'Existence is inherently experiential'? I don't think it is. Experience is of life--experience is a choice; existence implies powerlessness. Which does not describe this threatened pointlessness. That meaning, too, must be chosen, as a value-posited. The questions, once again, are asked of life alone: the value/meaning of things being based on how much WE value them, and give to them meaning, and more than could (just) be implied.
Think of it in negative terms: you can always stop experiencing, because you can always stop living. But you've no say in existence. None. Even if we're so clever as to kill ourselves, it doesn't change how existence has had its way with us, nor its say in who we've decided to not become. If we reflect the potential/possibility of choice...what does that mean for the distinction of our existences? ...in that each of us are perhaps the result of a decision made by others. Proximately, our bearers, (ha! that is to say, our parents, crazy-head,) but ultimately? Is the WHO arbitrary then?!
[I don't know that things are more or less important, I think they just take up more or less of our time...] [You're either wearing the glasses of your life or you're not--there's no breaking them apart. And when you are, everything you see is yours, as seen by you alone--when you're not, there are no opinions; no almosts; (as though) things are what they are, supposedly, and having nothing to do with you. To say that these are my voices...that's it? Ridiculous.]
This existence playing out for each person, one moment at a time. But also occupied by an awareness of the existence of another. So that every step is like a thought given to those steps of this other, whose heart is beating as surely as mine. [But can you believe it, really?]
Still this other is always wholly absent. His existence like a breath barely noticed, a head hardly nodding its consent, but subtly audible when due attention is spared. And for some reason it is, more often than before...but before what?
Existence is not a given thing!--we are blessed to have it. Do you see this? (Oily skin and all. :) Can you give me a reason for why you do anything!? I wouldn't accept it anyway, so far beyond the point.
What about her? What about them?! The point is that they're inseparable in a multitude of ways. Human; worldly; conscious; continuous and discrete. We've always been tiny-tiny-tiny and almost not here. Something about a tear tells us so...what about when we're not thinking about each other? How about when I'm not thinking about anything that's not possible for me to consider? Oughtn't we practice some form of restraint?! It's like flowers on a palm tree--no way. No way! Think about your steps; the steps you take--how many there are! Can we compare this fashionably to those of another? How so? Why even!? So obviously it's indeterminate.
"This is a statue from Santa Rosa." That's a man sporting stereo headphones. "It's a heart."--"You're the fashionable one!" "And she made me waffles," then, you see? Rock-star girl, Uzi-toting gym bag with sunglasses; something worth seeing... here. So maybe we should just leave.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (12/1/07)
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La Sirena in a Tarot deck!?
Sunday evenings are something like supreme.
The tarot reader flips the Devil card upside down, and in the near-future position. He says to me, "Be careful of would-be friends that will try to use you up to reach their own goals." I immediately think of this man, who pretends to have something to tell me. But even liars can accidentally speak the truth if you're listening.
So what if I asked you, "How long do you keep friends?" Would you already feel judged?
Faretheewell folks,
-Talthea (10/7/07 & 7/10/08)
The tarot reader flips the Devil card upside down, and in the near-future position. He says to me, "Be careful of would-be friends that will try to use you up to reach their own goals." I immediately think of this man, who pretends to have something to tell me. But even liars can accidentally speak the truth if you're listening.
So what if I asked you, "How long do you keep friends?" Would you already feel judged?
Faretheewell folks,
-Talthea (10/7/07 & 7/10/08)
And chapped lips meet rigid jawline indeed.
Oh dearest, you are in question! (Where look you now into the future?) Four months under our belts and counting, we're fast approaching the busted-up timer of something like 'cultured'. Yeah Right. And in the mean time? I bet there's no such thing as an end, my motherfucking sweetie-pie.
'Tis an ode to bruiSed knees and a renegade lock of salty hair! Teddy bears with blackened frozen eyes gaze out to beg a touch; tough peach rotten with contented worms, having a grand ol' time at being devoured so softly. (Rest In Peace.) "i never tried to give my life meaning by demeaning you. And i would like to state for the record that i did everything that i could do." -A.D.
So now? What now!? Just bliss...as often and quiet as possible. I feel the truth of every day as though it whispers breezily on my neck. The tone sounds only sometimes with that cringe of harshness, though almost often now with a slight panicked taste on its tongue. Don't panic!! Cuz you know what? Describing the point of a beginning is even less likely than that of an end - but foreverly more interesting in the attempt, i think. Hmmm?
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (10/4/07)
'Tis an ode to bruiSed knees and a renegade lock of salty hair! Teddy bears with blackened frozen eyes gaze out to beg a touch; tough peach rotten with contented worms, having a grand ol' time at being devoured so softly. (Rest In Peace.) "i never tried to give my life meaning by demeaning you. And i would like to state for the record that i did everything that i could do." -A.D.
So now? What now!? Just bliss...as often and quiet as possible. I feel the truth of every day as though it whispers breezily on my neck. The tone sounds only sometimes with that cringe of harshness, though almost often now with a slight panicked taste on its tongue. Don't panic!! Cuz you know what? Describing the point of a beginning is even less likely than that of an end - but foreverly more interesting in the attempt, i think. Hmmm?
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (10/4/07)
Just call me 'Rosy Chapstick.'
I'll mention only a thought. (Besides that i'm not feeling like writing right now, having after all to scoot off in only a few minutes...)
What if we dictated our love, loud and clear, to an invisible audience? How shall it seem? How honest; how distinct?
I read such a blessedly forgiving book by Humbert Wolfe days ago, all in one sitting. It was a work of collected and interwoven poems called Requiem. It was unbelievably beautiful, and chockful of some base type of understanding... (d'you understand?)
