Tag: Writing

Center homo sapien (free write)

Effie, the homo sapien, happened into the role of organic lynchpin in the clockwork garden of Jack’s dad. She, alongside innumerable others before, have and will be the particle held in the center of the spherical orbit of all the little human particles in existence; like a pin passed through the end of an axle to keep a wheel in position. Neither Effie nor the others were inherently special, chosen, or different; it was because they were there at the right place and the right time. Any particle could have ended up in the center, but only one particle would.

Now, once you are in the center, you are committed for a long-haul—there is no stopping the ride historically. If the particle in the center ceases to be in the center, acting as a pin holding wheel to axle, then the orbit of all the particles has been altered because the center has not held.

Imagine the universe as a dreidel. Upon being spun, it initially maintains near-perfect, balanced rotation about its axis; but, as the rotational velocity decreases, the dreidel starts spinning a little looser and then a little looser, climaxing in a great wallowing that quickly resolves itself to stillness.

So if Effie kept center, the world would keep turning; the universe keep expanding then contracting. Easy breezy style.

That a special spatial situation existed in the universe was not altogether unknown, but was kept quite hush hush. About 95% of all human particles were unawares of any such phenomenon like the one above described. Making the particulars public, it was assumed, would spawn terrorist attacks, chemical warfare, cronyism, and all other manners of manipulation that were intent upon bumping the human lynchpin out of the middle. No one wanted to take the lynchpin’s spot but acted on account of (a) they could not understand the impersonal, non-special truth that no one is ‘picked’ to be the center, no one is unworthy, or (b) they just wanted to tear the world up.

Knowledge of the esoteric variety may be seemingly spurious or craven, but appearance is not always indicative of insides. The special knowledge certain occult-ish groups harbor is not superficial at all. The problem was that most practitioners had no idea how to apply this knowledge to their benefit, let alone how to use this knowledge without it being at the expense of an unaffiliated innocent. The power of those ancient precepts could no longer be fathomed for homo sapiens had forgotten what power is.

Power is the ability to redirect external phenomena at will: that is, to be the more forceful of two objects colliding in order that you continue on in your initial direction, while re-routing the direction of the other object away from its initial vector.

This and nothing less or more is power.

Nothing more than this exists.

Since the lynchpin homo sapien, Effie, is itself no different in composition from all other homo sapien particles, it could, theoretically, be subject to the force of a hypothetical juggernaut particle that delivers a blow of such momentum and force that it rips her from the center.

THE IS

He said, “Slick-you don’t hafta put effing limitations on the goddamn variables in a dynamic system! Like, the more chaotic the individual parts of a dynamic system are, then the more effing potentialities or organizational principles may be exploited and checked out for utility and efficiency. Why lock in and hoover when the shit will regulate itself eventually? Hmm? Why is it that everyone effing assumes that organic self-organization is so uncommon? … Well, you can still call it uncommon, I suppose, like…shit, like uh, as uncommon as a not great hand of poker.”

She said, “You mean if liberty is completely maximized, despite the appearance of chaos, society will spontaneously organize itself in a sustainable or meaningful way?”

“Yeah.”

“And the odds of this are as likely as getting dealt a losing poker hand- likely to occur more often than not?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, “the only precondition is that the individual parts all impact each other’s functioning.”

By a bit of water

After her meander, she soon spotted him sitting in the tall grass with an unlit smoke hanging off his lip, facing the bottleneck where the narrow little creek began to come together on itself and collect into a pond. A dam edged the flow at the far side of the water and a fishladder sat right alongside this spillway.

Salmon spawned and climbed there. But not yet, as fall was only now making the scene.

She wonders what he is seeing. What made him sit down in the first place?

His back faced her and yet she knew he was gone. Mentally absconding down some path, having been beckoned by guazy spirits within his imagination. She liked to watch his corporeal form when the immaterial consumed his attention.

It was the way his neck worked. Parallel thrusts of unnoticed nuchral rigidity held his head fast and at its present attention. The slope delineated by neck becoming shoulders.

She considered breaking his reverie, but chose to keep still in the moment with him and bask in the felicific tension.

In the suspension of outcome;

the bit before the finale;

the desire for denouement.

Dream of Troubadours

I dream troubadours whisper Provencal words against my neck.

An apothegm: my legs will not stop shaking.

An aphorism: about that which one does not know, one might do best by remaining silent.

Breathe, hold it in and hold in stillness, then release.

Prudence and patience,

my prowess has power adapted to the need.

I work in mystery-the intersection of suspense and anticipation in a heavily muted silence.

Decorously discreet both in dire straits and in heedlessness.

My obliging pruriency sure hopes he pries.

On being mothlike

There’s a light,

There’s a light

I’m a moth,

And there’s a goddamn light.

