The Friars

24.11.07

a través de la pantalla de las sombras

Habby Pirthday Briars Flog!



some poem:


today a song came through the radiator
an open throat of dry tin took a drink
and sung like a flag holding on by one clip
i washed two black shirts in the bathroom sink
there was talk of Pindar, a monumentalist of sorts
the water looked like the sky before a storm
ten, twenty minutes to night
he always mentioned their names
and of who in myth he was reminded
i am like none other, except maybe
a sock escaped into a warm dryer


some more poem:

winding up the dice
passion to chance
like a web
earth in perfumed silence
a mirrored light
intuition groping
in a cave
be speckled with stars


some more more poem:


the last car pulls the air in closed behind it
like inhaling
rolling to rest people come out
a warm cloud drifting towards
other each others
trains on separate tracks
sometimes love seems
a telescope away
which way is it going



more more more poem:


some crude oval, adding another along side
two, almost sympathetic, nearly eyes
smaller circles inside, and in those
two more, one each tiny
through them all enormity
hearts, stars, circles, sympathetic ovals












& an announcement : In Our Time with Melvyn Bragg; Borges and then some.


also, sound familiar?:
"Experts who study political cults have observed that such groups thrive on an imagined enemy in opposition to which the group constructs it own collective identity. [He] had always encouraged members to believe they were the victims of mass conspiracies..."
Yeah, but this time its LaRouche. When groups wildly veer. A fuller accounting is here-- (the portal jumping through click...click...cli

8.11.07

hot rod pause III

How is it that there is a single point in a choice that is marked by two options? This is the feature that I seem to be noticing lately: the (...what now I can’t seem to find in my handbook of rhetorical terms… found) Dissoi logoi: composing opposing arguments for a question. This is the foundation of jurist prudence, the making of a ‘truth’ by agreement as opposed to a ‘truth’ by proof. This is such a rich topic, it itself becomes a threat or an invitation to inquiry-- may distract, arrest movement or give it confidence. The point of distinction between one method and another, that is from jurist prudence and what I will presently call science. They can serve to announce a series of divisions--or better said, an example of divisions, distinctions, and perhaps even frontiers.


I am less concerned at the moment by the stability or ethics of the categories than with the ease and prevalence of their appearance. Distinctions seem to rise up at the same time as recognition. This awareness I have heard cited as the dawn of the I, as the primary cognitive act. It would seem then to be quite fundamental. The dangers of negotiating a world based on comparative difference are also powerfully present. The “other” only need be critically highlighted to be also be at once understood: us and them. The polarities also provide a simplification for rapid action: the brain operating for speed and economy. The amazing leap worth note and pause, is our awareness of all of the above. What we are without though, after this paragraph is both to ability to comprehend and to not comprehend. Or can we? Just look ahead.




I am talking about art and to some degree, the brain, or the person, the subject, the antenna we are all most familiar with—ourselves. I might add these very phrases, coming one after the other, are answering a question for me, one private and possibly not important for the subject; but suffice it to say that the act of making these statements is the answer to my own question—I apologize for being vague. Perhaps it will serve the topic to clarify my motive later, as important as it is, arising as it has out of a personal crisis. On a digression, which will guide us back to the subject, the mystery of my purpose here might have awakened a curiosity. Perhaps. Isn’t it interesting how we linguistically equate a mystery to dim uncertain edges, an amorphous object not quite in focus and perhaps obscured in the fog. This is the nature of my crisis.


I am drawn to mystery and think that solving a mystery means going from curiosity to knowing; this movement is the assignment of a value, and value makes action possible. Is there a fork in the road and if so which one is better? My crisis is precisely one of action. And like any mystery, this to you, and something else to me, until the form comes into sight, without the ability to see ahead, a choice is difficult to make. We must find out more.


How do we find out about each other? Through empathy and abstraction. I think these are the two seemingly opposed components of art, and for me literature and its comprehension; how in being presented with artistic material we exercise judgments of value. It would be then, to be a critic is to consider more than taste, but meaning as well as cause and purpose. There is in effect no need to distinguish between value and meaning. Through the arts a single questions can be presented with a variety of answers, an expansion instead of a reduction. And in this way the arts are neither science nor jurist prudence but an event. Though an attempt is often made to invest a work with meaning, it is a gun that remains unfired until experienced. Upon entering a work light is cast on new territories, mysteries are invoked—in short, the presence of other minds are realized. At the bottom of art are warm bodies in the dark--the perceived presence of other minds which contain a depth greater than the two sided arguments they compose.


Through empathy we can feel another. Not just. Not true. It is made up by the movements of self-will--taking the measure of things. Art can move without the imposition of an absolute regardless of its corroborating method. And as mentioned before, through abstraction we are taught the creation of figurative language, of simile, of analogy, of patterns, and over all of description; and I will add description yet to be validated. Art seems to situated itself in pre-truth--as true as an event, then subject to reevaluation.



And if this was less enigmatic would it be less interesting? A crisis can be very exciting. Uncertainty is the mystery that belongs to the future only deciphered by living. My own tumult (looking forward) has to do with whether or not I should pursue writing or jurist prudence; hence this could serve as a sort of an answer to that question, but in the end does not definitively, does not put me at an end where a decision has been made history. It is interesting too, how I am defensive, barred even to any third option, as if the complication means me harm, threatens the work of previous distillations and reductions. It threatens and looms, the two locked together like a dogfight up ahead, turning around each other, becoming one blur. Still, one simple question is like a prism splitting the light of knowledge while the asker remains enveloped in light. Recognizing parts we can make out the shape. The breadth of life can not be printed flatly on a coin. "The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it, immediately or in the long run" (Thoreau).




r

7.11.07

oh boy!

5.11.07

father

I like everything my father can't pronounce
the rest he leaves unsaid
then through mute pleas
he acts out subterfuges
leaving doors open, others shut
lights on, others off, like a ghost
or a crumb thief
he claims he's psychic, proven
by what he's been able to avoid
he doesn't use soap
won't touch a sponge
there are germs, liberals
clean is a conspiracy
to erase him, leave a film,
and clog pipes
he lies out of reflex
the truth is his, his own
pilfered secrets guarded
under dirty finger nails


r

buried...

Today I dig a hole

And bury this picture of me

Cover it with dirt

And never let it breathe


Hoping that tomorrow

This man won’t be the same

Than that picture down there

Choking in its grave.


H

2.11.07

dehiscence

My dear I wondered about you
without ever saying your name
followed the epic only
to peer inside of a lonely song
looked and look to going to end
in some unknown end of absence
in warm eyes and an echoing touch


this now is a coin sinking towards
a desperate and uncertain wish
then let this emptiness be the gift
something you’ve sent on ahead
a dark thrown open and counting
out the seconds till your voice


a bridge does not span its own divide
but is appointed between two shores
ocean. an ocean! its open depth
matter made neon blue and red with clay and foam
yellow shocks blaze through orange folds
in every green murmur life's embrace
air wings, breath voice, color light


...so where's the mistake if pairs
are normally bound? why the far off promise
in blindness, lopsided, instead of sight?
this distance envelopes the abyss


I, once ready and eager, shudder
cold and still, hollow, and diffused
as substantial as any perfect dream
awakened to drift towards oblivion
thunder walks quietly into the room
small and as unannounced as solitude
and echoes a hushed destruction
its the real that persists, with depth
the durable that's made for mutual reach
risk is where future's shadow is cast
I've been a black mirror in a frozen night
and where you weren’t you never will be


now as private as death, love enters
as fruit enters the sky
growing from the same root
to perish in the explanation



r

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