Association String #5

Fight wright wright he’s she’s the fightwright who writes up their fightwrighting fights. Wander wonder wright is right what is white. Cut, eat sip drink succour and pucker. Fuck her. You’s use white light find the right night to fight. Echt. Igh. Fuck light. Night light. Fight the right or the left if it’s the time of day. If it’s the time of day that matters then go take your showers fight the powers fight the fucking powers. Wires. Wires entering tubes bloody vicious viscous tubes connected to connected to more and more tubes. What enters what, who enters who. Penetration, the first fist through the dirt bloodstained shirt what leaves a mark and what just glimmers in the dark?

Death Voyage

As the ship’s curved prow led it forward into the darkness, its passenger silent, resting in sombre gloom; as it left the shelter of earth and glided out, burdened with riches and ancient treasures; as that ornamented vessel broke free of the earth, and sought a new territory on that boundless expanse, for a sailor laid to rest – then it began to travel into the unknown, across the heavens, until the daybreak when, resting upon a distant shore, it is discovered.

Envelope Patterns #3, #4 & #5

Envelope Pattern #3
"A white light showed Tammuz the way, guided him upward, calling the god home, bringing him to the golden sun, a radiant drop of honey, the symbol of beautiful Ashana, his sweet salvation, the brilliant daylight, whispering his name, marking his path, the way shone as Tammuz walked."

Envelope Pattern #4

"Fierce lions stalked the quivering lamb, seeking to sate their bloody hunger, sent to the disaster of Inar the shepherd by cruel An-shalad, the devious god of strife. Preying upon the weak mortal Inar, An-shalad, wishing to sate his cruelty, violent and callous, stalked the quivering shepherd."

Envelope Pattern #5

"Bravado and arrogance will only lessen my desire to aid you," scoffed the wizard.

"Very well," said the warrior, his boast complete, "then I shall demonstrate my skill and valour in martial feats,"

"You have no need, for I am certain those will not convince me either," the wizard said, "I can tell that you are accomplished in battle, the victor of brawls and the slayer of men. These things still do not encourage me to give you aid however."

"Then if neither mighty words nor mighty acts can sway you, what will win me your aid?" cried the warrior, desperate now.

The wizard smiled and gently spoke, his challenge complete, "Humility. For you have shown me that you do not know all or speak all. All people have need of allies, for none are great. I will aid you now, though I had scoffed before."

Beetleman & the Bear

Beetleman began to run his fingers through the fur carpet. He imagined himself hugging the bear, his friend and quiet companion. It would keep him warm when they went snowshoeing and stopped to eat, and listen to his stories about hiking up to the top of the hill. The bear would sit politely and sometimes give a forced nod when Beetleman needed a prompt to continue. It wasn’t a polar bear but it wouldn’t mind the snow because Beetleman fed it cherries from the grocery store that he would buy on Sundays. The cherries came from somewhere warm in big crates – Beetleman would like to tell the bear about the big cherry truck which dropped them all off on Saturdays, and then the bear would grin and spit out the cherry pits at Beetleman and they would laugh and laugh.

          He rose and stepped over to the bear’s head, sitting on the carpet staring out the screen door. It was summer and Beetleman hated summer. Summer was long. Summer was boring.

Association String #4

Black barrier-holds gates blazing with horses of yore blazing with tidings of woe blazing with tributes and slaves and gold a-plenty. Once went a boy black in sight black in skin through these gates betwixt bars of cold cold brass that sang as he did pass; and the wizard monk who counselled who counselled the consuls far, far, far and wide quite wide did naught but beckon him inside yes, you, beckon you inside, come on, yes, inside. And how they laughed and sang in that fort o’ fairies, that castle-keep that brooked no trespass that broke no stranger passing t’rough, but settled solemn settling solemn set solemn for the king, upon his gale-force horse, with the cold cold brass starting to sing.

Room

An old house. Broken clay cup, shattered, resting on a bible resting on a wooden end-table resting next to a visibly musty couch. Ashtray on end-table. Cigarette smushed in ashtray.

Old bookshelves behind couch. Books look smelly. Not many left, maybe thirteen, fourteen. Odyssey, with pages highlighted. Divine Comedy, unread. An atlas of France, well used. The Great Gatsby, dog-eared. A photo album with a picture of a naked hugging couple on the cover, filled with photos of family members, laughing children, smiling parents, sunsets, temporary memories. An atlas of Europe, also well used. An atlas of England, as other atlases. Gilgamesh, with several pages missing. A notebook with the name “Jean Kirkmann” written on the cover, first twenty pages filled with differential equations, next three pages with diary entries, a love letter pushed between two glued pages, the rest empty except for a name “Flavia” and a crossed-out phone number on the last page. Along with books, a photo of an overweight bearded man on an ATV with a rifle and a dead elk slung onto the back of the ATV. Another photo of a naked seventeen year-old from the back with long hair and small bum on a dock (sex cannot be identified), arms outstretched.