DIZZY—

HOT——

…….———

I’m a moth,

There’s a light, there’s a light,

There’s a goddamn light

Quote from Tao te Ching

Thirty spokes will converge

in the hub of a wheel;

But the use of the cart

will depend on the part

of the hub that is void.

So advantage is had

from whatever is there;

But usefulness rises

from whatever is not.

When the Sky Shattered

At that moment, the sky fell.

Like the vibrations from her hand clap overcame the sky’s structure. Cracking like a punched mirror, but silently. Little fissures and crevices branched like spiderwebs and radiated outward, allowing bits of an ultra-violet, purple color to seep through from behind.

As pieces of the blue sky separated, they slid down the sides of the earth, like a reverse snow globe, following the earth’s curvature, down and around until all that was left was a new purple sky.

Exceptional rule

All rules have exceptions.

All rules are exceptional;

The rule without exception is thus exceptional.

You will die a voodoo death because everyone expects you to.

The 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 still die if no one thought you would?

Authority instructs you to confront mortality.

You and yours fantasize your finality.

You will die and Jesus loves you and this you know because a great big ole’ book told your parents so. But where is your existential subjective experience of this?

You are part of the totality, but, individually, you are also a triviality.

What you are is a value of a binary threshold function.

Steppenwolf. Hermann Hesse. Notes from reread. Updates ongoing

A wolf of the Steppes that had lost it’s way and strayed into the towns and the life of the herd. p17

[Regarding Haller’s left behind manuscript] They are rather the deeply loved spiritual events which he has attempted to express by giving them the form of tangible experiences….I see them as a document of the times, for Haller’s sickness of the soul, as I now know, is not the eccentricity of a single individual, but the sickness of the times themselves, the neurosis of that generation to which Haller belongs……They are an attempt to present the sickness itself in its actual manifestation. p20-21

Human life is reduced to real suffering, to hell, only when two ages, two cultures and religions overlap…Now there are times when a whole generation is caught in this way between two ages, two modes of life and has no standard, no security, no simple acquiescence p22

I feel our contemporary world is existing between two ages and modes of life.

Those who remember before the internet and those who never lived in a world without the internet. Those who remember not having a cell phone. Those who learned cursive and those who didn’t.

I was in high school when our family ‘got internet.’ It was dialup and played very specific noises when connecting. I can still ‘sing’ those noises from memory. We would lose the connection if someone called our family landline. After one and a half hours, our connection would kick us off and we’d have to re-connect.

I remember high school research involving physical libraries.

At 35, I never wrote an academic paper without a word processor on a personal computer. In fact, I’m still in awe at my parents who did scholarly work without this benefit.

Uncertainty & Doubt

https://writtencasey.wordpress.com/2017/02/20/416/

Skech, Inc. [Sic]

PRODUCED BY-A Meandering Club & Gad About Co.

[AMC&GAC]

A Division of Grim Shadowy Form
A Limited Liability Company
[GSF,LLC]

__________________________________________

“No, Meg, don’t hope it was a dream. I don’t understand it anymore than you do. But one thing I have learned is that you don’t have to understand things for them to be…..”

The art of prose exists because the words are not objects but designations for objects.

Prose is an attitude of mind.

Beauty hides in a book; It acts by persuasion like the charm of a voice or a face. It does not coerce; it inclines a person without his suspecting it, and he thinks that he is yielding to arguments when he is really being solicited by a charm he does not see.

The dead are there [in the library]; The only thing they have done is write. They’ve long since been washed clean of the sin of living and their lives are known only through books which other dead men have written about them.

In one sense, it is a possession; The reader lends himself to the dead in order that they might come back to life.

In another sense, it is contact with the beyond.

Literature and Existentialism, Jean-Paul Sartre

…………gather round the children and elders, as I will tell a tale of Once, Back When We All Lived In The Forest…….

The tale is nothing, if not novel and authentic. I readily admit the probable likelihood of disputes issuing forth once I’ve told my unheard tale.

You’ll say that you have heard this one from somewhere before.

The sensation persuading you to disbelieve me is itself the evidence that I advance in support of the validity of the two assertions I aver of my tale-it is untold and authentic.

For, do you not know that all tales of, Once, When We All Lived In The Forest, are the same tale being told anew in novel forms. The stories endure existence because we never stop wanting to hear them. We never stop wanting to hear them because we’ve always heard them. But, it is not in the way we hear phones ring, cars alarm,or birds chirp.

The sound of a story is the sound of one’s own pulse. Can you really conceive of the sound that your pulse makes? I experience my pulse, more than I hear it-although it certainly is audible. After physical exertion, I hear it loudly, sometimes, even ringing in my ears until my heartbeat begins to still. Fear, complete quiet, and stillness make my own pulse sound the loudest.

The sound of my pulse goes unnoticed by my awareness most of the time. I presume this results from my awareness having been exposed to the constant, continuing sound of my pulse during every single moment of my existence.

