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eyes closed [4] – revision count, prose poem

hmm, originally, i thought maybe i would do this regularly, try to make it a thing, but what does that mean, why do i write, why do i sit here and move my fingers, or my hand and wrist when i’m treating with ink, scratches and scribblings, lines and curves, pieces of movements that last for moments and eternities, eternal blossoms given by the trees, the mothers and fathers whose pillaging few mention, whose memories are lost in the opacity of self-indulgence, or sometimes, that’s how it seems, at least, no piensas? esto va a ser un poco más complicado, pero supongo que puedo volver a poner las tildes donde son necesarias, pero igual cuenta, o debería; yea, a new element to the exercise; not only must one begin with eyes closed and cease when they open, for whatever reason, which means yes, sometimes life will get in the way of something that you’re excited to continue and show to others, but it’s OK, because if one is to commit to writing for a lifetime, the only way to survive is accept that no matter how much weight or recognition one’s words acquire, they are ultimately empty just like everything else, and know, that isn’t the same as meaningless, check out Nāgārjuna; a comment on the revision counter – one might think to have identified a loophole whereby one makes a great deal of mistakes, errors of cohesion and semantics, and then goes back to revise them upon the opening, and this would, I hope it is clear, defeat the purpose of the exercise; the point is not to try and cheat, though that is to what most of us are accustomed, because no game that matters is played fairly in our societies, except chess, but even chess has had little ability to help politicians understand justice, how outcomes might be distributed in a community of communities; the revision counter is a place where quantification is displayed and shared with others of the mistakes in punctuation and spelling that one has committed; that may mean adding a word or adding and moving letters, but such morphological amendments must be enacted judiciously, otherwise there is little difference between this and typing with the eyes open; what grounds can be demarcated for this exercise to be defended as a distinct experience, a kind of training? without eyes, without the trail, one must maintain a certain fidelity to memory, a trust place in recollection, and submit to the inevitability that one, dependent upon faculties, is likely to disappoint oneself with first attempts, because the creation of beauty is arduous, requires labor and agony, doubt and scrutiny, vinegar and honey, flavors and gustatory leanings that are interpreted differently, for neural pathways are plastic, at least the great many of them, and what we do in this life is brought to mind by the interaction between electricity and organic machinery, the most efficient technology in the known universe, the human body is marvelous, and I look forward to studying it; OK, so the point is, should you wish to participate, should you wish to embrace the mystery, and claim that what you have produced has been cultivated in the specified fields of this activity, then please respect the boundaries, because otherwise names are torn from mountains and the cosmos is just the name of a show hosted by some Black scientist; i’m going to have a go at a prose poem, one about a young love, i guess we’ll see what happens.

approaching fast was the time designated, the slots assigned, the spaces allocated for, napping and chitchatting and trying to get away with it, the classroom buzz was reminiscent of a vibration characteristic of a thriving comb, and the instructor in high spirits, bounced directives and sprinkled discussions with unsettling animations, and Kahani was going to lay down where she did usually, and her best friend did not show up today, so the chance was upon him. The spot adjacent was to be vacant, waiting for him to take it. So he made her aware of his presence in the morning, offering her a sip or two of his juice though she had her own and his favorite flavor was mango, and commenting on that wavy dress that she wore far too seldom, the one that fluttered when she moved, the napkins that folded and unfolded themselves as she strode from one point in time to another in space, the dark explosions of the galaxy’s rejuvenating silence in his mind took the form of the beams that destroyed ambivalence when she giggled, when she curved upward her lips and her eyes looked at his. He was not tired this day, anxious to see if she would also be awake, perhaps thinking too about the chance to exchange in whispers trivial observations about the happenings of the learning that was more boring than inspiring, and maybe she would mention that there’s a little room at her feet, where he could sleep the following day or when her friend returns, so a proximity of body, marionette sentiments jostling, divine strings allow to be summoned chords of the firmament, tendons of Hercules, articulaciones de los titanes, the ocean sways in agreement, thinks Giovanni, when he notices how Kahani has rested her body, how she’s watching him approaching, how she did not get distracted while he asked if the spot adjacent was taken, how she on her side seemed a peaceful sequence of slopes, a landscape of innocence, soft blanket, easy breathing, orbs glittering, gaze steady and attentive, feet’s piglets wiggling, slight corporal adjustments to indicate a conscious presence, an invitation to temerity, to that cliff that is the possibility of being too honest too soon, too apparent to maintain the interest of one so mysterious, too simple for one so enigmatic, too brutish for one so liquid, too human for one so transcendent, too childish for one so sharpened, the essence of woman is too oft defined by those who have no business of doing so, but this young person, feminine tranquility, vaguely perceived Giovanni, she was destined for the halls of Nordic lore, taverns of immense proportions, sunlit tapestries and galleons of romantic enchantment, the fog may surround her body, shroud her outline, dissolve her independence, but no condensation would dare to challenge such density of motion. Giovanni reciprocated, hands under head, legs at an angle, hope in his eyes, he pretended to sleep, stealing a peek every now and then. Her eyes are closed. Her eyes are closed. Her eyes are closed. Three glances, three disappointments. And yet the inferno in his ears pounded all the same, stampedes of expectations, choruses of migration, fear of coming off unseemly, the desperate plea to not mess things up, to be dealing with a  person with forgiving in their nature. Her eyes are closed. It seems she’s fallen asleep, Giovanni mused. So he closed his eyes. He dreamed in the darkness. Kahani, having noticed his stillness, cracked lids, stared for a moment, made a shape with her little lips, blew the chap at her side a kiss, and returned to her dominion, awaiting with a new fondness el crepúsculo, la realidad tomada de las manos con la esperanza.

