Wordorgy's Weblog

A Late night; a late night.

wordorgy — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 09:24:54 +0000

It’s 3 o clock, very late, but I’ve got the urge to write, and I’m going to listen to it. It’s this place I get a feeling for, I feel it down in my soul, someplace in my bones, it jiggles or swirls down deeply, someplace in the middle of the place. I see a large stone or concrete cube, high in the air, many floors up, large glass panes opening up onto a vast cityscape. I know this place. How high the ceilings, how wide apart the walls, the floors far away from the ceilings, the walls reach out, a large cube with me in the center of the place. And pen and ink flow, high up many stories the floors on the level of my mind. I look for this place and find it when I turn to the writing, and that alone is itself reason to develop the writing–even though it goes so much more down deeply. Everyone tells you they know what your life is like, but only you and a select few really know at all.

I write to be known more than I ever let on in the past.

A Grief from the Soul of Bones

wordorgy — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 04:15:29 +0000

There’s never a good blog or a great book. Almost never. Hardly ever.

I lean over the bridge and drop little pebbles in. Ploop. I see them settle to the bottom. Nothing else happens but water passing over. The shh of the sound, water moving both past and away. Goodbye, water. Goodbye, life. Not my own life. The life all around me. I watch it float past. The stream of it, teeming, life past in such a hurry. The stream of people all around me, their thoughts, their plans, their fights, struggles, and turmoils. They aren’t mine. I always try to make them mine. Always–or often, which is always enough. And my thoughts, my life plunk to the bottom, sink down through the clear water that keeps rushing on by. I try to make their life bustles my own, I try to fight their battles because I empathize, I have sympathy, and I feel many things they also feel. But in the end, I can’t make my life bustle like that. It won’t catch. I simply can’t make my life catch on the hooks of the streams of the masses of people moving together without realizing that they all move together. Hardly anyone I know isn’t like the school of fish. I try to be like them, but it all seems so pointless to me. I try a lot, but I always find myself sighing alone by the outer lamppost.

I look in, I look back, but it’s all I can really do. How the world exhausts me. I see the struggles of good and evil. I see those battles that manifest in simple little things–as well as the big worldly events. And I realize what’s going on, really I do. It’s hard not to get caught up in it all, the struggle, the yearning, the attempts to please everyone else or to convince others to let go of the evil that they embrace. But all of it is the stream forever flowing away. One might as well try to convince the clear water in the riverbed to stop because in just a few feet is a waterfall that leads downward, that falls down, down, forever, always. But it will not listen. How can I make it listen? How can I make them see? The life they live will lead downward, will fall down, down, forever, always.

Almost as if the world cannot listen. Unable to listen. I believe once, in my heart, I thought I could save the whole world. Then I thought I could save everyone who even at all cared about truth, clarity of thought, reason, logic–simply by telling them the truth with clarity of thought, reason, logic, and quality of words. But I find now, instead, that the world has loved lies rather than truth, and there is nothing at all I can do about it as an ontological whole. Individuals may be brought to clarity; individuals may at last be saved. Some drops may splash out or be drawn out like a drink in a glass. But the stream of water still ever flows down, down, and nothing can be done to prevent the whole of it save for what seems like a few from pouring down, down in the hole forever, always, without a way to ever climb back up.

For this reason, I am greatly exhausted within my soul. No words I have ever heard could console me in my life from this great, hollow sadness that cleans out the marrow from my bones and hibernates in the soul of my holy frame.

Thumbprint of the Logos

wordorgy — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 19:08:46 +0000

Mystique. Miraculous movements on the page. Mystery of noticing oneself alive and the transformation of material into markings, markings into script, script into thoughts. Language is more than miracle–it is continual, self-perpetual, generative living miracle.

Here I am again, words on the page, thoughts in the air, mind burning efflorescently. I sit in a dark place with a candle become light become furnace heat become living orb of fire swelling into star eternal. Burning white orb of my soul wherein one day will be inscribed before me my true name, known only to me and the Lord, the One.

Revel in Language. Revel in Light. Revel in Lordship. Revel in Servanthood. Revel in the mindcraft. Revel in the thoughtcraft.

Human existence — Human ontology.

Human ontology.

Logos at the first gives birth to human ontology. We are His imprint. We are His discourse. The thumbprint of the Logos set alive with life.

Angels’ Silence

wordorgy — Thu, 18 Aug 2011 09:06:20 +0000

Another day, late at night. Five till four. Quiet here but not silence. And now a train blaring from some small distance.

Last month, I lived in Kansas City. This month I live near Dallas, Texas. Last week I was in New Mexico. And almost all of my friends are somewhere else, but I’m glad to be here anyway–Nonetheless.

Time to go sleep in bed, deep and soft. Time to sleep with the peace of angels’ silence.

Words begin to come more quickly now, and I let them settle in the bottom of the clean sheet creases.

Groundswell

wordorgy — Thu, 09 Jun 2011 16:35:37 +0000

Some days later I find myself again and fall into the space. The place. Always place and space falling together, coming together in my textuality, flopping together (lovers folding together in bed with longing). How long it seems to have been since I was regularly writing. Writing every day or most every day. That’s all gone and come back swelling, swelling like sea ebb tide and flow. I’m standing on the deck, looking face out all over the city. There’s this swelling, this surge of a feeling. I’m thinking of La Nauseé, Antoine Roquentin with his blacked out feeling–but I’m less so. Or really, the feeling is different, not so black, not really so deathly, not really any black thing at all. A good thing, a lifecalm peaceful feeling when all around is a kind of turmoil. But I am like the eye of a storm. Or I carry the eye all around with me. A cup of coffee, black coffee steaming. White porcelain cup; milk oppose the darkness.

