Jump to content

a river in water

Members
  • Content Count

    11,266
  • Joined

  • Last visited

  • Days Won

    1

a river in water last won the day on January 24

a river in water had the most liked content!

About a river in water

  • Rank
    Man-O-War

Recent Profile Visitors

626 profile views
  1. hm but id be happy to be wrong but i can't see a way of this, it's like checkmate: if we don't have access to the real, it doesn't make sense to use it as a descriptive category (since we don't know / can't know what / if it is); if we do have access to the real, then we are real, so may as well not even use the word. like the real is a HUMAN category, if ever there was one dont worry if u r without time inclination to discourse on the real that's even better
  2. im pretty sure no one can or has ever translated anything that was in their head into anything that was not in their head the criteria by which what is real can be measured is by what - maximially - appears to be real (things outside the head) so those things are therefore real
  3. my attempt to write bad american-style poetry about issues The male prostitute was going To the left of the screen though not Hoping to walk off it wholly Into the ether (where I am). He was Speaking Polish, that being The language which he knew best And therefore warmed him On the cold nights and killed him On the warm ones. He had been Doing this since He started: time was like that now, so incredibly circular And rotating so fast That it would cut a dick clean off If it ever came to that. It probably Won’t though, thought the other man, in German (the results of economic equality are overwhelmingly sad), standing Off stage left and looking at the sky Like he always did, savouring What had happened, reducing it Softly to nature. then normal poetry which i probably posted already or might as well have done In someone else’s how (d major) Slightly to the left of okay But isn’t that The boy you weren’t ever Going to talk about again? Then – I think It was then – the way Things had been started to otherwise Themselves: new shapes, covert Obsolescences you wouldn’t want to But kept being Caught dead with. The ocean I’m afraid I don’t believe a word of this I’m afraid that if I did It still wouldn’t approach truth Not even a fitting strangeness I’m Then the ocean really did We take matters like this very seriously Then the ocean really for the last time If we let you off, what about all the others Rain, a drooping magnitude, an insular spectacularism, bereft of rainbows, and, or and/or light, never more brusque, more occasional that this, sinning its way home, into your breathing and off Your name approaches itself If I told a cliff to jump Over you Would anything Your name in huge letters but where? The waves fuck majestically, the garden Of no one contracts, but only slightly The police officers can’t stop dancing this is probably your chance But look You didn’t take it And the ocean cools into a glacier The whale you were looking for Is frozen meat Nothingness Licks your ear Hello, Sailor
  4. some more lil thangs, i've been completely unable to use full stops so Red The colour ran off her arm. One thing which might be learned from this is that she, a woman, might have, somewhere and at some moment, been handling, in some capacity, some paint, the possibility, I mean, is opened, that she is a painter, or a painter-decorator, she has finished painting and is washing the paint from her arm, the colour ran off her arm, or perhaps she is injured, the colour being then of blood, and that she is washing her arm, after a suicide attempt of some sort perhaps, we’ve all been there, you want to die, we’re all there most of the time though we don’t always act on it, that would be absurd, what kind of a world would that be, not deserving of the name, but we all do, a bit, want to die, or to see if we really do or not, by making an initial incision, because we think we might, we have our suspicious, sitting in our chairs like this, like I am or might be now, you never know, which is part of the fun, part of us that tells us that yes, we think we want to die, but we aren’t serious, because look how fun this is, this writing about how one might be in a chair, think of the reader, how little they know, how they would have to guess, make an evidence-based judgement, what fun, who could really want to die in such a world, and world it would be, were it so, and it is, sometimes, but let’s not get distracted, the goal was to establish some interpretative pathways away from, and back towards, the given sentence, the colour ran off her arm, although of course this is already nothing more than a contribution to the growing sum of earthly distractions, the only currency of true value, the only thing between us and the inviolable certitude that really, when we get down it, when we clear our heads of our plans to suddenly take up farming in some place we don’t know the name of, etc., we start to think of it, the initial incision, much