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25 July 2018 @ 08:12 pm
god have mercy on the man who doubts what he's sure of  
the things we hold inside ourselves, neglecting to shape, to sound, to bring into workable form. the things we drop and lose among those other shapes in our lives:

there's only so much we can do with our existing shapes and assumptions, our promises against nothing, our protests against the dull thud of nothing.

i haven't got a shape to make of it.
i haven't got a name for it.
there's nothing i can pull together or sound out.
there's nothing.

nothing i can name and nothing i can do. no one i can name and no one i can call. no one for me to be. i remember, not the exact matter, i remember not exactly what the terms of this agreement might have been, i remember no one thing. i remember multitudes, i remember infernal tangles of options, the things we forget, the things we assume: assumption meaning as it ever has, forgetting in advance. because:

what is the shape of this? the true shape of it? the shape of it when nobody is looking? the shape of it when no one is exerting pressure to force it to perform? what is the shape of it when it does not matter? what is the shape of it again when it's all that does matter?

i thought there was something to say here. i thought i had something to say. i thought i'd balanced my accounts at least enough to spread even a threadbare utterance over the table, something at least, something as a strike against so little, something as the survival of nothing.

backing up from this certainty, backing up from any certainty, backing up from the agonizing and inevitable, the exhausting and unaccountable, the ecstatic and the erroneous, turning another corner at the eternally incomplete. because:

nothing is complete until it is over, and nothing is over even after it is done. i'm looking for signposts. i'm looking for markers along the way. i'm pulling together options and contingencies, because i don't know what it means and i can't know where it's going and so often i am frozen through by the endless horrible possibilities of any naked shivering moment:

that's just how it goes.

i was any number of random assemblages constructed in a variety of manners. i am any manner of contingencies and

why am i writing this, why am i writing it, why do i write at all?

what am i writing? why am i writing it? i fight against my native tendencies until i cannot remember what they are. i try to be someone i'm not until i can't be anyone anymore. i want to make stories so i do something else, instead. i want to name mysteries, draw them just far enough out of nothing to determine a shape, figure a theory, finger grim certainties and knock them aside: i want to describe a mystery just enough so that others see it too, can make a form of the matter, can understand how little there is to understand.

the world is full of mysteries but we do not look for that which we cannot understand.

the world is full of mystery but we want to understand. we do not want formlessness, interminable, shivering, shuddering, piling up, tangles and guttural utterances. the world is full of mysteries but i can't let go of just that one. i love my one mystery and i'm sick to death of it. exhausted and exasperated. wishing there could be another way, another manner of investigation, another name to call it, another thing i could summon toward me:

with similar attributes, but perhaps a more amiable cluster of options. i was a writer. i was, sometimes, an artist. i want to create but i stall out at manifestation. i want to engage in a process, but i forget to finish the job. i cannot finish the job. i cannot let the job go. no job is really ever finished, no work is done until some intangible criteria no mortal can determine but that's what we want and that's what we make for ourselves:

this lie of completion, the false satisfaction of getting it done. what is ever done what is completion in a world made of interminable mystery? what is mystery in a world that demands clear cut resolution on the threat of death? because:

get it done or die. we will confiscate resources. we will allocate no resources to you at all. we will starve you to death. we want results. we want solutions. we want an answer, not a thousand more questions that open the gate to a thousand questions more. we want the impossible made bite-sized and we want it in a secure package on our doorstep inside 48 hours. because mystery is death and death is mystery. because that one thing we can never know until it is all that we know. this one awareness, this shape we sound with every breath and motion. this person we are becoming. this person we've always been.

why am i writing?
why do i engage in this task?
what is the purpose?
what is the gain?

i don't know i don't know i don't know how can i


 
 
mood: storm holler
music: tunnel singer - lyra