Thomas Lowe Taylor -- Psychology, language, and the history of culture

“…beauty will be CONVULSIVE or will not be at all….” Breton, Nadja



ONE
Language, culture, & the politics of romanticism

So move me into manner sent, to below belong, as my scale doctor sent as my tongue selling, from scans to her to tell, as I am about or totaled, beyond my mirth bent in nostrils of relief. To and in these seasons I measure THUS, and bend to be assigned, where a conscious point of deference.
Is this equal and reminded? I get it down, so where these elbows get away, into terms, ah. Let these rough terms melt, so you to heavy ears, to be inert or into tales of overloaded, Eagle. Health to deny, as tomato ear so so so, muscle day, Ah, to!
Or, has means to evidence in thrust of air-to walk to work from to melt, I’ll see that voice going, where there is no sentencing, synapted in style, in executio, alert to rough pads, TEXTURE, I’ll get it there, where I met it going away with what was so unnecessary.
OK, let these rattling arrows be so defended, at least by their powers, those facilities I measure, but where I came to language, they can have it in print, or from the livers sent
(ah the model, where is the model, at least in series, where that opens into time, to be relieved Beginning, middle, End, where I came & came in to be myself
Pick at the center as soon as it begins, where there is less than color to this reality. I don’t know anyone here, there are no colors. Even that has changed. I am less told to because of what I brought. I’ll pick it up at stride, to tell the other elastic fringe to….
Numinous, my Father’s voice.
to add ease, from this cold , uh, air, air to be
So what I get is a tangent reality, described, or rather, proscribed in random configuration, which is not the same as saying “all is variety.” There are showplaces to be known, & the means thereof. Sub-chord-a: Stockhausen is absolutely correct, that he unquestionably does what he does. And Cage, that he do what he do. Ya! Why go on about it, so pungently? I’d rather music. Show me yr elbow. Patch. Or dumping ground, to swell, plastic (in side the balloon…words.
i.e. collage/plastic est real. Enough, or real enough, & as-such, contained, but to Blake, it was more than context or defense to Be so, it was in his being which was (born/dead) in each moment. Even old eeCummings, diffident & impersonally personal, came to wash him self in his last poem. (luminous tendril of celestial wish)
So even though this is a fictional voice, here, it is the quality of the act which gets it out & down, and it is a quality of intention to say that much, even though one defends what he has to offer.
Thus:
My own scale diminished in act. To succeed is to meet it all head on. Beckett runs. Ya.
Whenever I get a hold on her, wherever she occurs, it is still the rage, unsubdued, which gets expressed. & who is that? or where.
So communion manages, at least as a device, un-named.
To mark and carry it down. Ah! The monologue, she said. What could I do but give away my books. More than touch. She came to see me once.
Such evidence, at least of avatars questions whether one will ever be her hero. Not because she won’t be satisfied, but because of where in the spectrum it places you. Ah! Of acts. & to act is to be. It is with sacred hesitation that one leaves the room of myth.
July 15th. Went to town today to see Morris. He was as vain as ever. & told.
And this, not to ease what can’t be eased; I see them make their marks well. Even monkish Charles, in whom I found so little, finally, so little to respect. Marvin holds, but where is he? Locked away. Better to have nothing. Ever.
Write me a letter, send me your name. Ah, whatever the act was! And whose, it came to me as an apology. “Nothing has changed.” Yeah.
One is, than, has come to consciousness, but at what moment did it occur & was I so very diligent. Surely that is the highest vanity I could permit myself. I might begin again. I caught in some postures last night an indication of being and purpose, not that I was relieved to notice, but that there was there, an indication of what it might be. I was almost disinterested // like my neighbors, inasmuch as they exist to define, then, to keep at these lines, where the line is out.
I don’t mean this.
Separation of self & will, leads to distrust of purpose, what is my purpose. Just wrote that it is hid. If I am as I said writing about self, then to make it his is to have it hid, & to leave it so is to perpetuate.
Focusing attention seems to be profitable, whether it is eminent or tangible. Whomsoever look, therefore he shall see. The sea is my original home. Three journeys out, the rest within.
This beach, this loss of favor with myself doesn’t seem essential. I am no more than that. or less. These empty tournaments to last so long & be so labored.
I should be more than that, as effusive as I may be. My own representative is before this, and I have begun what you represent, as voice, as what I focus on. To end.
Focusing your attention seems to be a profitable experience. To Look : to see “ to have a vision “ to Be/come metaphoric : to be Imagination / to legislate, to presume, not to be anonymous, do declare, to represent in one’s being, the quality of others. To be so, alert to these tunes, wherever they come from, in my own presence welcome. Be that & more. You are to me sent, to these axes ordered. Where we are welcome is in time, where we make and move. To be alert to my own meditation and making-in-acting.
To be so, and alert, and focusing. Intent & worshipful in all respects
There I am certain & experimental. There might I move.

