i thought of actually suspending the weblog in silent protest. not actually actually just saying to get r.'s goat somewhere in the desert she's not reading this, to poke her on her return.
haha it is suspended, my most devoted reader, it has always been in suspense. that's a quality i'm not sure of, if it even comes through. it's like one's silence. one is unsure of what it communicates. it's vague yet i count on it's specificity. like that desert she went to. it's vague yet quietly personal and specific. every cactus, every bug, every gain of sand specific. and she is there and yet here in it.

meanwhile as an aside that is also central to the illustration i picked up this goose egg mister found floating in the mud under water by the southern harbor bridge. i carried it around wondering about it's solid weight, it's elegant form, unviable. i marvelled how perfectly it fit in the little abandoned nest in bobolink meadow where no bobolinks go, like the natives that went with them, even before. 

still i must actually say i do not pretend to know what this all means.

do you ever do that with animals,
just sit and watch them,
not saying anything, 
and just let everything get quiet
until you can kind of hear everything,
everything you couldn't hear
when your mind wasn't calmed down,
and you can see the animals calm down?


brad watson,
miss jane
 
 

sometimes i feel like that
like what
oh you know like beauty and the beast
which one
oh you know the whole thing
which
version
oh you know cocteau 
naturelment

therefore, there is first silence, nothingness. that doesn't answer. but there is the question. there would be no way to understand that the world, the i, the we that are left deserted were they not put to the question. herein lies the enigma: that the question of being and meaning can emerge out of dumb nothingness. that life is never dead enough not to let out the cry of abandonment.


                                                                                                          -jean-francois lyotard

i deserve this, and more.

oh my gourd i should not, not have looked at the stats. yesterday was a dearth of readers, a futile desert, and my heart sodden and drowned in rain. i long for a cactus flower. a reader in the desert. i think of everett ruess who wrote on a rock, nemo, and disappeared into story.

have you seen her? tell me have you seen her?
it's fascinating how the mind works,
i know her, i know where she went, vaguely. 
why, oh why, did she have to leave and, go away?
i don't know exactly. everyone's silence is personal.
though we are starting to be silent companions too. 
i always felt my fathered silence a distinct, heart-laddered burden.
silent constellation. is it true in space there is no sound?
or is it just the sound is silent? i'm sure it is just.
i've been used, to having someone to lean on, and i'm lost. baby i'm lost.
i'm less lost than before her. and she's not gone.
but being divorced still constellates my silence. 
i feel gone. the endless rain rains in my silence.
can you be less lost? if your loss is displaced 
with found, like rain in rain? 
like rain in the brain, in place,
displaced. in a desert, in a lush and steady rain.
i remember your name like mine.
the name i forget when we meet again,
displaced by you. because you are r.
you r. you.
that's all i recall of the song right now.
i have time because you are not reading this.
i'll write more later.
are you getting the gist?
i don't know if i am. that's why
i know why pop songs constellate our silent minds. 
i know how silence lends to song a voice.
i listen to birds in endless rain, 
flickering under leaves.
we have some names, and some events,
some astral bodies and shades, some 
inertia and sodden fleshed memories.
we have some people who leave
and some people who won't go away. 
when our waiting relaxes maybe someone returns
having never really gone away 

r. has gone into the silence. the silence? her silence. it's very well hard to imagine. here. her silence there. in the desert. it's the first time we have been silent without sleeping or across a table. she will not even read this in her silence. this silence is a sound desert for me, it's full of wind and rain and dark machines. i told her before she goes, don't worry, i won't chase any dark machines. her silence should be here with me. it's very well for her, and for her silence, but i ask her please bring your desert silence back here to me.

that's very clever. i wish i had said that. all time is remaining time. even before us it was. human history is nothing other than that of the animals and the stars, a mix if necessity and chance, both blind of the future. silence precedes the question. silence precedes the answer. the answering silence.

but i'm still here, you say, i haven't disappeared, you see.

this distance implies they will have been. they will have done. this distant mood reminds what disappears of its imminent disappearance which may already be.

there is a melancholy in traces. they are left behind. they recall us to non-being.

the signature too makes a trace. it gives the alert to an existence doomed to oblivion. it prevents it from being forgotten while remarking that it should have been.

namelessly appropriating. the signatory must be forgotten. in effect the annihilation of the signatory's presence from the document is required. for a signature is indeed the stereotyped gesture of a living body sets upon a document. mummified by a singular twitching of the hand that makes it recognizable, the gesture of signing anticipates the disappearance of that hand and its body and replaces its presence by the name. the name escapes the vicissitudes of presence.

i don't know what you ate under the bridge while i was talking to bug about scarlet tanagers but i'm not mad anymore or just a little i forgive you after all your sneakiness and defiance is not real bad it's simply doggedness.