A red and green rug, one edge burnt, on the floor. Stained in several places, never cleaned.

Old horn-rimmed reading glasses on the floor, just under couch. Ink on corner of one lens.

Tissue box on arm of couch. Only two tissues left.

Association String #3

Whet touch feast eat the sun the sun light comes comes here come here don’t leave stay. Stay for what goes on goes on. Light happen joy fare fair fare fair. Men tumble in the air. Gun shot the despair oh the care. Umlauts blankets crumple how does he does he. Norman thrones in English drake typeface of lace stare stare and have another share. Feast on tale spell spell tale the epic of the epic white and bare. No love no share no home but hunger there there there there little child, little child yard watcher tree is not dead he’s watching up there heaven heaven still there heaven not gone feast in Valgarde feast at last up there.

He Bore His Life

He bore his life, taking its hours and days and making, shaping them to a body which stood for him. He had not found reason to live, never sought an explanation for why he should bear this toil or hold, delicately and fearfully, this sharp, cold life. In his dreams, it struck him, drew blood from his unblemished skin and shouted at him to stand. It demanded he accept it. But when he awoke, he was simply left to act himself, to take the pitted fruit that sat before him. Life meant death, and death meant life. He had no knowledge of what the link would be, what would cause the crossing or shatter the life to give death. He could not feel fear, as he could not know why it was good he lived at all. He had no explanation, no hierarchy, no divine guidance. It was all the universe, and he was to contemplate it and draw away an insignificant sliver to whittle, so he had been instructed by the wisdom he collected. It seemed so long and endless, though the end forever loomed and the passage's decoration did not affect its terminus. He could cry and scream and reject it, try to end the procession or step outside the hall, but he would damage more than himself. He did not know the world, did not know its people, did not know himself. He did not believe – or wonder if – that would ever change. There was no prescribed direction, no suggestion box, no fucking flowchart. It was a big universe of space into which he stared out, wondering whether it made a difference how long he deceived himself and forgot the terminus, wondering whether deception was a cop-out or an acceptable resignation, wishing there was some handbook he could consult or manual of instructions. But he had to press on and leave the mysteries veiled. So he had been told, though he doubted the truth of such statements.

Language

Wyrd

Fate, event

Modern English “weird”

Language is a playful thing. Words are decorated with connotations hanging from their branches, each one arranged differently by each speaker, who covers their Christmas tree, or Yggdrassil of language, with the pepperings of what they know and have seen and to which they have borne witness.

Words are historically rich: they have their own intricate histories, etymologies, which also express a variety of diverse and complex – and often interpenetrating – meanings.

Words are phonetically beautiful: they make sounds that weave into each other, which create songs and rhymes and alliteration and a music particular to themselves which creates a world.

Words are imaginative and brimming with imagery: the worlds they create through connotation and history and sound form a tapestry – a so often abused metaphor; perhaps even a cliché – which is made up of these parts and which also mixes them together, creates a blend of colour and sound and language, fundamental and primal and beautiful, which roars and smokes and steams red and bright like fire, like humanity’s first tool: for of all our tools, of all our customs and cultures and symbols, words are the finest. They shape our lives, animated and vigorous and deeply emotional, and breathe into us, with the care and sensibility of a stern creator, the breath of life.

Envelope Patterns #1 & #2

Envelope Pattern #1

"So ran the wild beast to the clearing, muscled legs bending and stretching, over rugged hills, about grey leaning pines, reaching the unclouded sky, and solemn silver birches, atop the sharp crags, the beast's feet carrying it with speed, the animal sprinting forth out into the light."

Envelope Pattern #2

"Dark caves opened up, moss clinging to the cold rock, moisture collecting along the uneven floor, the coalescing drops of life which dripped from the jagged ceiling, from the sparse half-living vegetation, that held tight in the lightless winding tunnels."

Lost

          I am so lost and I am so goddamn lost. Why oh why am I so lost? I have no clue. I have no goddamn clue, not even a fucking hint of a shred of a fucking scrap of an IDEA – a fucking idea, what a notion – of what is what. What is what? Who the fuck knows, not me that’s for sure. Lost. How am I lost? There’s supposed to be a trail, with a nice long picket fence and friendly people standing there to point the way, to say, “You need to keep going down the fence, silly!” and then I say “thank you very much” and I go but instead it’s one fucking pole in the ground. Just one pole. That’s where you start. That’s where you’re born, at the stupid fucking pole. It sits there and it’s old – it’s ancient really – and it’s sitting in the ground and there’s a sign. And there’s no words on the sign because the pole is so old that it comes from before words. The sign just has a drawing, which is ↓. That’s all, just an arrow. And you figure it out. Where do you go? There’s just a pole and you’re alone. And that pole is your birth. When you come out into the universe, when you achieve thought. That’s the start of your brain, and that’s what the pole is here to commemorate. And everyone starts at the old fucking pole, and goes off into the desert. And they come across one another and sometimes they say “hello” and other times it’s “fuck you” and then they don’t see each other anymore because they are dead. And the pole’s still there and it looks the same with the same fucking arrow.