It is as I thought or said. That in time there is place, where it relates to seeing. I am seen, I have seen/no difference. To the extent that one moves he has direction / anything said has meaning or meeting.
All the same I am lonely, and miss her, since she has just left. What can I do.
If I would only examine that, it would have solution. I would do. I don’t believe in this incapacity / yet this distancing is profound. More theoretics. It is in doing, my undoing. Or in wanting anything that prevents.
To be pithy. To know pith. Surely one couldn’t…I can’t count that, that to sustain a voice / anything, has plastic merit, has construction, that a line, any line, as one follows it, goes to the center, hits, strikes, & immediately without hesitation.
What have I done? What/ever/ it is familiar, I mean it is.

Night’s contour the same. Investigated last night, found release partway through, in the images which disclosed (through, the same straight line, all intersect at Being. One is, now as before. The silence and speechmaking take it up, the energy, deflect. This is the authentic voice. This here.
I mean the rites of inclusion & the ceremonies seem antithetical, that as one does, so he is. I find comfort & being in the present. Is this right here, avoiding the necessary line? We are each momentary and eternal, what Casey was bounded by. In these announcements, then, reminders of scale. Remains.
Break it loose: walking away, hit this scheme tight and loose. I get it together like apples at noon. Moved. Spliced / all connectives release scale and series. And is active on-going. But a stutter, a hesitation though elevating, one goes on-to. In twine one sees manipulation. Another familiar capital, the posts, angle for light, what residue.
And favorite words seem too like muscular habits, like the familiarity of containment. New words: neoplasm/occlusion how gleaned? Sought electrified, made known by sorting. The barrier of the intellect, getting the mechanics together; finally, in the way.
From this authority maneuver an entire style of conversation diminished energy, is a part of what is separate at least as it comes to me (me: there where it comes / to get, that to have the conversation in the first place relates to the words which are available, as soon as they have been certified / so with this vision of the body, where its parts come together, & Descartes’ ruin. To be slow that conversation in the first place carried with it demands & processes & the final compromise was in not being silent.
Thus I get that the function of speech is to waste or leak & that directly from that, conversation has a quality of admission rather then style, its purpose to obstruct. Then this design of communion, or having-shared is after the fact.
Or: in culture, as relation, there can be no awareness of what is inherent; to be aware is to perceive the atrophied limbs of the corpse. Culture is that which binds, as in ritual or song, & precisely that which binds is invisible.
Red dust catalog coach diminish shadow ear catalog, to catch up to remind to be in contact with, to scale, as metaphor, as line-out internal:
This, too, then, where my blood falls away into conversation, how it is arranged. From the forms, from the model & RELATES: that the movement appropriate to 2 is inadequate to three, and passing time (in glass, from resistance, as it is fostered / to observe, not to observe in thought or act but to remind, & then to ride, to rid, to arise to become in
Where it follows, in certain or concrete terms, at least about secrecy, to (have it all set up, or make plans, is recessive. The situation, finally is what werds are, & they come as they will, from time to time and over occasional motions directed:
I am not fooling : I know what I am doing, that expectation raises the question of pace personal; head heart arm diaphragm, kinesthetic that the word is the muscle & the word gets in.
No surprise there, I’d hoped for more.
It is, of course, to show how we are moving toward the same center or converging line, back to line.
So the desire for speech is constant & admissive. To prolong the pressure is to make the act more certain & more direct. If the line always goes to the mark, however it be, then one might accumulate (more) in restraint than profess in execution.
Not, as I said, that it be hid but that it be covert & inductive.
That one move from this moment to this moment, or not move but profoundly stay at rest; if motion is the measure of life, then, as microscope, it is random, & & so field converges, or acts. Not to terms & not to syntax, inasmuch as that (syn-) is the same old contract but contact.
Then to move rain these displays to be seen as air dropping through the tubes, to be designed as I am words, to resist these tendencies of doom, to find my fleshwalking to ease through time, sliding & muscular, to identify as these catwalks.
Who speaks for us? This anonymous prophet, the lungs, has the design of light penetrating in consular doves. I am frequent. Not to provoke crisis in myself or others, to be available to be available to find where movements come from I am alive with sensation or yarn.
She’ll know / & then I’ll guess. What the rest does.
So to check it: paper envelop and move, that phase deduced, the residue of process, where I am deduced, to find style available and to remind myself that I meant what I said even when I said nothing.
Here on the line there is no darkness, and no inclinations beyond what I had or did, and there in what got left, I see the shape of the moon a relief from eloquence. Another enterprise relates to color as color relates to anything else, perhaps to seeing. Where structure gets it off, off the rest anyway, or off resting, only that one do, and that one do as one is, quickly now, that to tell myself otherwise is to tell myself nothing.
So if I remain fixed on this one point, settled where I am uncomfortably, perhaps, but settled, these rhythms become known, & where is that, in notice?
I feel about like that with respect to you, where I have made my own announcements about poetry and clay (media that they can carry the rest beyond what they are.
