All the little /griefs.

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something wants to be said, then.
of all/this little
/grief.

the stray cries upon the roof.
the street loses power for 27 minutes.
he takes his life.
crop fields burn,
in (some other) retribution.

are we must to warring?

joyfully participate in the sorrows of the world- Campbell.
another says such buddhism is too wont to death.
a different reading: shared sorrow is perhaps the clearest indication we have that we have not lost our humanity. in the smoggy chaos ad absurdum, this is sure cause for
joy.

is it the violent rupture that gifts us liminality in which to truly situate our ‘ness?

everyone who knew him is together in the aftershock.
they turn toward that time a decade ago when he walked passed, smiled and
/we are all strangers baptized to intimacy upon demise.

a rubber mat is placed on the parquetry and the dull blue of dusk pixelates short-sighted vision. a silent prayer gives this practice to his memory. what does it mean to dedicate the sweat and composure of moving limbs and postures to the memory of a man you barely knew? it is these acts of humanity that occur as self-reflexive, embodied affirmations to the living.

a ‘ness of some essential being, counterpointing flesh and bone and thought, with near awareness of the no-time emptiness that Is.

a graze upon the borderlands of dwelling, with a perpetual and focused return to breath. each inhalation lives the question of what it is to exist. each exhalation surrenders to never knowing.

when the power returns, the candle is blown out.
neighbours clear from the courtyard and resume the life they were living
/unpaused.

a minor shift
to the turning of things in their order.
/

sleep is a resolute luxury,
to a body that is,
urgently living.

 

 

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A [quiet] return

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It was innocent enough, see.

It was adding photographs and (volunteer) commission pieces. It was adding images taken by other volunteer professionals. It was an attempt, here and there, ever so mild at first until it became the main game, of appearing the way that one needs to appear if one wants to be taken seriously as a ‘Creative’. If one wants to secure that grant, or be programmed, or prove that you’re capable of the frightening capital ‘A’.

Oh. You’re an A**ist. How delightful.

I look back on the old blog posts I used to write and sense clearly that some innocence has now been lost. It is the innocence with which one arrives at the computer at some ungodly hour of the morning, not to delve into critical theory and create sound foundations for That Big Project that Maybe Your Present Career Depends On, but rather because one had a sense about the meaning/fracture/potential of existence; love; consciousness; darkness; or whatever-the-fuck it is to be a human at this point.

Yes. Such exploration is commonplace among those Ar***ts. It is also commonplace among You. Yes. Literally, everybody reading this and most humans who have walked upon the earth.

I have recently had enlightened upon me the articulation of my frustration with said A*t**t label, as I strive and strive away and yet feel a hollowness in the place where I used to put up the poems that I wrote (NOT the poems considered of sound quality for literary prose journals to blast out on their social media) alongside whatever image I found online that aptly represented my feelings at that moment. A flower. A watercolour painting. A hand. A homeless man holding a sign that said ‘God is a Sock’. (etc). And somewhere along the way, such cut-and-clag efforts towards capital A art became liabilities to my potentiality for a ‘profession’ in the capital-‘A’s.

It could be said that this rant in itself, and the slow morphing of my personal blog into an official ‘ARTIST SITE’ is proof that I achieved a goal. Yes. I’ll take it. I strove and strove away with a loyal crew of fellow amazing humans and got together some semblance of what could be said is a portfolio. Oh la la!. (No, but seriously, I’m very proud of it and thanks everyone who helped me for real.) BUT on the other side of climbing this mountain, I look down and it appears those first few innocent steps that got me here have been desecrated, hidden behind high-resolution images and polished references to critical theory.

I don’t want to be that person. Correction: I don’t just want to be that person. And this other person under here that is not polished and presentable and has existential thoughts for much of the time is STARVED for connection/communication/human-chaos-life-vomit-in-text-form to other ordinary humans who don’t care about my capital-A endeavours.

So… what I am really asking is… can we be friends again? Yes, you dear reader, old or new, that was with me once in my innocent, playful, existential, ranty, ways. Do you want to get back together?

I can’t promise you it will be the same as it was before because, let’s face it, the only law we know is change. But I can promise you unfettered access to my intense impulse towards existential and life-pondering thoughts as I try and make my way through this very strange and interesting time in my being.

If you said yes, read on. And if you said no, read on anyway.

As far as I’m concerned, we’re back together.

So hold on to your cups of tea and let’s dive in shall we.

l*ve,
N