generally confused on �issue� of consciousness (I am conscious-conscious, how-else):
How to say, approach, bear, allow what is, will follow, has been? How to approach it, wanly or surely, truly, tacitly, openly, is it a door to be breached? from in, from out? Is it a movement, to know, or rather a deepening, a darkening, a brightening? How does one approach this state, wanly smiling, or repining, is it a luxury, a death, a shadow, how to know the ways, the markings of this state? How to know the ways, the markings by which one is lead there? How to know, how to respond, when all is this heaviness, when all is in a shape, a scouring, of disarrayments, how to say that knowledge in this sphere of discord might ever be arranged, could ever see beyond the mirror that is its bounds?
My only ambition is to allow myself the strength of near-knowledge, that is the passion I mistake for the moral which is the truth.
Because I cannot be sure of my place, or it is too obvious, I resort to great schema of self-glory and attempt puzzles of metaphoric perportions:
Howsoever becoming, how might I be integral? I have had dreams I�d be eternal, that something in the light, in space could save me, contain me, let me withdraw to a distance so finite, so infinite, I could stare on the speck of entirety and grin or waver, as light chooses, I could wrinkle over the rapture of tidings and biddings, harkening and harkening, take it upon myself with the reckoning of a mad dimension, resemble, confound, maligning myself with still orders, garrulous with the ridings of fulcrums, flushed with soon-to-be, wish-angry, momently enshrined.
I have not lost my temper. Each fold speaks of new depths, the infinitesimal within, the boundless without. These revolve into agenda. I resolve to find my ends. They run and change, splinter and retire. I am splinter for another. I bask, speak, partake, distain, apprehend, am made of nuances at fault. Believe in my disbelief. I am explosively paradoxical. Breathe, and realize if I wasn�t there I won�t be. I blanket what you cannot see. But I am searchless, tired. I linger. My mind has frozen countless treasures, but will not thaw them. A gardener perhaps is needed. A seamstress, shadow-walker, and exhaltant Integrity. A statue ebbing into voice.
This leads to dreams I cannot recall, names I cannot recollect, and artwork. I have also attempted poems with fiction, and write a good deal of nonsense with a great heap of free time. I have been a student, and do not yet qualify as sophomoric under my present standards.
The key to name-usage is to scope the invisible with the precariously titled, that is, to speak of nothing mentioned, or rather to shape something sure of things that are nothing but carapaces�to hold the water in ones hands, or (to drink wine of an animal skull...?)
anyhow, what is shaped of words ought not to be integral in the full sense; ought not to be enjambed in the cruel fashion of most argument, rather there ought to be a single step, a stair as to Aladdin�s cave, in the dessert, one entrance to the secrets found beneath, and from that one stair a palatial gardens is met, and suddenly each secret converges on another, and a palpable form is educed of ether , something arises and a complete phantasmogoria holds sway, pure of itself to the extent that it is to be trusted beyond all further things, it is a world of its own, is not to be penetrated., but entertained, (ensoverished) reduced, discerned, compiled, esteemed, (enured, regailed, hoisted, furled, roiled, worlded, lorded, extolled, empalled, palled, frault, frought, roiled, walled, locked, landed, mentioned, sook, sanctified, tempered, trumpeted, ...)
A quicker, fuller hold on life through imagination, as I see it. Before one accepts the ridiculous, nonsensical, and insane it is impossible under my present mindframe to be perspicacious enough to eat the fictive forms of greatest breadth and breath. To speak the tongue a writer speaks in reading is to learn to let go (suspend disbelief), to be partially, temporarily, unbalanced. Then there is the little nook of reason I keep looking for, somewhere in the middle, where a balance is found in seperateness, the removal of good reading, the careful, vivid, or brief spaces of deep work (so I imagine always deep).
Choosing a name is choosing a thing to follow, is having a manner is taking a form is having a shape is taking a mask is hiding is being dark is being birthed is being whole.
a name then is an aperture to the soul. next page Main