Thick white paint swirl into blackthick inkwell. Large open container, blackthick whitethick all spin together, little wooden stick melt white paint into inkthick. I love this thick voluptuous contrast. Like a groundswell, hills rolling together bulbous under the green grass and soil cell membrane.

Don’t leave me here. I know all the hidden places. Or leave me here alone if you want, for I know all the hidden and hiding places. I can duck down and live quietly alone and be still for longly.

Don’t you feel the groundswell? I can hear it building slowly–but clearly as powerfully real. Clearly groundswell building beneath the soil, rumble in my soul.

claven

wordorgy — Mon, 25 Apr 2011 18:01:36 +0000

I feel weird writing. I feel weird reading. I feel weird feeling.

I feel like the spider who lets himself down on a string of silk into the black chasm, empty space, below the horizontal line where the light-color turns black and moves away from the spherical roof into the endless downward cylinder. The spider doesn’t blow away or sway on the silk thread; after all, no wind, no life, breathless, all space but no atmosphere. Above is life, color, places and spaces and events and smiles, feelings, remembering of people one to another. The roof of the planet closing over, admitting sunlight and warmth, but it’s eventless for me. Can’t really find a breath. Can’t really go back. It’s all the same, really, from now on, you can’t go back, that’s a losing place.

I keep my earphones in my ears with no music on. The plugged up silence, my own struggling deep breaths bloated in my head. I hear the rattle. Each breath I have to remember to take; nothing is really automatic, and I can’t seem to get enough air. Why is this?

I don’t really feel connected to anything, anyone, any place, anywhere, anything. The people around me, it looks like our fingers are touching, but I’m really behind the screen–it’s only our silhouettes. Or my silhouette. They go on living, I guess. Think I’m not behind the screen. Point it out to them, I’ll blow away like a willow wisp of ash or yellow-clear water vapor, blow all away. Don’t exhale, and the salty statue stands still; exhale, and the memory blows away.

An audience of one, an audience alone, deflate, descend, submerge, submerged.

I remember the blacker-swell days of easy breathing, the sun falling down diurnally, soma falling down into the lowest body enclaves, the mind standing up and spreading out. The comfort of a close friend; the stimulation to life of a close friend nearby.

Now I’ve been alone so long I’ve almost forgotten how to breathe.

I know you think what it sounds like. All my mind and soul spread out warm and flat like a hot blanket and fall asleep. Go to sleep forever always. I don’t have a vial of the clear liquid. I don’t live in the backyard. The moon isn’t in my parole. I don’t have the orbit in all my claven. Clave-in. Clavin’. glaaaahhh. glaaaaahhh.

vomit up all of it.

about time for the birthing place.

wordorgy — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 17:41:55 +0000

I think it’s time to write a novel. A big, incomplete, fragmentary, meandering, only semi-coherent mess–just like life. Just like life, ho ho.

Magmatic Syntax

wordorgy — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 01:23:32 +0000

Where in the middle of all the block of prose is the poem? In all the multitude of words avalanching from the mouth, volcanoing from the pen, where the syntax of poetry? As the words pile up dark-fonted but ethereal to the ceiling, letters hooking together and locking up, how do I pull them out and stick them end to end to call them poem? As if the rules were real; as if you knew what they meant. As if the glow in the words didn’t come from all of me, pulsing together, channeling. The hum and squeal of fire is in my core, melting language back down to irrepressible elements, and I press from this magmatic substance words still semi-liquid and globular, and I let them link themselves through syntax I cannot fully comprehend. And before the words can cool and completely solidify, I dump them out onto your skin and let them melt down into your body if your cortex is susceptible to this chemical process. And if your own core has gone cold and dark and lumpy, the glowing grammatic magma will burn and sink down far until that black dark cold core of a dying planet will reignite and set ablaze the life that was lately fading out.

Death leaving life

wordorgy — Sat, 11 Sep 2010 02:59:46 +0000

I’m trying to be where I am, I feel my body buzzing, I feel the water droplets running downward the plate glass, I see the spray on the windows, it’s night again, but it’s raining nonetheless. And I see the thigh-high green plants waving, the atmosphere is moving and moving the plants. They’re dark in the night, but they’re tinted green like only memory can make. And I see droplets firing in the asphalt rain puddles like neutrinos spiraling through me. I know that the night is muggy and the water is hot, but inside my soul I feel a cold stark-rising solid mass of freezing. And the water droplets work their way down a path toward the bottom, and I like the look of the streetlamp light orange-haloing in the black glasspanes. Lights up above on poles. The light is blank but looking, stares at me.

The cold is not cold, it’s warmly inside me, the cold is not the cold. The cold was a lie, the cold was the death leaving life.

I don’t have the words to leave you. All I have are droplets to leave. I scatter them on the floor when I stand up. They dust off my pants. I look down at them unfeeling. and you know it’s true. The words I make to you are parched, are stale bread crumbs because I haven’t the words to speak. I try to speak them, they’re all lies, I feel a living nausea rise up in my stomach–I know it tells the truth.

Plucked by Hands, Nimbly

wordorgy — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 04:21:21 +0000

Sitting, I’m sitting. Am I sitting? My fingers poke out like tendrils at the keyboard. To my right–plate glass windows black with the night and sometimes cars going past. And I look at them and feel them out there because they mark the city night with presence and looking headlights like eyes piercing darkness–and goodbye red brakes. Later at night than it was before–how sequential, my experience. I feel the coffee caffeine buzzing inside me, my innards tremble in old forgotten ways, waving like a harp string plucked or a long tendon pulled tight then strummed. Is this sometimes what it might mean to be human? Stretched between two wooden planks as multiple strands as nimble hands with wiggling fingers rain all over the body?