held fast, bent and hobbled by wire wrapping extended limbs like the necks of Nubian queens. Clutching with cruel vigor the extension as though the feet of geishas.
Incidentally, í never cared for hearing anecdotal evidence, yet í sure evidence anecdotes as offerings to others.
To live and die in the service industry: this is the new Dixieland. Bereft of prejudice.
Barely. The meek shall inherit your tips.
A gnarled bonsai branch slaps me in the forehead as if to say, “oh dear, how could you not remember?”
We watched the weather change three times in ten minutes. He seemed unsurprised. This surprised me.
The rapeseed fields burned yellow like a terranean sun. My eyes nedded shielding, but í looked on and stared at the faux-star. Í beat a path by following the doppleganger affected bleating of sheep. Little lambs of woolen and warm like cherubs. They whispered, “If you jump the stone fence on the horizon, you will freefall forever.”
Í said, “You cannot see the ocean below for your clouds.”
Í stood on the slanting stone stele before slipping into a slide, my leg [em]purpled on impact like the time í slipped on the hotel’s hardwood. Í had had to leave an entire continent to find a bit of breathing space. But, í do breathe more deeply than many.
Vapor fume whisps from my nose with each burnished breath.
Í am the dragon called serpent-bearer. He stays my hand, wrapped around my forearm. He hisses, hides, and hides me. Protectors and protectorates in one. We laugh together in snarling tangles. He hangs like a tentacle. He hangs me upside down by my ankle, correcting the orientation of my perspective.
We appear cruel to the uncruel.
We are cruel to the cruel. Humiliating them unmercifully through unwarranted kindness. Adoration melting cruelty.
My eyes go hard.
My lips narrow and purse while my kindness cuts ampersand maims.
The behemoth bonsai bursts into flames. I howl in feral pleasure.
Mine is water; fire, the serpent’s.
Diabolical excellence arouses
Making ire irie.
The awareness to insert [i] pro/e/duces accordingly.
The Third Install: Parçiful
Hello, Alice here. You may recall me if you have been following this tangled loop of a story. We have Parçiful, Effie, and myself. Effie, who will give up no more than the name Parçiful, is her younger sister. The gurls like to travel with me from time-too-time. And, Æ became familiar with them by dint of their fiery aunt. Please do not mention to her that we mentioned this to you. We heard you say: mention something/mention anything.
Æ serve as third party, omniscent narrator. Recall the point-of-views that narrators may take? Well, think of me as a dream sandman. Effie and our anti-hero tolerate me, when they realize Æ am around that is. Parçiful and Æ go way back. We met In-dreams. So, Æ like, from time-too-time, to read her. She is more written than real. Quite unjustly. Improper handling by the Knights-to-Nowhere. She is not a shy one. She was a frightened one. Her Tribe kindly asked her to split. Beat It. She is a Southern gal and so, delightfully obliging, thus: she obliged. Not anymore though. So, I feel sharing some excerts from her handwritten tale. Context. Although, all Æ will give up is what was observable. Lord knows what really happened. Her Tribe and Æ’s Tribe. Just as Æ never gave up everything to her, Æ must assume she never gave up everything to me.
Effie here. Hi.
ASIDE: his final sentence above is an assumption. No one must assume anything. One assumes for want of reassurance. For if she had actually given-everything up to begin with, it would be a hard cross forvÆ to bear. Idiots feel beholden, just as Parçiful did after accepting her at-the-time boyfriend’s plastic proposal. Thank god he left her. Well, left is not the right word. He dumped her and then continued to avail himself of her resources.
[Undated]
In elementary school years, petting myself to sleep at night, while wondering how the Sunday-school heaven could be fun & forever. I imagined a life of growing up to be destitute. Homeless. Well, at least how easily it seemingly could happen to anybody.
Vague intuitions of how feeling entitled leads to your own stripping……
Open secret x: ‘we cannot depend on our lovers to prove to us that we are not broken because, in some way, we all are. Wounded anyway.’
