Think of it. What is there to say? When you watch cars driving by--differentially speeded, so to speak--from underneath a picnic table (the grain gum-stucked), where will you draw the absurd line between the thoughts that seem to spill out of the sights?
These are the questions of and for the Steps-->how what you just did is affecting you to many a varying degree, as is every experience you've ever had, as though you too were not a process and experience.
Consider the strengths of affect-->how close and immediate Things seem stickier somehow...but also a bit of their size is at issue, as unequally influential. My last class is still talking through me, for instance, as is that guy whose eyes i met for a moment, in that it was (unfortunately) I who looked away. These things push along the Steps, so to speak.
But to go even further back we must admit of an even stronger sway of force. An experience from two nights ago is far from you right now, you see, and it is still the sharpest one pervading your thoughts (as i experience them) and also you (as yet a process). Moreso, the person with whom the experience was shared must too be admitted as occupying an even larger part of your passive mind...See?
(Even so, the future is here too. Seven minutes before needing to leave: DV training; two girls you'll see there, one compact/beige and the other tall/tiny/darkdark; a Mr. as yet still expected; and something like sleep, at last.)
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (4/29/07)
![[Un]fortunate Philosophies](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwu6S7Pc2oMwWth-cUInhseYn0wmMdJwf7OwNj3AlwmT16FJiUljP8V3yXWTUnNCrlfrMTqvCW9WZq7BaOmi0KBcOCyP-e2huKiWMrDHCyXuOsCFN_xrecCYpFzqyNC1jAJugc/s660/BlogPic2.jpg)
Not optimism: self-preservation.
The old woman sits shirtless. She is cross-legged on her bed, staring at a candle-stick. She saw it through conception but it will outlive her.
There is a lamp on, defying the day. Its beams are not warm on her skin. They feel like the gaze of a disappointed lover.
She brings her eyes to her lap, looks at her hands. They are soft beyond the shapes they've made. She thinks they are the same as an infant, wrinkled and barely alive.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (4/18/07)
There is a lamp on, defying the day. Its beams are not warm on her skin. They feel like the gaze of a disappointed lover.
She brings her eyes to her lap, looks at her hands. They are soft beyond the shapes they've made. She thinks they are the same as an infant, wrinkled and barely alive.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (4/18/07)
Oh, to Grandmother's house we go!!
The sleeping woman had never seen her flowers lit by a midnight moon, but they stood before the sleet-gray flood with faces upturned as if this were nothing. This whole place of deep, soft carpet and Parisian floral scents had been similarly neglected, and still its ethereal shapes wore on into their existence. From the streaming light at the wall-swallowing window, the room's only furniture was revealed: the form of a tiny wooden chair; the outline of a delicately curving vanity, itself bathed in the semi-light of its looking-glass reflection; the dark queen bed, furthest and harboring the sound of thick breathing—all these things dressed scarcely in silver and shadow.
To abandon this room through its squeaking, sliding door would be to embark along a corridor that doesn't end past the dark wood suddenly lining the walls. Rather the tight, column of space is further emulated by the back of black sofas and the face of dark desks. With each imagined step the wooden floor beneath feet would whine a painstaking sigh in their course through the room and lead to a tiled kitchen. Only the impression of the hulking furniture would remain in a further venturing of the lightless house, and the dusty cold would seem an everlasting scent. Eventually, the single light source infiltrating the glass pane of a lumbering door, set away in a northern corner, would prove too overwhelming to deny.
Stepping outside, the undulating wheat grass was brilliant as it swayed protectively from the glowing walls of our house to the lofty barn a few hundred yards away, reaching beyond them to disappear into the hollow skyline. Only the warm smell of the trees, succinct in the cold darkness, bearing both fresh and rotting versions of avocados, figs, tangerines, and kumquats, tolerantly mingling with the almonds, walnuts, and pecans among them, gave witness to the whispering of the endless fields. These sights, here under moonlight, were the house's idea of a neighborhood.
From the stars' perspective this house would not appear distinct. Only a few acres beyond it was another, and past that one, still another; strangely boxy things stretching out into the hundreds. Each was free to fancy itself alone, masked by its own tall grasses, and virtually all of them do during these quiet hours. Together, their mistaken claim on township is made nonetheless in earnest.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (4/15/07)
To abandon this room through its squeaking, sliding door would be to embark along a corridor that doesn't end past the dark wood suddenly lining the walls. Rather the tight, column of space is further emulated by the back of black sofas and the face of dark desks. With each imagined step the wooden floor beneath feet would whine a painstaking sigh in their course through the room and lead to a tiled kitchen. Only the impression of the hulking furniture would remain in a further venturing of the lightless house, and the dusty cold would seem an everlasting scent. Eventually, the single light source infiltrating the glass pane of a lumbering door, set away in a northern corner, would prove too overwhelming to deny.