I mean quickly and with some urgency, before the door closes tomorrow: where else would I begin but, Ron, with words & the present & with Being, that one is not flawed in any sense, or to say “we are all perfect” is to remove all restraint from the others.
What “others,” where are they sleeping tonight but in my bed.
Which says, finally, that words have value as locators of motion (at our static point) and that one does not necessarily “mean” what one “says”
It is all of a piece, it is all notice or elevation or channeling, to find & use them: I saw a man walking around in his yard, asking himself where he had left it. It was me of course, but then how did I see it & how did I get caught watching? By “you” of course, though even to possess these words is to have it all available.
Sequences. A young man comes to that later & shows the others how. A fallacy, but how to deal with it. Why, then, to deal to contend to extemporize to show.
I’m not afraid, if that’s what you mean, that any union would be removal, since one is “in-field” to begin with. So it is not a matter of feeling or of response, since they are contiguous in act. It is that one begins there, & that what follows is residue. Danger, what do you do with that? Communion, I said is after the fact & to be confined is to have the time to write, hardly “irruptive” from Neumann, but that vision is always an indication of first what was there to quibble over. In that direction there is presence.
Energy-trust: the machine (qua) is so undependable precisely because it runs out of gas & is therefore not a metaphor but an idea (fallacious): some urgency here, that I might not get it down. My measure. The conspiracy, he said is directed by or from the elders, but why? Certainly they are not afraid of the young. “But it all might slide back into the sea. Here we have daily evidence in our newspapers…” which are also suppressed, I guess. The source of this antagonism is…where. I have missed the point. I have missed the point!!
And that is so astounding as to minimize value. They come around not through trust or distrust but through error, what was not considered in the design, & in that minimality, that failure to consider, did one fall behind one’s own capacity to act/ so it becomes the elders who are jealous of themselves, of their presence. It is precisely because the young are right, as far as that goes, which is not very far, and that there is truly nothing to be done. Hence Theater. Hence the Symphony. But I must find good in that, too.
To find good not in all things, nor necessarily in some, but to find, to find and in finding, of course, to know. Not either to know but to be, there is where good (is)
Is, then, as active or activity; I mean is, get that is-ness (Istgeit), suchness, as was the case with culture, that the thing described is beyond description and that there is no tension in that, but where one finds it after waiting (in speech, the notion of the air in motion, past muscles & surfaces, surely a pagan notion of projection or of a squeezing out some vegetables / from the bag. I find these flavors down and hear the water burning in my eyes no more than that, & by doing to receive calm / to receive calm-ness from one’s own being, to be calm from one’s sources
Calling up through those silent voices, or that where there is struggle there is (laughter (alien force (potential which is to depend on others for one’s purpose, when, when to be known is to retain purpose in motion and in the exercise of language to find that direction alters, purpose sifts the position of the elements, has response, as I am available, to be known, it then depends on how one is approached, how one becomes a part of his acts, how these “others” are a result of definition:
A quality of focus or of, finally, seeing : to be seen to see to have seen all take place at the same locus : language. There : what you do & who you are in the preparation of your defenses.
I can give you these arguments and let you function on your own assumptions, since that is (from-what) they they have been drawn or secured.
That if one do, if one is to know what he can do, he should find himself in circumstances he has chosen and on ground with which he is familiar : one must have a location, and the flesh and evidence, sensation, & these must be possessed if one is to move; one does not move & then ask himself why did I move? First one is, is born, then asks why I am & then becomes in-motion
From in-motion to emotion is a reduction of one letter these hesitations are neither alarming nor unprecedented, but that one has his means about him, focused in his acts, responsible in the presence of others; uncertified, indefensible, absolute, alarmed, in turmoil, in active observation: that one’s need to do as he is might be defended against all others, & thus to find, in purpose, I suppose, that these “others” have come to be unsacrificed and collectively are the members of one’s community of spirit.
Now, the whole question of what exactly the community of the spirit is refers again to culture & priority
& the assumption that the business of culture is to make us known to each other as we are and that this information be actively shared and that the entire relation between the elders & the young is to make us known to each other , and that
the entire relation between freedom and imagination become clear (clear, to see, to be seen as it takes place, in the present.
And finally, as mystery is the quality of all inquiry, that one must pursue what he is after, that the desire to know who one is and how he came to be who he undeniably is is the basis of the relation between freedom and imagination which underlies culture and which is the business, what gets passed on & what gets the elders into trouble. Not laying the blame, but in learning how to build.
Of course the ultimate priority of culture is not perpetuation but the mystery and that management and information are the very capacities of sharing which become community. What one does has purpose, that one be and that in being one become visible, just that, and that as he comes to language he comes to his own, comes to speech, comes to conscience, comes to awareness, comes to being, comes to himself.