Perhaps the best we may hope-for is to see each other grow and grow together and take care of one another as well as we can-to see each other and touch each other and try not to harm what we see and touch. Maybe that’s not such a small, silly thing. Maybe it’s one of the biggest tasks we face on this earth.
A breath tantra of connection. Sitting on the ground together.
We are embarking on that which we carried wood to see. Because we still want to see.
I lived in words, work, dreams, and a group of four close buds. I felt freer, moore solid, since the cursed engagement ended. Time flew. The world inside me was expansive. I enjoyed being alone, with my own company. I did for me. Took care of myself. Did not miss having a partner. Did not need someone else. And, I saw how poorly í’d allowed my spirit to be treated. Í saw how í had slowly let fires inside myself burn-out. Almost glad they were smothered and stoked. It had become easier to not have fire in my belly when I was working asat at some terminal for ten hours a day. Then to come home and be fussed at for it. Particularly as my job was all me and my at-the-time boyfriend. Do not worry for him. He tagged along on my move across the country. Managed to get a great job. We were in NMexico when found out he had been hired in a lucrative company. So, when he was done with me, he had finally seemed to hve found himself. A good thing. A talented fellow who is not nearly as clever or smart as he thinks he is. Not by half. A decent, upright fellow and good citizen, regardless.
We neglected each other. Lies of omission. “No, everything is fine.” Secret addiction.
[Fig. I.1. Certain entries that Æ read are best communicated by pictures. There is no way to convey content on such things viz a viz pics]
My Time Serving, Waiting, & Pouring
I worked as a part-time waitress, from age 18 until age 18. I performed terribly. Back then, in Alabama, servers made $2.13 + tips.
One week my manager approached me, with pen and red binder.
“Sign here, to confirm for our tax records that you did, in fact, make at least the minimum wage. You did not declare enough of your cash tips.”
“Um, but I did not make at least minimum wage, I made less.”
“Yep, you are not good at this.”
He was correct.
Sometime later, after losing the urge to continue to pursue Academia, I worked full-time for a locally-owned, Tavern-style restaurant as a server and cocktail waitress. Not fine dining, but cloth napkins, gas burning lanterns. Upscale. The owners also owned a popular bar in the swanky part of Southside, Birmingham (The Five Points area, to be specific) where I poured occasionally. Note: Servers still only make $2.13 an hour + tips in Alabama (and many other American states). They really do work for themselves and you.
I loved my work. I took the time to learn the restaurant/service craft: Learning the menu, how to talk to people and make suggestions. The art of booze and talking booze. Maintaining equilibrium for the dinner rush / bar push for about three intense, crazy, physical hours, only to then slowly break down the establishment into a clean, organized place. The next morning, you would build it up, try to keep equillibrium, tear it down.
Taking your work home usually meant alcohol, delicious food, or another server. There was no huge deadline for the FOH staff, just closing time and the clean up.
All humans should really spend at least three months of their life as a server/waiter. Everyone. If you get hissy or huffy about the service you receive when dining out, consider the following.
Today, I pulled an old journal and found the remarks below. Enjoy
EDR = extended dining room
AOA = auditory order acknowledged
Alabama Medium = Medium Well
FOH = front of house (what and who you see as the diner)
86 = something the restaurant has on menu but does not have currently.
68 = when something that was 86’ed becomes available to diners again.
Conversations Had On a Daily Basis
Stuff Said to Me: That Pissed Me Off Enough To Scrawl
Some Stuff I Thought Worth Telling the Good People
[Title Here]
![[Title Here]](https://writtencasey.files.wordpress.com/2019/01/20190124_1559293816704622876311414.jpg?w=1200)
Being bereft of aberration is abhorrent,
In itself.
I am the whence of a will.
Wilt do.
Wilted
Camællias suddenly come into ripe blossom
Bloom.
I danced in blue light at least an hour that night.
I stumbled between songs.