Eventually, my brain said, “Enough! Let’s just tune that one out. We’ve got more stimuli in this very second than the sense facilities of this meat bag could ever experience, let just go ahead and not waste energy on perceiving the pulse. That sound will continue until the meat bag dies. I know avoiding death is sort of what my job here is all about, but we don’t need to monitor for the sound of the pulse. With pulse, I’m willing to go on the honor system. Besides, if I always listen for the pulse and the pulse is always audible until ceasing at death, I will never hear it cease because its cessation is the end of my ability to hear. “

So it is with story. The ‘me,”myself,’ and, ‘I’ (used when a self references its own self hood) exist because humans have story as a sense organ. The organ differentiates humans from other mammals.

The story organ creates a self out of the development of a homo sapien. What human can be said to not have self-hood?

What is a self and how is it by which some organisms and not others come to possess self hood? Is it possible to possess self hood but have no awareness of your own self?

“The irony and obsessions of Cioran’s philosophy” (Marius Nica)………a new name to me.

https://wp.me/p1gja9-3Na

Cheers to the author for this work.

Such an interesting and thoughtful piece on a writer and thinker.

The author discusses Romanian contemplator Emil Cioran and his relationship to atheism, skepticism, and mysticism.

Favorite quote from the author of this paper:

…..then that person has not really read Cioran. Perhaps they have leafed through some pages, read some ideas which they mirrored their own experiences into, their own projections on an existence which is impossible to transcend.

Favorite Cioran quotes included in this work:

If the difference between man and animal is the fact that the animal cannot be but animal, whereas the man can be inhuman, which is something other than himself-in this case I am unhuman.

My experiences became books, as if they had written themselves.

The writing is only valuable when it objectifies a feeling, because beyond the expression there is life, and beyond the form there is content.

Between the passion for ecstacy and the horror of the void the entire mysticism revolves.

Distend to extend to disabuse

This is why I stretch.

To disabuse my body of the notion that it is this way or that.

This is why I do not break.

This is why I walk, to disabuse myself of the notion I am a sedentary stone.

This is why I breath, to disabuse myself of the notion that life is pain.

Lipsome venom

Benevolent disrespect with intent of disrming.

Shamefully disarming with easy kindness that makes man howl.

Gracious pain unexpected spurns blissful.

So breath deep in anticipation.

Turning out

It must be taught, sometimes trained.

Only delicately forced, by choice.

Desire and drive, to a specific end.

That’s the pleasure of one. And the other who relents.

The absence thereof is the sorrow of another one.

Swelling into dew kissed morning wettness.

What can you do?

Disposition? Super proud of my handwriting

Such esoteria. I write my best to music and with limited awareness.

WTF does that even mean?

Glad for it on my end,

Prestidigitation

Who and what lady does not love fancy fingering from a fellow?

Percussive and resonant.

Fugue played on breath and flesh

Breath, respite, breath….etc.

Unapologetic forwards.

Shuddering into turn outs, again and again

And round about.

Cloaked in opaque context doing little to hide the fact of desire.

Suppose it is what is,

Ad well as what it might and will be.

Disarmimg.

We USians have the right to bear arms, and so, presumably, raccoon arms too, < whatever the eff that’s about> but this is beside the point.

Consider disarmourment as a means of disarming.

Someone in the know cued me into these words. Thank you to that fellow, who prob doesn’t have no idea. He.

Let’s consider:

Disarm

I. t. 1. To cause to surrender arms; deprive of weapons or the like. 2. To deprive of power to harm or annoy ; quell ; allay.

II. i. To lay aside arms; reduce a land or naval armament from a war to a peace footing.

A peace footing is getting on the dexter foot, I presume.

Is was another day.

The sun shied back into the woods, partially concealed behind a cloak of mist and residual angular trajectory.

It gave the morning a quintessence of allure and glamour, even including that tinge of melancholy which the Vested feel.

I suppose nostalgia may be a more apt descriptor than melancholy.

Then again, I guess both words are completely right & dexter yet, simulateously, inappropriate.

The sun tests the boundary condition between night and day; everyday it rises.

I test the boundary condition within to see how supple and malleable I be without shattering into infinity just yet.

Идіотъ The Idiot…remarks from an idiot

Fyodor Dostoevsky, as this gal understands, is no fool.

I read The Idiot in highschool, for personal ed as opposed to curriculum and yes, it was because I wanted to impress myself by reading Russian lit unguided. And yes, referencing this on AP exams 15 yrs ago was conducive to high scores.

However, I was spared the light~gel of literary criticism in my reading of The Idiot.

It was only later I heard I heard this novel was widely allegeded to be a mere allegory for Christ.

Screw that. Dostoevsky knew better.

So did Augustine.

See it and them another way.