If in a free atmosphere we cannot experience free exchange we are faced with a philosophical problem to define. The quality of experience should be of sufficient clarity to make the assumption and the appropriate course of action known.
The existence of “therefore” in the language should be of sufficient force to eradicate all such boundaries between the elders and the young: I should not find it necessary to make this statement & I do not


TWO
the spirit of recovery

I’ll go along that deeply shaded street again, perhaps in the morning when she sleeps beside me, along/side ourselves with love. I know the rest less voices, and in that shady street I heard them calling to me (oh oh oh …. from a long way, like like ----------- >>> distance AAAAAAAAAAAAAAL……….LLEGGGGST
Air waves came her crashing nonsense, I caught it getting out, to panic less, at the moment when I got it, not to tell, I’d guessed, and heard sights moon movie these guys scaled me in (which hangover to voice, I began to relax my head & settle in to the smells of the Turkish village even though it was her metaphor, that we slept together, not fucked but sacked out in the car seat when the red fabric came colorfully & my my head went down & in & caught it, but, I forgot the rest when I came around, to seal that turn-up, oh, her navel maybe, and on the floor, my own memory, of drinking alcohol, oh years of that and ease ease ease ease her down, to sent mental notification (of
But doing, what I do, shall do, where color has me reeling through doors & mirrors, but here the bare bulbs kneeling, that it takes twice as long, to to cover the material, oh, easily I’d say say stuck, HERe, why he is as blatant, and inn (Browning’s Spanish Cloister
REPLETE