I slip but don’t fall.
Felled the tree before the hanged.
And a fool found herself upside down,
A head full of clouds and reservoirs of water.
Camel-ist.
Hiding eyes
Laughter.
In the dark, a cardinal dances on his branch.
Like a Stellar’s Jay.
Lunar Tire Fires
Distillation.
Do not confuse what you create for what you destroy. He said.
I think you have that confused. I said.
A keen sensibility for rookery
And other fly-by-nightery.
He told me. Self-impressed.
I know you.
We met before.
Excuse me, I said.
You interrupted.
I am busy howling at the moon.
Keen along if you wish.
Sleep Paralysis
A peek of disbelief.
Reach.
Awaking in a white, linen dress.
“Let your feet breath in the water through your soles.” The old man suggests.
I break the liquid’s surface tension with the flat of my feet.
A four footed bath tub foutain with animals.
The water turns and becomes red curls.
And i reawoke.
But it took a minute to trust it was so.
Big left toe: wiggle.
Wiggle now.
You are awake and will wiggle.
Sleep paralysis.
Once gone, is when more civilized monkeys brew tea.
I make a strong pot of blonde
Coffee.
I wiggle the left big toe.
I wiggle the right big toe.
The pot boils.
The aroma cannot be a dream?
Too knight
Musicality of a whirling fan.
Lyricality of a faucet running.
Night songs.
Lullaby white noise.
A single dog bark.
An æon in a cat’s eye’s
Blinkin’
Winken & Nod
Set out one knight.
By only the light of three moons.
Pyres burning into the misty lake night.
Wooden ships of exposure espied from a tower.
Bring your three medallions.
Spring Haunches
Leopard Branch grows a summer coat of kudzu,
Not yet claustrophobic
It will not be humid enough.
Not like in Bamaland.
His legs drape mossy of either side of the foreside.
Hips rested just so.
Tail winding round the trunk of his supportive tree.
Head resting.
Possibly but not necessarily asleep.
Ambidexterous.
The cat heaves her bigger sigh.
Looking at the window.
I notice the siren.
She just hears noise pollution.
Suddenly the wails reek like klaxon
Doppleganger effect.
Sound waves flailing over time and space.
Distortion becomes further distorted.
Something or someone near is a gauche.
She puts her nose back to the quilt.
Watch “Talkin’ Bout a Revolution” on YouTube
Continuing reflections of 1980’s music: Tracy Chapman’s self-titled 1988 release must be mentioned.
Everyone remembers Fast Car. What an effing lovely lyrical pop song.
The album was subjected to the 1980’s drum production.
In this case, forgiveable.
First track of the record here.
Great opening. This revolution sounds positive. Joyful. Honest.
Hooked for the rest of the album right away i was as a kiddo.
Still am. Cuz ima post another song off this album.
Go buy her record. I did.
Pendulous
It is diabolical to miss the middle range
In favor of the radicals.
Come slowly.
The parable of the parabola
Is parabolic.
A Knecht a’kneeled Before Flame
He saw how Joseph was annealed by the fire…[and] felt the ordeal more than Joseph. P241
Sounded overwrought to me. Then I bothered (sic. concerned) myself with actually looking up
/annealed/
I was being educated on several levels. I first read the sentence such that I thought I knew more than I did. I imagined /annealed/ to be some form of a bow or a kneeling position, a kiss the ring, smell the glove. A posture taken when the situation demands you take yourself seriously. If you can imagine such a thing! Or that you undertake to do something trivial quite meticulously. For the sake of the process itself. By your choice. You take part with and in. Or, when ritual, tradition, culture, bestows us a transcendental catharsis by allowing us to take very specific actions with others undertaking them alongside, as well. A hymn sung by a choir. Suddenly, lighting a candle is holy. Yet, lighters and matches abound. Fire is easy to come by but it was not always so.
Blind spot.
