so much of me is missing dwindling infinitesimally am no longer what never was
So then, this is a so then or possibly a what.
So then is this wilderness? If this voice is in it, it is wilderness . Or is it? And bewildered, I make a play at a play on words and find that it’s been made already, so not so wild after all, but utterly bewildered still. It may be, this voice I am makes wilderness of wonderlands by chasing every ear away with overearnest beckonings or wordplay becoming rough and clumsy unbecoming to the ear or eye so a field of language laid waste. My voice creates a wasteland, I might say. A wasteland being a place of uncreation; barren, uninhabited, uninhabitable by any save this habitual player playing at remaking sayings, saying unsense as I’ve said before as I am densely self-referential. My voice is not a fire, nor a storm destroying, but an absence, yes a vacuum that evacuates by lack of force as it’s an unability that’s able to pull fertility, familiars far away from me. In short, I “suck”, colloquially; suck life from living into formless worlds unfertile, never fetid, as even rot would be a welcome presence next to this.
Just Sayin’
Just sayin’ – A phrase affixed to statements that may seem bold, offensive or arrogant , but for which the speaker refuses to take responsibility. Often disguised as a jest. See also: (just) kidding, LOL , :) and ;).
just a variation on a joke you’ve probably seen already
“I never said half the things attributed to me on the internet. Honestly, I don’t know where people get this shit.”
- Abraham Lincoln and/or Albert Einstein, Gandhi, Jesus Christ, FDR, JFK, RFK, MLK, UBL, ROM (Space Knight), Eleanor Roosevelt, Theodore Roosevelt, Thomas Jefferson, George Jefferson, Nostradamus, Charlie Sheen, Nene, Yahweh, Allah, Batman, Superman, Scooby-Doo, Mick Jagger, Orville Redenbacher, Colonel Sanders, Lauryn Hill, Tommy Hilfiger, Paul Harvey, Andy Rooney, etc…
A bit of brain (another nonpost)
So, my brain. My brain does so many things to me that I’d like to write about, but my brain won’t let me come out and say what those things are. My brain makes figures and figments and formerly fictions. My brain hems its hawings with hee-haw and huckleberries til I knuckle under sputtering unsense. It’ll be a day the day my brain tattles its tales, I tell you. I tell you I can’t. I tell you I can’t tell you what a tale. I tell you I’ll never tell. I can’t. I tell you I can’t tell.
with these scattered words like wounded birds after tornadic storms
something dead in me that doesn’t want to die and I don’t know do I want it dead or not or do I want it there just dying all the time as one long dying cry might be my style, a way to exhale always waiting for a next and better breath to refulfill me
phlegm figure
I’ve been meaning to post something here about how I can’t get myself to write anymore, but I just don’t seem to be able to find the right words. It’s a shame, too, because writing about not being able to write used to be something of a specialty of mine.
a fragment pissing Dixie in the whistling wind
Blocked or locked away all associations made tame, slavish, depraved . I need new names for blaming, new ways to embrace my shame.
How I’m doing.
As my most recent bout with sobriety approaches the six-month mark, I find that while I crave beer far somewhat less than I did early on, I am afraid that if a wild turkey were to land near me, I would fuck it to death and eat it on the spot.
Inceptisol: Thoughts on a Word
(Originally posted elsewheres/whens.)
Recently, I came across this word while browsing through the dictionary. Inceptisol, says Webster’s Encyclopedic Unabridged, is “a soil so young that horizons have just begun to form: esp. prevalent in tundra areas.”
“A soil so young that horizons have just begun to form.” My heart, my mind, my mortal soul were so taken with this definition that I instantly imagined myself in some far-off frozen noplace of newborn horizons, searching. Searching for what I can’t say exactly. Searching, I suppose, for not only newborn horizons, but for the instant of a horizon’s inception. I believe that at the very same moment, I mourned for all the potential horizons lost to me by way of my many errors over the years. Regret has a way of tempering, though not necessarily tainting, every small joy and wonder. Regret is, or can be, merely another season with which a life is flavored.
The very idea of horizons forming captured my imagination. I never thought of a real horizon as a thing that had to be formed. I never knew there might be a place without horizons. William Blake’s image of Urizen creating a horizon then came to my mind. I longed to see a place without them. I longed to touch a horizon newly born. I could not quite grasp, could not quite imagine how such a place might appear. Even now, I try to conjure up an image of inceptisol in my mind and find it just out of reach and therefore beckoning.
It is not a very pretty word, inceptisol. I’m afraid my mind is so ingrained with the brand names Lysol, Pine Sol and the like that the word also conjures up unwelcome associations of aerosols and disinfectants. I feel the word would be greatly improved by discarding the combining form for soil, -sol, in favor of the whole word it replaces, soil, to make the word: inceptisoil. Inceptisoil, I think, better communicates the meaning desired by this word and it simply sounds better. Aesthetics are not to be ignored in the making of any language, even scientific jargon.
So inceptisol, the word; the concept of inceptisoil, these things have captured some corner of my mind and therein set up residence over the last few days. I wonder at the word, the concept, and I wonder at how a word, a concept can so capture me at times and seep into my every thinking and even eventually enpatina my every perception with its existence and associations.
I’m thinking then, constantly some corner of me now is everthinking on horizons and inceptisol, inceptisoil. I am, some corner of me permanently occupied with thoughts of soil so young. Soil so young and being young and soil giving birth to those horizons that occupy my mind. This happens to me. This capturing. This is what often happens when I go browsing through my dictionary and this is the forming or unforming of horizons in my mind.