Stepping outside, the undulating wheat grass was brilliant as it swayed protectively from the glowing walls of our house to the lofty barn a few hundred yards away, reaching beyond them to disappear into the hollow skyline. Only the warm smell of the trees, succinct in the cold darkness, bearing both fresh and rotting versions of avocados, figs, tangerines, and kumquats, tolerantly mingling with the almonds, walnuts, and pecans among them, gave witness to the whispering of the endless fields. These sights, here under moonlight, were the house's idea of a neighborhood.
From the stars' perspective this house would not appear distinct. Only a few acres beyond it was another, and past that one, still another; strangely boxy things stretching out into the hundreds. Each was free to fancy itself alone, masked by its own tall grasses, and virtually all of them do during these quiet hours. Together, their mistaken claim on township is made nonetheless in earnest.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (4/15/07)
"They're like my version of Haiku, these fuck-ups."
There's this too-distinct difference, I like to think, between knowing where you're going and how you're gonna get there. There are all these people that you can only translate as possible, so far. The problem?
Well imagine describing what it feels like to fall in love--to the person you're falling in love with. Imagine owning such a thing!, as if your version of love is neither effect nor consequence. If you think you can, maybe then there is no problem. So far, I can't describe it to myself. Failure in articulation, say you?, or else still failing to "fall in love"? I don't really mind, mind you.
Speaking of pretending. I would like to acknowledge RIGHT NOW doors with names that I've closed and windows with faces still tucked beneath. Translate: "doors" & "windows" into real live people! People with FULL-fucking-names; siblings and yards; smiles! "You were not a dot-dot-dot...waiting for me to complete you." (Ani D.)
[Don't forget--don't forget! Solipsism is narcissistic and psychotic! It's an absurdity that only people could have come up with...and then ran with at full speed! Maybe it took the industrial-strength insanity of philosphers, for to articulate most terrifyingly.]
Let us formulate them into a list of letters all jumbled up, as though they could have meant something to me. Let them carry meaning that doesn't imply me at all, not in the slightest.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/21/07)
Well imagine describing what it feels like to fall in love--to the person you're falling in love with. Imagine owning such a thing!, as if your version of love is neither effect nor consequence. If you think you can, maybe then there is no problem. So far, I can't describe it to myself. Failure in articulation, say you?, or else still failing to "fall in love"? I don't really mind, mind you.
Speaking of pretending. I would like to acknowledge RIGHT NOW doors with names that I've closed and windows with faces still tucked beneath. Translate: "doors" & "windows" into real live people! People with FULL-fucking-names; siblings and yards; smiles! "You were not a dot-dot-dot...waiting for me to complete you." (Ani D.)
[Don't forget--don't forget! Solipsism is narcissistic and psychotic! It's an absurdity that only people could have come up with...and then ran with at full speed! Maybe it took the industrial-strength insanity of philosphers, for to articulate most terrifyingly.]
Let us formulate them into a list of letters all jumbled up, as though they could have meant something to me. Let them carry meaning that doesn't imply me at all, not in the slightest.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/21/07)
Cycle Revolution - "Your dealer alternative." [You mean I get to be counted as an emergency!?]
Pumpkin muffins are ridiculously good. Cream cheese and all...
I think I'm watching a T.A. advise a student. Her inflected voice has been carrying her along for about seven minutes - is as colorful as her seventies-style striped, stretchy over-shirt with matching beads encircling her throat - and still I have no clue as to what subject she could possibly be talking about. Too many "it"s and "that"s and "well I would've"s, though I do gather that their teacher is a woman, and cultural forces seem to play a grand and mysterious role. Probably.
Whatever, the student just hopped up and out and now the T.A. is giving up her table to a middle-aged faculty-looking couple, which is nice of her. ("No problem! Now I get to go stretch out on the couch, finally!") I suppose I'll never know what she was talking about. [Cuz heaven forbid I ask...]
Down to the cream cheese! - its pure craziness. And Sublime's playing "Caress Me Down" spiritedly at Cowell Cafe.
It's one of those days outside that rains while smiling. The sun'll be out and making the cherry blossom trees shiver, but it'll be freezing as fuck and dropping raindrops like tears, "she says in a good way." My hands have just about thawed, only the fingertips to get warm now. In the mean time: homework! And sitting across from a sudden kid who's eating citrus & reading Wittgenstein. ("Thanks! It's just so crowded in here...")