Shocking how much meaning we can contain. There are so many pearls that some readers start arguing over the appraising of an irregular pearl. It is all about finding, examining, analyzing, and drawing conclusions about the relative value. Waiting to find that big money shot pearl. A yup.
“awe, more valuable. made of pearl but unique, collectors edition. Gesture, essence. and articulation.”
“Worthless. It’s shape isn’t paradigmatic of the standard pearl. Misinformed. Monstrous, devalues the other pearls to even be in the same bowl with them.”
Who let the pigs out? Who? Hoo hoo?
Too much monkey business for me. We as a species have moved on. Or did I miss the train and am now out of joint?
The Glass Bead Game: Magister Ludi. 1990. First Owl Books Edition. $18.00 USD/$24.95 Canada. That seems really inexpensive as I think back on it now. At five hundred and fifty eight total pages, it is a trek but no death march. As with any trek, though there will be days. But, then there will really be days! Am I right, a hyuck, hyuck.
The length is not the deterrent. The printing of the book intimidates. At least my copy. That is why I bought it. It looked too heavy for a book that size. A thing that is larger than physics allows but your eyes empirically cannot deny. Your brain’s rational processors will fill in the reasons that ‘you can’t trust your eyes.’
A phone booth and doctor.
A House of Leaves.
A ship ever at sail on a foreign sea, the life of the house mouse lost.
S/he loses their position in the home.
You lose something you did not know could go missing. The notion of home? An ending spoiled. Don’t let the little ones hear. Something you cannot unlearn but surely there is room for doubt and maneuver. Doubt suffers where there is little room
Something you took for granted. Because there is so much to see and so many things vying for the pleasure of your (everone’s) attention at all times. We cannot process the amount of information we physically can conceive us. We get by and brains fill in the blanks. The way you discover your new car’s blind spot.
《《 》》
Crash. Ah, hell.
《《 》》
But what was to be done? Can you judge yourself for not knowing that your vehicle is afflicted with a blind spot? Sure, but where that at? If you want me I’ll be in the bar. Speculating on some dreamy nonsense. The thing you did not see in your rearview & side mirrors (electric-adjustable, I’d wager) as you merged lanes, was, by dint of optical physics, unseeable. You cannot adjust for and account for such a variable.
The publishers did not eff around. There is a deliberate concern for both style and balance in the margin setting and lettering layout. There is room to scrawl. If you are into that sort of thing. I am! The luxury of the thick white broadband’s conjunction into right angles about the four verticies gains further dimensionality by its opposing page.
The reflecting pool in the palm. Narcissus finally went mobile. Each page appears with its predecessor and/or successor in symmetry. Consider the leaf of the sheet itself. Two page numbers and each bearing letter matricies yet on but one page. One page in the book holds two pages. Think about that. There ain’t ya’ll entertained? If that is not magic, then ya’ll doin’ it wrong. I see gods contained and present amongst the multiform streams. IHS Bacchus first. Then as Janus. Holding us in the present, pressed fast between the past and the future tense. So the text on each side of the page gives rise to leaf between your fingers as you turn the page.
Let us say, maybe, five hundred and forty pages are geometrically identical in dimension, same squares, same squares. Matrix array with its vectors contained in those critical margins. Two koi ponds reflected about the same axis of symmetry. Simpatico. The more you read, the more the very confined area with unnecessarily tiny pt. font, single spaced. Tight, trim, orderly. And you are drawn in and held fixed in that little space. Rapt. Enraptured.
And then the ratio expands. The page does not seem so small.
The biggest hinderance to the book’s popularity in America was a poor original cipher of the German language. But translating the lyrical prose of Hesse is probably like trying to translate a Japanese character into ‘the English word for it.’ You can pull it off but the English Equivalence is questionable. Americans are poorly positioned to be strong readers of such heavy, often erudite, ultimately, ironic tomes. We do not get the geographical exposure to other cultures.
Hell, we didn’t get the joke.