Buenas noches, entonces, damas, caballeros, lectores.

revision count: 32

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eyes closed [3]

this time, electronic, the vibrations bumping, we’re going to have a little chat about history, and i might add some clarifications as to the specifications of the engagement, and that’s a another part of it, isn’t it, the complexity of the words, how can, do, your fingers move when they are deprived of that instrument upon which we too often depend, the eyes are great, don’t get me wrong, but we have other senses, and the dearth of satisfaction, unearthly transformation that permeates the surroundings of our skeletal and grossly abundant culture, the saplings want, the companies sell sunlight, and the forests no longer sing, the point gets lost when one tries to think, because under a spell we are caught, that all things, the universe as a whole, the harmony and the dancing, that all has to make some kind of sense, see the structure, be able to recognize the pattern, assign a purpose or be able to ask a meaningful question about the content, but why does all life have to be such a messy order? why do we have this tendency to understand, reason things out, and no, before you liken me to a Trump supporter or someone who thinks that the thing we refer to by god is a white man with a beard let me do some explaining, the thing is, creation is the trade of an artist, and my dramaturgy professor said the other day that one of the idiocies of this era is the depreciation of art, and i think he’s likely mostly correct, what is art, a cherry on the sustenance, an adornment on the more important things, and that misses the point entirely of what it means to be human, a civilian, a member of a partnership, an organized gathering and collaborative enterprise, that is together living, social community, depending and sharing, inviting and receiving, trading, loving, dying, with someone, at least someone, remembering fondly, the universe is so tidy, do we think, so comprehendible, sometimes i feel like I’m becoming Catholic, or something like it based on my little knowledge of what Catholicism is, because the mystery is so expansive, but indeed, this concept is also found in Indian philosophy, a tradition that goes back thousands of years, the essential nature of the universe, and the soul of the person are one, the transcendental reality of the multiplicity of artifacts and nameable things in life is assured by the Vedic necessity for names to refer to individual things, a religious and social structure of power, the reaction was revolutionary, flourished Buddha, the questioner of greats, the destroyer of permanence, the one who sits in stone many feet above the littler ones, the one whose teachings were for hundreds of years remembered, guarded, orally, until they were written down, what kind of man is this, person, for those of you offended by that, who is so treasured for his extraordinary insight? and the next question is, why do we not meditate? Why is meditation, sitting zen, zazen, not a part of every curriculum, not a part of all upbringings? the machinization of civil society is a process in which we take part, we sustain, and a single individual cannot be held to blame for the group’s monarchy, the superiority of technology, the nimbleness of minds poorly trained, the fright that is easy to generate in those who have everything to lose and not much to live for, the anxiety in the weak and hungry, the hurt and neglected, the tunnels in which old people sleep, not watched or fed, not cared for because of their socioeconomic, what that really means is, historical antecedents of its formation and maintenance as a subject-in-history, a Hegelian idea, one that puts the human narrative as something essential, a balloon attached by a string to the domain of time, i’ve probably got it wrong, and any decent philosopher would probably chuckle or scorn my analogy, but so you have it, the schools of this time are contagions, places where passion is put as an instrument, a dead thing that is understood but never felt, a rotting inside the skull of beauty, the notion that drives persistence, the woman that i love is the fire at my core, among my family and dreams, of course, but that person gives a name you can touch to the desire to shake this world up and tilt it and break it and look it in the goddamn face and ask it why the fuck are you so fucked up and do something about it, die trying to do something about it, because it is unacceptable that so many children do not eat, unacceptable that so many women live in fear, unacceptable that we call our ‘governments’ democracies when most of their activity revolves around the needs of those who have too much wealth and too little humanity, oh, you want to open your eyes, you hear about it, you think of people who were able to open them, maybe it’s Jesus, maybe it’s Krishna, or Buddha, and you lament your condition as this lonely animal who never does what they see in their mind and feels perpetually like the whole game of life was set from the start, a farce, deceit, astronomical grief feels normal because mom doesn’t hear you crying, and if you’re one of those whose father figure hasn’t been home, i mean that both in the physical and Freudian sense, then perhaps you don’t give a shit about a lot of things, and people never understand you, and the world is against you, fingers numb, tired of climbing, we tire the soldiers of tomorrow’s conquests in the cradle, we demolish the foundations of betterment with the educational model, and the health system, a greedy parasite that thrives on the peril of those who do not understand that medicine should essentially be prevention, and that the notion that preventive medicine is but a part of medicine is a slap in the face, the fortunes of the masses are summoned from their veins, richness rising in grain, sparkling dust, swirling currents of dazzling memories and experiences and the laughter of children and the field of rice and the music in the Andes and the sands of the slopes and the paintings that brought a tear and the pieces that blessed your ears and the lovers that made you smile and the siblings that carried your soul, and the caretakers who welcomed your sorrow your growth your cruelty and returned their undying loyalty and commitment to the enterprise of cultivating a good conscience, a good person, for all that, not even for all that, are we willing to sacrifice comfort, take up the arms of our minds, books and pens, and pursue a more worthy time on and with this magnificent orbit?