better to praise God that you have a plan to follow and follow it to its terminus, as we typically do, we put our hoe in our pocket and off we walk, by this means we keep ourselves from our knives, with which would surely be getting busy if we stayed at home, bereft of plan, in our hurry we left the knife quite at home, we can think of it, we can always think of it, but we don’t have access to it, only to our hoe in our pocket, we haven’t yet reached the point of attempting suicide with such an instrument, you need a knife on a farm of course but not on the freshly imagined farm towards which we walk, it barely exists in fact, but will enable us nonetheless when we arrive there to be at one with nature, the less tools and instruments the better, in fact, for this becoming-one, not that we would cease to be ourselves, disappearing wholly, answering to the name nature answers to which is to say, not a name, not answering, or answering only to the name of a certain leaf falling at a certain time in a certain place and that only, leave me alone until you are that leaf, then you can come a-knocking and I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on, objection-wise, I would accept your invitation graciously, join me and my hoe, I would say, looking down at the grass, were any of this to happen, though of course we’re not quite at that level yet, the level of fully actualised distractions, we’re still playing around in the sandpit of the present, writing, though you know as well if not better than I do, that’s the thing about writing, it ceases to be obvious to the one writing that they are writing, while to the one not writing, while the one reading is more and more aware, as they go on, of the processual presence behind the words, while I, that is, engage in my own personal studies of forgetfulness, you involve yourself in remembering, I can certainly remember doing that, developing little techniques of memory which would help to me keep a hold on the characters, the plot, so that I might properly get lost in the book, as they say, everything outside the book not sufficing to get lost in, the clouds for example, they just look blankly down at us, no presence to speak of, anyway, back to the initial sentence, I can’t go on writing about nothing for long, I lack the skill and maturity, to go on without turning back, so as to turn forward again, to the seed, the colour ran off her arm, so it’s a woman, that’s what the her is telling us, although it could be an animal, one of those about which we typically, for whatever reason, feel the need to resort to gender pronouns, a dog, a cat, a female dog with colour on it, not impossible, a couple decide to paint their house before their little baby arrives therein and the dog which they had purchased so as to delay until now this moment of imminent parenthood attempts to scratch some inaccessible part of itself against the just painted wall, so now the paint is on the dog, the symbol of the desire to welcome to the child into the world and the symbol of the fear of welcoming the child in the world united suddenly in this painted dog, which perhaps walks out into the rain, and stands there, looking about itself, and the couple look at it, stunned somehow, looking at the colour running off her fur in the rain, all of them together baffled somehow, a moment of symbolic intensity, the strands connecting, the colour rushing now towards the drain indicating certain things about their past life, drunkenness, drug abuse, sexual excess, which they anticipate missing, and all the other sources of young adult fun, crossing roads again and again backwards and forwards with your eyes closed and so on, that’s all draining away, they can’t turn away from it, the dog, now clean, plays in the rain, and then he could put his hand on her stomach and a car or even train could hit the dog, wham, what does that mean, although typically the limbs of a dog are not referred to as arms, so the narrative does not follow from the lonely original sentence which I took, for personal reasons no doubt, to be my beginning, the place from which I set off, on my long, awful journey back to it, that’s what it means, of course, when a writer (someone who writes) offsets a single sentence at the beginning of something, it singles out a place to be returned to, it’s the territorial piss of the pen, you’ll see me again in these parts, you just need to hang around in the white space and above and below me, here the themes will yield their rewards, give it time, just a little time, I’ll be back, Godspeed, the colour ran off her arm, what next you’re thinking, so am I, perhaps she was cooking, running her hand under the tap, I’m waiting behind her to wipe the colour off my hand too, happiness, we were cooking together, it happens, a cake, for our best friend, or for ourselves, or for our wedding anniversary, for our wedding we had a blue cake and we’ll have a blue cake again goddamn it, dutiful as ever to the strange wiles of the past we went to the shop and