Ah well. One must nonetheless try.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (8/20/07)
What if we dictated our love, loud and clear, to an invisible audience? How shall it seem? How honest; how distinct?
I read such a blessedly forgiving book by Humbert Wolfe days ago, all in one sitting. It was a work of collected and interwoven poems called Requiem. It was unbelievably beautiful, and chockful of some base type of understanding... (d'you understand?)
Ah well. One must nonetheless try.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (8/20/07)
Traitorous wretch!!
Flowers. And in such shades that nature can only gawk. The self-assured patterns of fake blooms riddled with admiring insects reign consummately over this place of deep, rosy-colored carpet and Parisian floral scents. An antique chair, a delicately curving oak vanity, the tall queen bed whose mauve ruffles imitate precisely the shade of the walls which so lovingly encircle it all...this room sings her praise.
But the house chants for him, and among the other doors swinging mildly on worn hinges, the one to her bedroom seems very closed. Open space sprawls out from this casual rejection and fills itself to the brim in rebellion. The dark wood suddenly lining the walls is overrun to near extinction by a massive array of profoundly random images, in proudly mismatched frames. Hulking, mahogany furniture finds sanctuary in every corner, right up to the cabinets that surround the ancient stove, whose every dish smells slightly of hickory.
Stepping outside and into good intentions, the wheat grass is endless. It sways protectively from the red-paint walls of the house to a lofty barn a few hundred yards away, reaching beyond them to reinvent the skyline. Only the smell of the trees, with their fresh and rotting versions of avocados, figs, and kumquats, tolerantly mingling with the almonds, walnuts, and pecans among them, could manage to break the constant impression of silence. At its birth, this house was the neighborhood.
Except, the neighborhood hasn't much resembled this hopeful expectation for years. It exists for the three shopping centers only a jog away in any direction, even as it still graces the base of the northern mountains. There are gated communities of identical houses, built to confuse any form of danger into befalling a neighbor instead. The masters of the town have seized the uselessly empty fields and fulfilled their true purpose as cleanly paved roads. The dirt path on the house's eastern boundaries is now a concrete wall, erected inches from the kitchen window. In its fervent consumption of excess space, this small town in disguise as a big city seems to think itself on the brink of fooling the world.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (6/3/07)
But the house chants for him, and among the other doors swinging mildly on worn hinges, the one to her bedroom seems very closed. Open space sprawls out from this casual rejection and fills itself to the brim in rebellion. The dark wood suddenly lining the walls is overrun to near extinction by a massive array of profoundly random images, in proudly mismatched frames. Hulking, mahogany furniture finds sanctuary in every corner, right up to the cabinets that surround the ancient stove, whose every dish smells slightly of hickory.
Stepping outside and into good intentions, the wheat grass is endless. It sways protectively from the red-paint walls of the house to a lofty barn a few hundred yards away, reaching beyond them to reinvent the skyline. Only the smell of the trees, with their fresh and rotting versions of avocados, figs, and kumquats, tolerantly mingling with the almonds, walnuts, and pecans among them, could manage to break the constant impression of silence. At its birth, this house was the neighborhood.
Except, the neighborhood hasn't much resembled this hopeful expectation for years. It exists for the three shopping centers only a jog away in any direction, even as it still graces the base of the northern mountains. There are gated communities of identical houses, built to confuse any form of danger into befalling a neighbor instead. The masters of the town have seized the uselessly empty fields and fulfilled their true purpose as cleanly paved roads. The dirt path on the house's eastern boundaries is now a concrete wall, erected inches from the kitchen window. In its fervent consumption of excess space, this small town in disguise as a big city seems to think itself on the brink of fooling the world.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (6/3/07)
When first i saw her, i thought her sad.
I wish the length of the shadows were scented! The colors deny distinction; black on black on black on grey--like the soles of my socked-feet; like my favorite lack of color. Where's the sky when you need it, Love?! Where's the question exposed? [I wonder what the fuck I'm thinking about, let alone writing...but don't stop!]
I've been imagining up a version of a friend of mine lately. Really, ever since she last wrote me a letter about that stupid boy she loves. I've been thinking paranoid-ly about her, and in terms of my domestic violence advocacy training, in fact.
Now I'm almost definitely being a silly-girl myself in this respect cuz my friend is mostly fine (besides her dating a clueless, asshole-kid), but nonetheless I've maybe-sometimes got to look out for that girl.
So now I'm suddenly thinking about pretending things about yourself--something like a test of character for the people surrounding you, or even just visiting your life. It might be called 'self-deprecation', and much too unrealistic self-humbling, rendering yourself needlessly prostrate. Know you what I mean? Who among you will know, I wonder, to tell you to stand the fuck back up?
[A Power of Procrastination flyer that advertises an "upcoming group meeting" is hanging up in an office window. It's over four months old.]
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/23/07)
I've been imagining up a version of a friend of mine lately. Really, ever since she last wrote me a letter about that stupid boy she loves. I've been thinking paranoid-ly about her, and in terms of my domestic violence advocacy training, in fact.
Now I'm almost definitely being a silly-girl myself in this respect cuz my friend is mostly fine (besides her dating a clueless, asshole-kid), but nonetheless I've maybe-sometimes got to look out for that girl.
So now I'm suddenly thinking about pretending things about yourself--something like a test of character for the people surrounding you, or even just visiting your life. It might be called 'self-deprecation', and much too unrealistic self-humbling, rendering yourself needlessly prostrate. Know you what I mean? Who among you will know, I wonder, to tell you to stand the fuck back up?
[A Power of Procrastination flyer that advertises an "upcoming group meeting" is hanging up in an office window. It's over four months old.]
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/23/07)
"Wanna make love on the sidewalk?" "No thanks!"
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)
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)
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)
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