It fell for it too! The joke of being so dreadfully stoic that the reader would not dare think you were givin’ a ribbin.’ This is a book; An effing long one; I found all these pearls. I’m rich. Made-man. This is a book of power not jokes for blokes.
Sigh. Now, your cracking me up.
The good news is, if you do ever get the joke, it makes you smile and laugh out loud. Then shake your head. Hold on.
Although, states are arguably the same as little countries.
Found Notecard that I did not make
The Radical Being Here While There
Come to lose yourself in this sublime union,
Melting into the elation of sated desire.
Protect me from hubris.
Honor my ignorance.
Open me to revelation.
Let my magnetism defrag your mind,
Increase your flow, and
Remove your templates.
Show you how
your divine quintessence & corporeal body
Exist as
Unity not duality.
Hold fast.
Give ourselves permission
To feel without judging.
You stretch me,
My ability to tolerate
Ambiguity.
This is the true art of Mastery and Service.
Of when we dominate, handle.
When we worship, nourish, slave.
Enacting a ritual of control in our temple.
Our existential reality is a fantasy of control,
As we have very little compared to the forces we feel around us.
Even controlling the forces in our minds requires diligent practice.
So, I remember the organ that is my skin,
Separating me from everything else.
My container.
My flesh reminds me what is mine to control
And what is not.
I may influence what is not bounded by my skin
But I let go my grip.
I seek practices to experience and realize the numenous force of eros ever flowing through us.
Animating.
It requires our attention;
Our attention is sacred.
I have it bound within my flesh.
My skin and quintessence exist together as integrals.
Integrating my physical and non-physical bodies.
To have one without the other is to no longer be.
(At least not be what we now are)
A sack of meat,
a ghost possessing it.
I am nothing until animated.
Enlivened through that Force that enlivens trees, dogs, crystalline structure, lichens, cellular mitosis
anon, anon.
So I come to transcend myself with shifts in attention.
I try.
Ways of practicing how to notice the sacred everything,
Not by hiding away in isolation
But through a passion to engage
From across the world.
Saraband
We belonged to the diatribes of idiotēs set among the swans,
singing the harmonics of new prophecy.
Alit upon the pond, whose waters stay so still, you could be tricked and
mistake the reflection of
for the actual sun.
Do you recall Nietzsche’s ecstatic, public collapse?
Seeing an over-heated, carriage horse being beaten unmercifully
Over he rushes
to fall down in exhausted camaraderie
aside a fellow beast of burden.
Will they blame Ulysses and seek him again?
Some grown men will ever be juvenile while somehow failing to stay young in spirit.
K/Nights leading on to nowhere, in vain
While we lie licentiously aside. Alee. Aleph.
The peek in as they post pass.
The fretting single mother rocks in their wake
frets behind them.
The smell of dinners prepared is served into the air of the neighborhood.
Their smells are free.
A Sunday night & Monday morning.
Let time move those outside our walls.
The world will keep up with it as we lose track.
The sun and moon do need us to help them.
Maintain the tempo.
Found notecard rambling…
The Summer Sphere
Set amongst a group of a dozen bystanders,
I watched the boat burst into flames
Ten yards into the bay.
A man runs to the lapping shore.
Drives his body deeper, diving into a falling wave.
We were not sure why.
No one was aboard.
The sopping wet man returns to say:
I’ve ruined my phone.
While coming ashore.
Fire twirls on the water table worktop.
Contradicting.
Through an oil burning medium.
The invisible lucifermatch
White stick.
Head struck and aflame.
Hum.
The nearest bystander to my right:
Wow!
I continue saying nothing.
Again: Wow!
Again: nothing continued
Can you believe it, he said?
Well, I’m seeing it, but the question of that reality requires a lot of words.
Maybe we should get a coffee and watch this fire burnout? He asked.
How kind, of you. Metaphysically speaking, as we would be, it is arguable that we will if we have not already done so. So, in this timeline I decline, kindly.
There are whispers that Klingsor’s summer and spear is near.
WrittenCasey 