purchased the dye no we didn’t we already had it, we’re forty or so, the same old bottle we’ve been using it all these years, amazing isn’t it, though we’re too intimate to say such tedious things, to describe anything as amazing, the word amazing underwrites our very being thank you very much, we would only muddy it by dragging it out into the open, worldly space between us, it has a life of its own, we don’t disturb it, but amazing isn’t it, we wouldn’t say, the silence peaking in brilliance at that very moment, how the dye keeps, as blue as it ever was, will be, not necessary to say, silence still in peak, not one of those short, youthful peaks, that dissipate as soon as they arrive, into extreme tension, but a long, pure, adult silence, still married and after so much, as blue as it ever was, the colour ran off her arm, or rather, he was thinking it would, run off blue, as he came back into the room, he had gone into another room, not sure why, it happens with married couples, you drift, sometimes the room is suddenly not the right size or shape for the two of you to stand there together, another room needs to be introduced, for balance, so he came back from that other room, and saw her over by the sink, cognisant of the blue dye on his own arm, the colour he was expecting to see, but perhaps it wasn’t, it isn’t, it’s red, quite red, as before, quite a lot of it, absolutely shameless, isn’t it, for her to do it now, with all the symbolic valances in place, what violence, concentrating the entire symbolic system into this terrible, suddenly red point, that’s what he’s no doubt referring to when he begins the story with those words, cut away from the rest, just waiting to be returned to, again and again, both in his mind and out, the colour ran off her arm. The Lock The truth is I was sitting down somewhere when it happened, sitting down somewhere like any old person, I’d looked up, I’d seen the sky, I’d seen the trees against the sky, that was how my look went up, on the line of the trees, then the sky, it was obvious something was going to happen, what though, we thought, looking at each other, I say we thought, I don’t know what she thought, that’s the joy of it, love, not knowing, the slow descent into not knowing, but it’s quite specific things that you find pleasure in not knowing, proximate, invisible things, you’re outlook regarding the sky remains the same, I couldn’t sit for the rest of my life under a sky so obnoxiously ominous I tried to focus on the things I didn’t know that I also didn’t want to know, such as what she was thinking, what she ever thinks, it’s not just a question of not knowing, but question of not being able to know, the option is never open, which gives the whole thing an appearance of great clarity, people can answer the question what are you thinking when you ask them, but if you hadn’t asked them, they’d have thought something else, in that moment, and when I ask them what they’re thinking all I want to know is what they would have thought if I hadn’t asked, hadn’t interrupted, but enough about who I am, there we were, a few years ago it seems, the sky, as I said, brooding, like a teenager not wanting to be called by the name its parents had given it, wanting to wriggle free, it seemed, of the ontological commitments entailed in being sky, to be something wholly other, it had turned purple which is normal enough at sunset but it was the middle of the day, it was purple with a blue heart, it was falling out of itself or into itself, it was the climax of global warming perhaps or God blinking, which of those, I thought, is she more likely to be thinking, the climax of global warming or God blinking, I’d put down both at about 100:1, I know her quite well, better than anyone else at least, she arrives at cognition through non-cognition, erasure, she thinks about what I might be thinking and then rules it out and sees what it left which is a dangerous move, I’ve told her as much, since the way I think is agglutinative, to think all possible things in a row and then hold them at arm’s length, but hold them, she shatters them, other couples throw pieces of crockery at the walls, usually something Italian, it drips down walls better, redder, it’s like opera, we do the same with thoughts, or she does, I’m more of the creative type, which is to say uninterested in truth, she is interested in truth, which means in practice performing the slow erasure of everything I find it possible to think, and there we were, two of us in total, surprising really, you would think people would seek company if the sky turned blue at noon but it turns out that most people decide to stay indoors, away from the sky, we on the other hand hadn’t yet decided to do anything, the moment was locked at both exits by our diverse gazes, like the staring game but with the focus off stage somehow, staring with consciousness rather than eyes, though I know that the distinction is not always so clear, but it was then, I promise, there was some seal on the moment, either