Tuesday, September 2, 2008


a man in a Frenzy is thirsty

and what of me?

the term ma; the syllable itself is the space between that allows perception to occur. That space, what space? That constant struggle that creation of immediate revelation.

so to me by an immediate revelation

How do we do it? And who does it.
I have been thinking much on craft. Or rather, I have been experiencing a great deal of anxiety regarding craft.

The source of American Horror was that the voice of God might be nothing but the wind

Because I feel myself, in my writing, running wild—how do you make this craft, create this, where is the space we all talk about, within that embodiment? How do you make this space, the running wild, without overflowing your boundaries, becoming craftless and wild. I need incarceration, that padded cell so to speak, not to burst these boundaries

Incarcerate me in yourself

not to become something banal and meaningless because of the overflowing of the boundaries (the water over….but that’s all over or is it?).

a great deal of caution and pains were found necessary to keep the people many of them, from running wild

In the speech of the politicos there is one form of banality, the banality of speech reduced to the lowest common denominator—you can understand this, can’t you? No? (the numbers say no), well let’s try THIS.

So like
our trembling
we caught at it

I am bored with tight closed borders. I want borders opened, amoebic I want to swallow everything and be inured to nothing. To be human and non human, animal and plant, living and non living, aqueous and solid. To experience all of this in pure form.

Dwelling in the drop, she has the form of the drop, she whose own form is comprised of menstrual blood and the drop

I want to be elite and elided, filled up with words and overwhelmed with words that have their signifieds real—erupted--> is something erupting—see it? see it? no, damn, the signifier is uncoupled yet again. (But I’m sure something is in your mind now isn’t it…come on…something?!)

(Why is that woman putting silverware in her pocket?)

The babble of birds, the babble of babies, bring the meaning back to me I want it rich and true, but nothing if not stripped down.

Ghoul girl

I am this. I am ma. Give me ma. This is the emptiness of our language, latin and saxon, anglo squashed together and curling into the void. Lord help me, I am wild with empty signifiers and how I wish to make them into meaning, into revelation, into something that might screw this world up into a shape ordered differently, a different order that might yield to my longing and satisfy and bring me quiet.

I am …Rudra. I am that fisherman…I annihilate the entire universe…I am the Emitter…I constantly protect the ordered universe; therefore I am the Orderer.

(Quotes in italics are by Cotton Mather, the Antinomian Anne Hutchinson, Andrew Delbanco, Emily Dickinson, Jonathan Edwards, Robin Blaser, Kaulavalinirnaya of Jnanananda Paramahamsa, Alice Notley, Kaulajnananirnaya of Matsyendranatha)

No comments: