Image

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

Advertisements
Image

prose [1] – plain beauty

The rubber duck floated to the top, stopped by legions of bubbles, iridescent hazes swirl like storms on gas giants as translucent spheres merge and burst into oblivion, a world of its own, a bathtub planet, without the tip-toeing shuffling akin to two kittens walking with little mittens covering their fluffy paws, that is, with no company of coherent rarefactions, and a little being is fascinated by the way things go, a giggle, a gurgle, an infant’s chuckle and glee, butter and saffron, sacred innocence, density of purpose, the weight of a new spirit born to be awakened.

A mother listens to the piano music that lands and nests and takes off again among the walls relinquished by her cellular device, and how the sounds of her child’s playful intrigue accompany the fingers’ glide, sweet the combination, a soliloquy of black mystery and blue skies.

Sinkside candles throw theater on the sides, a circus of spaceships and crocodiles, a march of ghouls with heads on spikes and women in cages, a band of acid parasites and mothers without faces, the waves, flickering, the capricious flames turned the small place for cleansing into a fractal paradise, a serious engagement between warriors nighted and the ambivalent self-destruction of life, yet unlike most critters her age, he embraced with fierce delight the incessant uncertainty, the audacity of the universe to think, know, itself as being infinitely creative and ingeniously bothersome.

Water absorbs gentle spontaneity, moves around and envelops the tiniest arms, the squishiest noggin, the silk that breathes, and caters to a foamy tectonics.

A longer reach with larger hands and worn elbows makes contact with the surface, a familiar sensation, the dancing contours of a comfortable presence, come unto nascent perception, and a bath is given, duty and privilege served, a holy moment shared between life’s cradle and its witness, a caretaker’s rite of passage.

Image

show don’t tell [1] – fear

This shall be another kind of series, of exercise. I shall take no less, no more, than 30 minutes to show and not tell. I will likely disappoint. I invite your critiques. And I invite you to give it a try. Try not to worry so much about how the tale turns out. We do that enough in life. Take the half of an hour. And if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to read what comes about. Cheers, then. Here we go.

Christopher began the long walk over to his aunt’s house. The darkness of the day had arrived recently, and the young little man felt the shadows nipping at his heels. His block was a few blocks away, and so he had to distract his thoughts as he passed the other houses. The sidewalks that rose and fell, had ridges and slopes in between. The lawns that had chain-linked fences, more weeds than grass, and sat silently under windows often decorated with boards and adjacent to the signatures of rival gangs. The globes of illumination that fell from the posts in between homes was spotted, inconsistent, unworthy of the notion of continuity. So some parts of his familiar surroundings seemed more ominous, depending upon where the light happened to be falling. Christopher usually got along well with his aunt, indeed, the whole of his mom’s side of the family. Sue was his mom’s oldest sister. Both ladies were born in the city, raised there, educated on poverty and disturbance. The stereotypes are a pity, thought Sue as she sat in her kitchen, sipping on some whiskey. The trampoline is broken, and the couch needs fixing, Sue thought as she made herself a sandwich and took her position in front of the television. The people in my life are worthless, and I still have to put up with them because it’s better than feeling lonely, Sue felt as she opened the door to greet David, the guy she was seeing, one of the many who liked himself a good once in a while a healthy beating. The crickets had started chirping, and Chris was eager to get to his destination. He wished his mom wouldn’t send him over so late. But, she also had little say in the lining of the school districts, and it was better that he wake up at his address, near where the bus comes in the morning. The night was swaying, as if there was an energy imbalance, as if the streets were conspiring with the architectures of the firmament. The diagnostics were alarming, the redness blaring, and Christopher’s imagination was reeling. The car on the corner was bouncing, and there was a couple walking with a couple guns in their back pockets, marking territory, making the rounds, living with a purpose, clarified meaning. And he wondered about his fate, his path – was he the one doing the step taking? The school was largely filled with those with other stories, kids with patterns of speaking and fabrics of experience with different stitching, knitting of a different order, and though one culture may be superior to another, it seemed unfair to compare when one has been playing unfairly and the other subject to its immorality. The tension in the house was immediate, disconcerting, as soon as Christopher entered the lair. He could tell that Sue had been drinking, and that perhaps recently there had been a disagreement of sorts. The kitchen was accented by a pile of dishes, a floor with visitors crawling in different directions, lights without bulbs, a half-open fridge and overflowing recycling bin, and specks of blood in various locations. On two of the walls, a cup on the counter, droplet cities navigated between and among by tile critters.

“Christopher, is that you? Let me hear your voice, sweetpie.”
“Good evening, Aunt Sue. Are you in the living room?”
“On the lazyboy. Please, come in. I’d get up to greet you, but I’m just so comfortable here.”
“Sure thing, Aunt Sue.”

Christopher turned the wall that opened up into the living room, and dropped his backpack. He wanted to scream, but something inside his mouth was not working. It was loud in his head. Though he couldn’t hear anything reaching his ears from outside of them. The aunt whose spirit he usually equated with her cherry pies was standing in the middle of the living room, most of her face bloody and an opening on the right side of her upper head, the hairs were jagged and mixed with what seemed to be dried blood and glass, and she held a knife in her hand, a blade that was still wet, and seemed to have dripped away from a puddle, a silent mass, a curve that resembled that which a body takes when resting on the ground, the flesh that was once called David, in a heap marinated in less frequently oozing, cooling blood. And the noise turned into a din, a steady drilling, a piercing note that was emitted by all objects, living and plastic, and Chris turned at once to leave, run back home, to safety. His feet started to move, and he felt the earth tremble behind him, as a predator took its form, dug in its feet, began to move stealthily. She took steady steps, strides, to offer Christopher a sense of confidence and reassurance. Cooing and motioning looming, Christopher found the doorknob uncooperative, frozen in the winter’s stubbornness. His aunt’s shadow was first seen making its way along the passage, moving and covering multiple walls, the size of the fateful encounter was growing with seconds inflated into momentous eternities, and the beating of his heart beat to the drowned chorus of uncertainty as what seemed to be the point seemed like a spear in the play of the light, and then his aunt’s body summoned and consumed the wraiths, which proceeded to reunite in full force in a maddened countenance. A cry, a wail, a wish for warmth and home, mommy’s arms and cookies at night, his aunt put on a smile, approached with a hug, loosed soothing syllables as she tightened her grip on the knife, and gave her little nephew a kiss that lasted a night.

Image

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?

Image

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.