          But there is a trick, so I’m told. The trick is to just go somewhere. Have a purpose and just go there. Leave the pole and head in the direction you want to follow. And when you are far enough and you get there, then you’re done.

          But other people say “fuck that” and that the trick is not about going somewhere but about being someone. And to be someone you go from place to place and then you plant a pole and you can measure the distance like it’s your fucking erection and compare to the national average. Some people do very well, and they have big lives with big shit, and other people don’t like to bring it up because they’re embarrassed that they haven’t done jack shit and they were better off at the pole at the start.

          But other people have another trick and that is pretending the pole’s not there, and that’s what I like. Pretend it’s not there. There is no pole. And you close your eyes and you grope in the dark. And it’s scary because you could find a monster and you will die and such but who gives a shit. And eventually you will die and it won’t really matter that you were just groping in the dark because maybe one time you found a quarter on the ground, and another time you put your hand in shit, and another time you touched someone else and they touched you back. And that won’t matter but none of it really mattered so might as well explore a little.

          But that trick is a hard trick. I don’t know if I can master that trick. I can try it, but you’re lost if you try that trick. And you don’t know if you’re going to get absolutely fucked, or if you’re going to pull it together. And it may not really matter because you’ll still die but while you’re alive you’d like it to be pleasant since you prefer it that way most of the time. And it feels like a bit of a waste, and you can see a lot of circumstances where it would have been a better call to follow something or be someone but that doesn’t account for the end. That doesn’t account for what happens after you follow the thing or be the person. Why does it need to be pleasant? Why does it matter if you die? I don’t know.

          I don’t know why it’s scary, but it is and that makes it scarier. I don’t know why I get to start at the pole but I do and that’s scary too. And I don’t know if I’ll ever find solace or if I should even try and that’s scariest of all.

          But I can’t just be scared because then I’m just curled up at the old pole looking like a dumbass, and you find out that the arrow just points you out to other people. And then you’re embarrassed because you didn’t reach as far as they, you didn’t try as hard as they, and you didn’t live as well as they. All that you’ve accomplished is you can abstain: you can give up. That’s easy because everyone does that. Everyone dies. So you need to explore the inertia. What is the inertia? Is it ever good to not being going somewhere or becoming someone or groping something? Loneliness is that moment of inertia coming and inhabiting you. Fogging up your glasses, asking you politely to slow down please and thank you. Stay still. And then you realize that while you had stopped the pole was creeping up on you and now you’re back at the start and you run away.

You run far, far to the hills and mountains and streams and valleys and all that sappy shit and you cry to the wind and the trees that you don’t know, that you’re lost and they don’t give a shit they’re just THE WIND AND THE TREES. Get back on your knees, boy. Grope in the dark some more.

Association String #2

North fear fire eats kind in kind the kind in kind so joy goes far and wide and far voluptuous joy in her evening dress the petals the flowers the roses all scattered and joy in the dress without the dress in a heap north of here of the mark. In the dark is joy and joy is the dark. Rest birds wait weights yearn going to take under to undertake the sound the song the flight of the lark. Break little ponies little stallions of Helios little shoulders of Pelops little boasts of Antinous time comes you all come little late little soon, with the call of the moon. Naked white in northern lights aurora tundra quite the night drenched in sweat in rain in firelight. Out in the cool blue air; shadow gloom shadows room the illicit tomb the royal share, Tutankhamen on his golden chair, and the dogs’ bark.

Association String #1

Juice Krakatoa fire fire blood rain oh no Jupiter’s hammer the sky touch sex white so white pale frosted white edge of oh edge cry cry cry and unto sky remake retreat reassign ghost goat golden. Fire flames bright teeth tools wood smoke and thunder thunder and smoke. Vermin, filthy grey hairs white vermin foul red god in the black in the the night Oh lo the shepherd calls she yearn fortune ache. Sound oppressive pretention oh oppressive pretention come. Dread cold hard knife of dread dread red reeds of black dread curling tendrils dread dread dread dread dread DREAD why oh why god dread screaming ache the night the dread the night the space the empty void the hollow hollow hollow dread it’s gone it’s gone you’re safe it’s gone. No more it’s out the light is out the night is gone the gone the gone. Go on, go on; flare flight vermin venom calyx dread has worm greed takes chill the ice the beat the fawn. The guilt is gone the guild is gone the gone the gone.

He Spoke

Or "I spoke." Either is an appropriate translation of the Old English verb.

After a long period of building up his dragon-hoard of written content, the author has decided to share some musings. This space is entirely made for the sharing, treasure-giving, of the aforementioned hoard.

To get the curious reader in the mood, the author shall start with some unoriginal content: a bit of heroic ethos from Beowulf:

I vow it to you: never will he escape into safety,

Not into the embrace of the earth, nor into the mountain-wood,

Nor into the bottom of the sea – go where he wish!

Beo.1392-4

More to come. Perhaps some "poetry."