Conception
Behold! A new poem, a tonality-fluidity-imagery is building up pressure. It struggles to be born. It is dilating the cervix of your limbic system. It is a bloody, fragile thing, encased in a little sac, carried through conversation, through class and ratiocination, throug shitting and pissing, through waking and sleeping. It feels those rumbles and awaits its midwife. Its midwife need not be here, or now, or ever. But I guarantee one thing: It Will Find A Way. Somewhere. It cannot abide. It must develop, for it is nothing but movement, framing, following. It is chance itself: it is a grabbing, a hoarding, a taking of what is here and the making of it something more. It glimmers, but not in brightness. It needs no light.
If we had a worked-out science of what sustains it we would be the most satisfied human beings in the world. It has to do with many things: safety, feeling felt, simply feeling, subconsciosness, holes in the hypnagogic wall, personality, weather, contingent events, flashes, twitches, dispositions. All this to say: we don't know what is going on. Or, rather: we don't hold it well. It's like a fluid putty.
And it seeks an outlet. All you have to do is choose the right receptacle: freeform? Prose poem? Elegiac lament? Concrete? Musical? Meditative? In this you have been too lazy. But you know what it is outlet for. The feeling of being infinite, the fragility of that feeling, the impossibility of that feeling in a creature of flesh and bone. Think about it: dreaming meat!
Consider: "I cannot persuade myself that a beneficent and omnipotent God would have designedly created the Ichneumonidae with the express intention of their feeding within the living bodies of caterpillars or that a cat should play with mice... On the other hand, I cannot anyhow be contented to view this wonderful universe, and especially the nature of man, and to conclude that everything is the result of brute force. I am inclined to look at everything as resulting from designed laws, with the details, whether good or bad, left to the working out of what we may call chance."
If we had a worked-out science of what sustains it we would be the most satisfied human beings in the world. It has to do with many things: safety, feeling felt, simply feeling, subconsciosness, holes in the hypnagogic wall, personality, weather, contingent events, flashes, twitches, dispositions. All this to say: we don't know what is going on. Or, rather: we don't hold it well. It's like a fluid putty.
And it seeks an outlet. All you have to do is choose the right receptacle: freeform? Prose poem? Elegiac lament? Concrete? Musical? Meditative? In this you have been too lazy. But you know what it is outlet for. The feeling of being infinite, the fragility of that feeling, the impossibility of that feeling in a creature of flesh and bone. Think about it: dreaming meat!
Consider: "I cannot persuade myself that a beneficent and omnipotent God would have designedly created the Ichneumonidae with the express intention of their feeding within the living bodies of caterpillars or that a cat should play with mice... On the other hand, I cannot anyhow be contented to view this wonderful universe, and especially the nature of man, and to conclude that everything is the result of brute force. I am inclined to look at everything as resulting from designed laws, with the details, whether good or bad, left to the working out of what we may call chance."
posted by A. D. at 8:44 PM
1 Comments:
where'd you go man?
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