I’d wait it out I said, and make my tracings, to us who know nothing and spend less time on advertising our faults. Oh no ---- it would be watching her habits, moving neither to gain or lose, only honest in my
Finished, we we are we are all all allll al all all moving right along; as voice, as waiter, as astronaut, oh be plain. Pancake, apple, sauce, comma, focus down, ear soup, aloftness, I am sincere, state ment of intent. In---------tent-------canvas. Skip it, one more does it, one more hangs fire, I hope it’s me, at least to hear & sort event. Man notation
The relation of events (in reconstitution flash flash has the beginning on edge, so as I admit that I am ‘sore’ or ‘cross’ that I make or do : that even as I am on shore, on pace, lined up, that I relax and tone down, slight off. Skill her and saw away, oh shoot----that voice that common sound.
PRAYER FOR MY MEDITATION my house is an eneless celebration of the works & days of life. My love is carried after, like paternal ceremonies in the autumn of my father’s life. Thus is my life an endless repetition day on day on day of endless celebration, never unto end. – ing. ing
Or after that, that location and stillness are not near, nor do they relate; or that if discovery precludes the activity or recognition of process, then to induce or to be is not necessarily ‘to have language,’ nor is it necessarily ‘being mute’ insofar as these are public ceremonies.
Thus the notion of phallic reality is inseparable from (a) the void (b) multiple reality.
Or, to recover from my memory, the reality of objects does not relate to perception as-such, that perception or seeing as-such are phenomenal, ie Named activities, & precisely one is integrated as he is un-named. Or to expose what would be patently contradictory about any document: ‘that to speak is to violate the law of silence,’ that one is become not as he speaks but as he means, & that he means as he is, which is where meaning (is-ness) and manifestation go off.
Journal, or daily record, has separate focus, that to exhaust one’s self is not to lose direction (as Ron went directly from ‘why’ to ‘how’) to speak & to organize visual elements is/are differentiating functions of the descriptive sensibility, that to be ‘in a position to’ observe or describe, one must be in-relation-to (language.).
What I’m working on is still


AS
Series relates to serial to change
Field relates to relation to chance
Or, cross referent reality, contiguity, placement, location = ideal. Which implies some loss (cf Pynchon’s ‘leakage’) at the moment of experiencing. Not to parse, but to slide off from Krishnamurti’s ‘perfect stillness’ or ‘cessation of thought’ or relation of form to syntax:

Neumann in ‘Art & the Creative Unconscious’

Which would place syntax at a point relating to consciousness on the lateral axis
Form is hardly, then, an extension or an achievement of consciousness, but rather a warp of its very plasticity, a reduction of its horizontality: that to speak is to get-to form (to be in speech just as one may be said to be in silence.
That in objectivity one is ‘lost in one’s work,’ not even to a point of identification (that is, so it must be with living)
That one has become an object, in-field, in-series, in relation to other objects, relations, series etc. that the ladder is infinitely up and down.
AND
In conscious observation one is most highly subjective, that as one removes ‘to see’ ‘to watch’ he becomes subject, watcher, watched (the thing, seen me, my watching)
This all relates to her, to feeling & to one’s sexual being insofar as he does not participate in his acts but is rather initiator, creator of his acts, beginner of series, or that as one os object he is born (& dead) in the moment. And that to finish, to become, to speak, is to come to birth, come to object, come to series / Release.
From her reparations, the fabric crushed and wrinkled; she left much too soon for regard or for surprise to measure; what I thought
Was release came to be sensation: wooden door, symbolic eagle. That it wasn’t words at all, more like a note : something carried around like the pattern created by cracked plaster.
I’m tired, and light comes through the room, solitary light evading its source. Moved. To read this. To ‘have solution’ or to move this and read solution.
Unnamed. Well, I’m tired of that. one has a voice & so forth. Or, being tired like fog, and naming with what there is.
More to be settled: to argue over policy, perception, to so organize response as to make ‘wishing’ inevitable. This focus on the act (of composition) is also fallacious; where I came from, we thought less about Action than about Birth. Sound, ‘it,’ is a high pitched, nearly hysterical panic. ‘It!! It!!’ etc. The meaning of acts is their completedness.
If I were less dutiful about ‘event’ I might make better use of my time. The same holds for ceremony. Crossing the river, for the mountain, twinges; I can feel my eyes working, or for here and for her benefit. That I might simply look back once in a while, or gather some words together to make beautiful directions possible. As it is, ah! Eyes which are counter, where the spirit gets out, pours forth like water, sure, dodged. And singled, never rescinded. Held firm, the descriptive energy finds its way through balance, the cloud & mountain named, to move ease to be taut, to come from come from emerge.