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/8/07)
I think I'm watching a T.A. advise a student. Her inflected voice has been carrying her along for about seven minutes - is as colorful as her seventies-style striped, stretchy over-shirt with matching beads encircling her throat - and still I have no clue as to what subject she could possibly be talking about. Too many "it"s and "that"s and "well I would've"s, though I do gather that their teacher is a woman, and cultural forces seem to play a grand and mysterious role. Probably.
Whatever, the student just hopped up and out and now the T.A. is giving up her table to a middle-aged faculty-looking couple, which is nice of her. ("No problem! Now I get to go stretch out on the couch, finally!") I suppose I'll never know what she was talking about. [Cuz heaven forbid I ask...]
Down to the cream cheese! - its pure craziness. And Sublime's playing "Caress Me Down" spiritedly at Cowell Cafe.
It's one of those days outside that rains while smiling. The sun'll be out and making the cherry blossom trees shiver, but it'll be freezing as fuck and dropping raindrops like tears, "she says in a good way." My hands have just about thawed, only the fingertips to get warm now. In the mean time: homework! And sitting across from a sudden kid who's eating citrus & reading Wittgenstein. ("Thanks! It's just so crowded in here...")
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/8/07)
Reciprocity is not a clearly defined thing.
[At least you didn't fall on him--it was a possibility. It always is. This plethora of brilliance! and idiocy, so full and apparent on any bathroom wall.]
I want a decision being made each time. I have to try not to confuse myself here: I hardly know the definition of loneliness. My experience of it must be this different from yours. What I think it might mean doesn't live up to the hype once i've banished it. Most of the time, all i can feel while in a group of people is how much i'd rather be alone.
[I am good company to be sure, but am regrettably aware of its (un)lasting nature, i think.]
It's subject matter, you see, the only kind available in the drowning of too many minds within each other. As far as this goes, we can only do justice to one person at a time--such is the fullness of a personality waiting to be discovered. How is it not time mis-spent among people watching each other be watched, and nothing shared? Or at least, not nearly as much as i can't help but want.
It is for this that I deny the possibility of falling into each other. Or of having things happen to me, and finding myself among the people most readily available--that is, on the strength of their convenience. I want a decision being made each time! I want it based on intuition; on drive; on desire--not on accident. Nor mere circumstance. This is it, the way that it is, so i'm not allowed to be worried. This is what i want.
Introspection sucks. I want poetry in every look. There's got to be something here. Something necessary for me to see, or to know.
[So where's your decision, girlfriend? When are you going to put yourself in the paths of the people you're curious about?]
Geez louise.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (2/28/07)
I want a decision being made each time. I have to try not to confuse myself here: I hardly know the definition of loneliness. My experience of it must be this different from yours. What I think it might mean doesn't live up to the hype once i've banished it. Most of the time, all i can feel while in a group of people is how much i'd rather be alone.
[I am good company to be sure, but am regrettably aware of its (un)lasting nature, i think.]
It's subject matter, you see, the only kind available in the drowning of too many minds within each other. As far as this goes, we can only do justice to one person at a time--such is the fullness of a personality waiting to be discovered. How is it not time mis-spent among people watching each other be watched, and nothing shared? Or at least, not nearly as much as i can't help but want.
It is for this that I deny the possibility of falling into each other. Or of having things happen to me, and finding myself among the people most readily available--that is, on the strength of their convenience. I want a decision being made each time! I want it based on intuition; on drive; on desire--not on accident. Nor mere circumstance. This is it, the way that it is, so i'm not allowed to be worried. This is what i want.
Introspection sucks. I want poetry in every look. There's got to be something here. Something necessary for me to see, or to know.
[So where's your decision, girlfriend? When are you going to put yourself in the paths of the people you're curious about?]
Geez louise.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (2/28/07)
What is it about a phrase like "image resounding" that leaves me feeling correct?
You write out all your brilliance and then you send it away! [I wish there was a way to save this. But also, it couldn't be so absolute or precious if there were. To look up right now, the fingers of the branches are touching gold.]
Oh my goodness, breathing is still so good, and with this ever the case, I'm doing fine. It's like how putting on clothes feels unfailingly like playing dress-up every morning, and it's like the wrenching details swimming in the image of the trees that sway and creak. Every time i bump my elbow the sharpness demands a grin to frame the string of profanities to follow--which in turn are funny as hell, justifying the silly, stupid pain. Argh! I have to get myself out of this happiness, just long enough to write something down--something real/true/alive/or of worth? Yeah, right. At the very least, something that will earn me the joy that I already have, but for no reason i can imagine deserving.