the exposit is a deposit extracted from the inert. you can draw figures with the dirt. i am a bit of a flirt.

the forgetting of forgetting does not just set the stage.

it is essential to all metaphysics.

metaphysics forgets that presence is absent.

the wisdom of the world is lovable.

pleas refresh my memory.

forgetting this forgetting is what threatens it the most.

that being forgotten is part of what it is. in so doing you suppress the possibility of alertness and memory.

what happens is in the now that is deferred, that being that is held in suspense in the active inertia of forgetting.

but don't let it stop, don't let it stop you. stay on the verge of thought and act. it's nothing new. it advances. we're all lost. but we're all lost together.

it's like, an evanescent museum. you feel at once the energy and the containment. you feel the past wanting to be present and the present obliviated. you feel the invisible inertia. you feel the indignity, like a swamp being mowed.

it's like imagine if you were a being on the verge of thought in a time of appearances would it matter? how do you come into being.

everything is remaindered. failure planned. the all being traces.

the eventual news is a museum of inertness in vivo. the individual event is doomed to actual oblivion.

would you agree the culture of the state is a state of dementia?

a want of imagination is a want of reality.

                          i got a deepest sympathy card from mom today for fen.

thanks to all. i am fortunate.

           did i find you or you found me. ah, it's all of a peace. (for r. on her silent retreat).

i was feeling so fragile. i needed a day of rest. i needed to adjust to the inside. not to react. i think i'm gonna be more careful now.

hilly magoo

to be aware of why you're here.

i know, it's disjointed, right? people get tired of lying, they cant help it. it's a lot of work. it always feels odd at first. naked. it's been so long. so long. but they get used to it. used. it's hard both ways. truth and lies. some grow fond of truth. lies are yesterday's news.

what happened not on my walk

mister helped his self to cookies in a bag waiting at the bus stop for him to eat. his mom got hand slapped putting the rest back.

i was proud i'd processed my grief so good and connected up and even giddy upped chasing that suv and then i barked my shin stupidly kicking a door shut and watch out for pride before the fall, gnome sane, it'll getcha every time. grateful plenty of time when you laid up to regret, and heal.

thanks, mister, for all that you do, and do not do, and all that you are and so on.

yea, it was awful cold, i swam back frantically excited like fen.

april 26. i throw the ball for mister into the water. he prefers not like golden bartleby. i retrieve angrily. i rejoice. i am swimming, i have swum. you rascal, i swum. then i wrassle him on the beach and throw again. he wills not. i push him like a tug, he veers. i steer him to the ball. he opens, i cheer. we are swimming together.

grief made me love. and grief made me accidental.

i wanna be where you are- oh- i really wanna be where you are- oh oh. i wanna be i wanna be oh, i wanna be i wanna be oh oh.

r. is heading into the desert for silence and i think how i haven't been out of this infernal combustion city for 7 years haven't experienced silence in god knows how long. it's always a machine here. even in the quiet moments it's a machine quiet. 

so r. please bring back some desert silence for me and mister in our desert of concrete noise.

well i can't say the day of rest cleared my head. in fact i feel addled in the brain. maybe idleness and keeping my feet raised and reading a lot of thus bad begins. yet i feel real thankful this morning and i know my mister is too, he's dancing all over the place, and i'm walking easy and cooling my swollen ankle in the lake.

i took a day of rest because i barked my shin and i thought i was in trouble. i'm better today and so grateful. when something bad happens i often think it's the end. i don't know when that started but it's hard to shake. anyway the truth is i am fragile and the world is in a parlous state too. teetering in a fragile condition. at the same time i feel some care is afoot, pun, and i feel rreal uncanny lucky. i feel the connections though some are haywire. i feel love in a hateful society. it's just that the society is un-grounded and the government is criminal, and when you're ungrounded shit always happens, and it just gets worse, and we are having to find our souls again with no help from our country that is not ours, which is sucking life from the planet and feeding only the corporate monster we have unwittingly or unwillingly supported.
does that sound too crazy? yeah, i see it that way too, yet i'll just float it out there anyway. the day i rested there was a helicopter hovering a long time and sirens and i learn this morning the haz-mat team evacuated a building where the kid from animal hospital was found dead. we will never find out what is going on, let alone what happened. that is the way of the world. has it always been this way? i know, i know, i could have said this much better and maybe convinced you i wasn't even crazy.

there is in the work of writing and thought
a pragmatic indeterminacy
or an indeterminacy of destination.
the writer only knows 
the writer must keep on writing.
the writing is pragmatic,
internal,
it goes where it will. 

the internal writing implies
a reader not known.

if we say the writing 
is a game played alone,
is it a lonely game? 
if we say it's a lonely game
we play together
are we all together
alone?

it's likely and possible then that the writer and reader are one and the same. the writer is the reader the reader writes.