eyes closed [2]

all right, here we go, again, no, this is not just again, because i carry a message, this is a challenge, to all those who compose, to those who accept the fight with this existence to search until the nails bleed and the eyes are sore and the dogs are broken and the sled needs fixing and the trail is shattered and the mosquitoes are being followed by crawling things, the proposition that i have with me is the following, dash, hyphen or whatever, because i can’t find it, or rely upon my memory to know that i have pressed it, you go with the eyelids down, the blackness in front, only the fingers doing the perceiving, maybe as the music’s going, maybe as you’re coasting onna little something you’ve put into your system, maybe as you’ve come from a day of trying to get a little better at whatever it is you do, maybe as a student or professional, house chump or worldly adventurer, oh, what was i saying, ah, yes, you keep gong, let me hear your voice, let the world see how you spit and rhyme, let my flow go against yours, let the rivers collide, let the giants take out the clubs that move like daggers and dance like swords, authenticity defined, used, because as my writer friend once said, authentic is the least authentic word, yea, do you need to know how to type with your eyes closed, and does that limit the amount of people that can partake in the competition, the madness, the sluggings away of thoughts and rambles, the suckings of those who hope or have not failed enough and the spontaneous symphonies of the masters, Lahiri,  oh, my dear Kalanithi, how you would have humbled us here, you get the point, but that’s fine; not everything is for everybody, and honestly, if you can’t type with your eyes closed, you’re probably a chump anyway, just kidding, my mom isn’t a chump, but it’s pretty cool, so take a typing class, go back to high school or something, and that’s the idea, you let your words go, unchain the demons and the spirits, see what comes unto the página, you can pause, deliberate, wait, but do not open your eyes, not until the finish, from go to end, keep the darkness as your privileged guest, and spit divine lines, miserable catastrophes, whatever it may be that comes to be in those moments that you take to show us your voice, how you poetry, no, that wasn’t a mistake, how you play with the language, where you are in your trajectory, but don’t hide what you think is not true or what brings you shame, or try not to, or try not to be so afraid to let the people, let this cosmos of cosmology, be witness to that which you are, the emptiness is shared, check out Nagarjuna, and this means no more or less than the flight of a petal or the colors of the sunset, so breathe, compose, and when you have finished, open your eyes, correct the mistakes, that is, unless you type perfectly, you’ll have made some mistakes; to respect the craft, and be professionals, and be honest, i need to say that because in this society professionals aren’t expected to be honest, and simply go back and revise the mistakes, the red lines, the repeated commas and misspellings, and then hit publish, or send that comment; every post you can try to send a flow that is more ripe, a water that is more pristine, a dope that is doper, but don’t get your hopes up, lo más proabale es que tengo más sabor que tú, y es mejor aceptar eso desde el principio, me entiendes?

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Eyes closed [1]

To write a story with eyes closed, from start to finish. Is this but a simple exercise, or is there merit in this approach? What the eyes see, distorts. The image of production as it is being produced already exists and is continually reformed in the mind’s eye, and so one might think that additional input is but distracting. Inevitably, there will be mistakes in composition. Missing punctuation, misspelled words, lots of zigzagging red lines in between lines. But that’s OK. Mistakes are to occur regardless; the only difference is that in this mode, all the mistakes will be dealt with at once, in place of individually, stopping and going, correcting the flow, disrupting the harmony.

Untitled [3]

3.7.2017

a little while ago, a bee or wasp or something similar was moving around on the ground, its wings seemed absent but they probably just didn’t work, it would jerk, for a moment be on its back and then return to crawling, in pain, searching for who-knows-what, and i thought it might be best to step on it, take it out of its misery, for what i witnessed was no life for a bee, but i decided against it, in part because i didn’t want to interrupt the class with such a motion, and i also came to wonder if i could determine that the aberrant functioning was a demonstration of suffering, so i let it be. i looked a few moments ago. it had stopped moving.