[What about all of this? It feels distinctly/potentially like something. The warmth on my neck and arms, the possibility of goosebumps, (right) here. Pretend to believe in consequence.]
So close, teasingly. There is something about this...in the background, simultaneously forth & back, playing in somebody's vision always--playing with their senses but through them also (and thus limited?), finding existence there.
There's a rainbow curtain flapping in a window!, having been put up with intention and interest. And a room to be gathering people as the hour presses up against 4 pm. And a tiny red spider challenging an insect in the midst of cleansing herself there, and even a bearded boy with gently set eyes who's not thinking about me. Ha! It's how the stuff that's not happening is thus in an active sense, for to be replaced by everything that is, or making way for whatever could be. (It's just people doing stuff, all the time. And things, and life too! It's not good or bad so easily.) It's poetry in bathrooms and art on an underpass. A bug playing around in a philosophy class. Why now? Suspended energy of objects at rest?
[It's okay. I think I was an interesting experience for you, in all of my fumbling newness and clumsy enthusiasm.]
Forever!? Why forever? That's the word I don't like--why does everything have to be reduced to forever? (LIFE! LIFE and such. LIFE in capital letters!!) Like a moment--an also--at last. It's not a matter of fact, it's a matter of something all together different. We need to see it differently--the proof of reality, being just this breath.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (2/19/07)
Oh my goodness, breathing is still so good, and with this ever the case, I'm doing fine. It's like how putting on clothes feels unfailingly like playing dress-up every morning, and it's like the wrenching details swimming in the image of the trees that sway and creak. Every time i bump my elbow the sharpness demands a grin to frame the string of profanities to follow--which in turn are funny as hell, justifying the silly, stupid pain. Argh! I have to get myself out of this happiness, just long enough to write something down--something real/true/alive/or of worth? Yeah, right. At the very least, something that will earn me the joy that I already have, but for no reason i can imagine deserving.
[What about all of this? It feels distinctly/potentially like something. The warmth on my neck and arms, the possibility of goosebumps, (right) here. Pretend to believe in consequence.]
So close, teasingly. There is something about this...in the background, simultaneously forth & back, playing in somebody's vision always--playing with their senses but through them also (and thus limited?), finding existence there.
There's a rainbow curtain flapping in a window!, having been put up with intention and interest. And a room to be gathering people as the hour presses up against 4 pm. And a tiny red spider challenging an insect in the midst of cleansing herself there, and even a bearded boy with gently set eyes who's not thinking about me. Ha! It's how the stuff that's not happening is thus in an active sense, for to be replaced by everything that is, or making way for whatever could be. (It's just people doing stuff, all the time. And things, and life too! It's not good or bad so easily.) It's poetry in bathrooms and art on an underpass. A bug playing around in a philosophy class. Why now? Suspended energy of objects at rest?
[It's okay. I think I was an interesting experience for you, in all of my fumbling newness and clumsy enthusiasm.]
Forever!? Why forever? That's the word I don't like--why does everything have to be reduced to forever? (LIFE! LIFE and such. LIFE in capital letters!!) Like a moment--an also--at last. It's not a matter of fact, it's a matter of something all together different. We need to see it differently--the proof of reality, being just this breath.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (2/19/07)
Dis-dis-dis-turb-ed.
[Such a confusing distribution. The ups, the downs, the shades of oranges and brown, or white to match the landscape. It's not certain that there is even an end to the stupidly-random lines of wall. They're pointless, these numbered ways of getting in my way. Paths open up to me cruelly, only to corner me without the merciful intention of finishing me off. Only a monster bent on the destruction of thoughtful minds could have designed such a worthless and endless edifice.]
[The intricacy of the folds and bends beneath me strike out as envious in the worst way. As they double over themselves in search of some order, the cold cement leaves nothing to be desired for the once lively wood that shelters it. And yet, the illusion of beauty is complete in all of this complexity, sure to convince any passer-by into believing it to possess reason, so unfathomable.]
[Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (2/15/07)]
[The intricacy of the folds and bends beneath me strike out as envious in the worst way. As they double over themselves in search of some order, the cold cement leaves nothing to be desired for the once lively wood that shelters it. And yet, the illusion of beauty is complete in all of this complexity, sure to convince any passer-by into believing it to possess reason, so unfathomable.]
[Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (2/15/07)]
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