the rising force of love between us or the purple blue noon sky, something has to give, I thought, it’s dangerous out here, it might be the end of the world, I pictured her thinking that and erasing the thought, I don’t know how she does it, erases thoughts, with me they just build up and up and up, you’ve probably gathered as much, if only we could find the middle between us and just stay there forever, choosing the good thoughts and letting go of the bad, a bodiless but highly moral collective innerness, safe from the wiles of the then blue sky and the potential intrusions of the manifold people waiting for whatever was going to happen, because something is going to happen, I thought, in their houses, unless that’s it, that’s what’s going to happen, the natural laws are going to slide to one side, shift to accommodate the new middle space, we’ll get sucked up there, I thought, into the centre, and be added together and divided by two and sprinkled down like rain, or ash, the only true form of union occurs after death, shared burial spots, or ash in a shared container, not the ash of my body at the base and the ash of hers at the top but the two ashes stirred together, by a kind, understanding son or daughter, unless that’s the answer, a son or a daughter, a living mixture of the impossible between, running and jumping around, sometimes more me, sometimes more her, but sometimes, surely, a magical corporealized balance, standing there, just behind us, turn around, look into its eyes and the lock starts to break. A Brief Adventure You are the word perhaps if you are anything and you are something and that’s what it is, I just have to start writing and you climb in, on either side of everything that word as though it were 1990 I had pulled up outside your house I was American the house was American the world was American, America still held to it a trace of the imaginable anyway, I pulled up I could drive I could be I was I pressed the horn you came out squeezed through the door in your huge infinite costume, the word perhaps, there were four of you you sat in every seat of my car I had a car I had you I had everything except I didn’t because that was the truth, and I knew it, you were the truth, the word perhaps without accompaniment, what could I say to calm it down to alter it I had to crash there were no trees no rocks no cliff faces no other car an infinite amount of petrol and of desert and driving around, the word perhaps in all seats except mine I didn’t feel so good I’ll be honest and I don’t now either. It’s so unsurprising when you explain it. Same with everything. Best to go back to the brothels, the insects impressions on the floor there, I paid them to watch me do my Kafka, making ejaculation 1/100 times but it was undoubtedly worth it, the other 99 times were still worth it somehow, hard to describe it of course that’s why people have sex, so they can say I don’t know about something and mean it, I think of all the times I said I don’t know and didn’t mean it and it makes me sick I throw up, is there somewhere here to throw up I say, where is the choicest spot they point me towards their families lingering on the curb side but I don’t get there I throw up before I arrive, then I’m back doing Kafka, sometimes I segue into Dostojevskij it makes me so incredibly hot, I don’t know how they feel, you would have to ask them, you’d have to pay them too, that’s how it works with them, perhaps they didn’t feel anything, it makes me hot just thinking about that, they saw me complete the full transformation, jump the arc of the impossible literary genealogy, and felt nothing looked the other way even, rather at the suburban death through the window than at my series of, excuse my boldness, inspired moves, it looked like I was mining myself, I was spade and hole and man and blackness down there no light and I was the terrifying hierarchical relationships behind the scenes all of it, at once they looked out of the window, into the window of Pizza Hut, it was just next door back then those were the days those were days.
  5. I was reading about the word nous like contxt of ancient Greek theory of mind / awareness , quite good - so I guess its Greek! And English too colloquially
  6. so The word mouth has to do with the end of it, The sliced up like an onion Finality of it, that doesn’t interest itself In you, later, the hill A muffin in the light, Forgetting. Steering yourself Nouslessly about in the soft Givenness of whatever Though so particular little Hour. Christ! I came for a reason But the marble just rises and rises.
  7. sounds a bit like one of those "the day x had some problem and me (y) selflessly helped them in a manner both empathetic and poetic" (i just read the title tho so ignore this
  8. thomas bernard is really really good! i never think of him being wounded though i guess he was : (
  9. there was a competition about writing about austria, a competition without a prize which i didn't win twice firstly Vienna It’s entirely constructed of rectangles, of quite even sizes, there are no triangles or circles, either I was in a strange mood when I walked around Vienna or it was, a mood to be in control, in the way a rectangle seems more in control of itself than a circle or a triangle, despite, I’m sure, the actual way geometry works. I went there to get away from the lack of historical buildings (when I refer to history I refer to human time up to 1870) which I often experienced as unnavigable loss. One wants space to be mixed with time, space on its own is terrifying, I thought, or might have done, sitting, otherwise very happily, on the floor of my small, quite post-historical enough thank you room at the top of somewhere in Petržalka. Historical but gestureless, these rectangular buildings, prophesying self-sufficiency across parks to each other, they did not tend upwards like buildings do in Italy, aspiring to the condition of air, they were happy to be rectangles, the enjoyed their connection to mud, just as I do, their ambitions were elsewhere. There is, I felt, a great, terrible peace in this, which has something to do, probably, with mountains, but Italy has mountains too, possibly even more than Austria, both have a fair number. It has to do then, with Austrian mountains. The people, of course, were speaking German: in the east neighbouring countries they cut the sausage up, here the sausages are whole and it is the language that is put to the knife, you hear the fall and rise of the blade in nearly every word, as though to admit, yes, language is totally fucked up, it’s continuously fucking itself up, it doesn’t even need us to help it, contra The Piano Teacher, we just have to open our mouths, though of course this is absurd, it was only by not understanding what the words meant that I could understand them to be declaring, continuously, the infinite fuckedupness of language, the speakers most likely were actually just referring, transparently enough, to the things they believed themselves to be referring to, tables, chairs, you know the story. But one must take into account the outside as well as the inside. Or perhaps, German: I think of a mysterious incident in my life in which a washing machine and a dishwasher were misunderstood to the point of confusion, a washing machine was filled to completion with forks and knives and spoons, it was turned on, the sounds began, I never found out if it was a joke. The metallic quality which accompanies everything accidental? The metaphor is not the important thing here, at least not to me. It wasn’t just the rectangularity of the buildings but also the sonic qualities of German that made Vienna a good place to escape briefly (to escape anything for a long time is terrible) the much softer tragedy which characterises languages of the Slavic family, a washing machine heard over a great distance, though perhaps as one listens there is a spoon in one’s pocket around which one’s hand closes, warmly, but the spoon is cold. The best thing, of course, was to stop half way (I used to walk there from Petržalka) on the triple border, Austria / Hungary / Slovakia, there was a small stone there, like a weight on a draft of a book, to stop the languages flying away, flapping upwards with their powerful, manifold pages, burning up as the air warmed, as they would do if they uninhibited, if they could abide as they surely want to, outside of the human mouth. But alas. I would stand there for long time, with my rucksack on, less and less conscious of its weight, of anything’s weight, instead just the fierce lightness of the three languages saying hello to each other inside me (I knew, at least, even then how to say hello in each of them). It was very territorial of me, in a way, echoing the violence of geography so carefully, but one must be territorial at times, one must remind oneself of the mud. In short, then, I have absolutely no idea what I think about Vienna, far less what I think about Austria in general, I have absolutely no idea what I think about the 4-5 hours I spent in Vienna, I can only suggest, and I don’t believe it at all, that perhaps that is the secret of writing, to have absolutely no idea what you think, before, during and after, the act of writing, but definitely not, and it is something else, of that I am sure, not to think anything. mostly later this way of not wining the competition without the prize about austria The Task of The Translator The train is travelling east and I ready myself to look in through the window, there are many windows but he always travels in the same seat, he always sees here me (we see each other), I always stand at the same distance facing the same direction, in patterns only can one find and be able to recognise love, not only find, not only be able to recognise. So much for patterns. I am living here, a field somewhere, a place that he occasionally passes, uncoincidentally, I should say, it makes me feel (that’s why I do it) like a person at the far edge of an Italian painting, small and odd yet who is secretly, via a series of interconnected allegorical gestures, sparking like signal fires across the canvas, the subject. I can’t picture him in a car, thank God, how much more difficult would that be, he might take a different route if the traffic was up, he might take another route to avoid the route on which I had settled, but I’m safe from that, I’m sure, for all his radical praise of the menial in his early works it’s obvious from the first word that he finds himself excluded from it completely, that’s why he praises it, those deep in the menial don’t praise it all, not because they hate it, but when they’re not doing it they’d rather talk about something else, that’s my impression, anyway, and furthermore, there is an infinite passivity in his writing, undeniably, as though he were sitting inside the train of language, rather than trying to drive it to some particular location, some beauty spot he might wish to visit, a sense of stepping aside to allow language to charge on through, like one of the bulls, which you can see near the beginning of Thomas Bernhard, Ein Widerspruch, ein film von Krista Fleischmanm, in the beginning, just moments earlier, he is sitting on a train, train and bull, you get my point, it’s very beautiful, I begged the YouTube community for English subtitles for some time, but nothing came of it, why don’t you do it yourself, they said, arsepipe, we’ve got better things to do, what, I said, we won’t tell you, they replied. George Steiner said, in his introduction to Correction, that most of the glory was in the German itself, sealed away from me forever, therefore, by the a’s, the b’s, the c’s, the d’s, the e’s, the f’s, and so on, but open, like a book, of course, to George himself, well, I thought, Mr Steiner, how can you know that, wouldn’t you need to not know German first, to compare, that’s what happens, of course, when you learn a language, you stop being able to read the translations, at least not properly, which is to say, against the backdrop, the wilderness, of your own ignorance, which is not so bad, is it, isn’t that why Jesus went into the desert, to feel the empty places inside him wail aloud, not yet filled, not yet ground into dust by the arrivals and evasions of the major European languages, what empty space is there left inside you, Mr Steiner, that can wail itself crazy in the wilds of the desert, like this, I said, pointing to myself, to my head, like this. Because isn’t that what this is all about, writing – words, driving themselves madly in the direction of translatability, which is to say, meaning shed of culture, God’s face over a hill, one face, one hill, one over, the shy, impossible promise of singularity latent in everything, if you just stare at it enough, if you just grind up against it enough, it gives over, it admits, I am one, it says, doesn’t it, George, does it? Isn’t that where he was heading, George, but for all you folks, telling him, telling us, Oh, it’s better in the German, trying to hold back the flaring light with your translinguistic hands, to tame it back down to nativity, to put the dog back in the box? Me, no, I’m out here, between stations, living alone in a tent full of baked beans, I have a single spoon too, I know the face-in- the-window behind the words, I know when the train comes and when it goes, I know the seat he prefers. And then one day I see the train begin to slow, oh my god, I think, oh my god, I start to run, it’s slowing, I run towards the window, I look in and he looks out, I see him to start to mouth a word, Thomas Bernhard, the word, though more like the tongue really, the tongue squashed like a wound on the glass, meaning something, no doubt, the train completely still, I put my mouth to the window, the other window, the same window, I get it, I understand, I mouth a word back, the two tongues lolling inconsequentially next to each other, perhaps two words with one meaning, perhaps two words with two meanings, or perhaps just two tongues, and oh my god, Mr Steiner, how much better not to know?
  10. But do tell people what they should or shouldn't call other people
  11. im a really big fan of their mid-late "inverted commas" period. im not a fan of either their early, or their late late "not using inverted commas" period.
  12. trigger warning suicide Suicide by spoon suicide from Sudden table gesture suicide inside Shed green flames suicide By genetics by dad by Instinct by Urge to completion by underhand Means suicide by German language Text message suicide by The possibility of Survival, suicide by communism Suicide by hand Suicide by Experimentation yesterday’s Headlines high wind Speeds ocean Dancing little walk in A wood shoeless as the day Suicide by four identical Girlfriends suicide by mortgage, prettiest ever Garden Greek island cruise ship Suicide by proto-metal Suicide by Lack of head “accident” Pop music in reverse low Bit rate Suicide by sheer Radical distance Warm bath forever Suicide by well thought out conscious decision.
×
×
  • Create New...