BREATH, VOICE, TRANCE
Breath: inspiration, earth’s entrance PULSE
Voice: expiration, spirit’s exit, to link, in-speech (‘in silence’)
Trance: transpiration, intermediary, state, muscular, not necessarily stillness

(Voice and act) magic = relation, definition

The shadowed corridor has value; I found her in the corners everywhere I looked; what I remember not from the excitable but from the other, removing clothing never the same place twice, or to write it out, steadily, for ever not the same when there is no motion, sea-birds, temporary visions, from satisfaction to objective in one smooth stop-and-start he has not sent anything back, and the quality of trust:
Oh, to use the most commonly available instruments, if only to decide what in those circumstances would be available, and where I find posture, position of tubes perhaps, or where those trees were located, the cars spinning into these dull locations. It is not entirely stop and start, where the water goes along with the others in active relation each to each, or that not to remember where and when she came, orgasm-ed, and what my feelings were just at that moment, or how I would watch her face or ask about the quality of the act might tell me something of the political life of my community; or that to find it necessary to go over and over commonplace realizations again & again is not boring but, rather, despairing to have so few incidents for comparison. Not to be avoided, but again (where I meant event.
I told her I thought that it was good that she would tell me the same incident time & time again. ‘the context is always new,’ where I left detail out, and insulted no-one. Quibbling again. In relation from sense to sense.
FIRST, THE NAME OF THE ACT, MOMENT
Not burdensome material, either, nor a lightness alight ness from my senses extending, toward my me of fullness and thread or cubes managed together and after over to be and internal of blood image into her hair pencil tip of pocket & black sweater burning my eyes to relapse, oh, in fruit salad or temperamental ears, my shoes getting used to it, sweat rubbed, Ah, body tingled from the eyes the eyes the eyes. Hair over Miami, neither language nor reflections on processes are diminished by ornate beliefs, and where I stretched out laid out died out my mouth stuffed with gray rags & bones mashed pulped in death fucking my ears cantaloupe and finders to as easiness toward concrete wall come through light Bang! Bang! And cardboard layering neither a flat surface, laid upon her heaps, my flesh hand tingling my head bent alone, neither secrets nor empty sleeves nor air/borne nor watchful ever in voice in voice in the air from straight lines and patronage: be gray.
Be gray be bland no more but sour and hopeless, dead to life & color detached omniscient, exercising power willfully; mean cruel, but gray be nobody be away declined removed, send them away, hate their moons. Use their money. Be whose. Be whose. And laugh at Saturday, leave their open poems choking in the rasps & delights of scent. Have the danglers quartered, the pages offered, lights on, gray gray no one home. Lie to everyone, paper the lies with organs and Blood. Come to love, come to others. Turn around & come to love.
That to mean love is to quarter the Sun and eat the rest. Cabbage, eloquence, sudden moon storms, alligator shoes arming your heart. Ride solemn busses, exaggerate the phone book, eat no dinner ever and measure failure with your prick.
That that is what that is, or form convoluting function into INTO transformed and let to read like fashion in ‘no sweat.’
The instant before vomiting the second preceding, fallen leaves or a stick floating down stream. At dark. Heavy air trembling between her clenched thighs. Feather heads under stony pillows. Three crows roasting omen-doves.
It is still well & well enough still heaviness. The three airs to. Bleat Bleat, there are new sons to compose. I passed death, the wings of solemnity, & who drove the bus to God?
Should I speak, these lines are music are music to beware, there is balance, there is noon, there is tracing in your hair. Let go. Let alone, gray and anonymous, like oranges on the tree. Be plucked.
These, uh, overt hedgerows to smell so bad & have no time for reading black lies. In the monastery no one breathing, but tractor churches healing earth doom to blood the calf from earth womb split. Come out, away to be live, and scar too many truck motors to go on into air-force, to force & push. In the blood in, and muscle at her groaning, for there lying hair to believe blood to act toward birth bearing your heart. Final.
To hit home to speak so, to alert groan of love hit & eat so to life to eat love or hurt. To eat life and hurt love, but love, to get first and leave to be her to get to, to be to be inside her to see to flash-lights are come coming on to be in to re-con-sti-stute to be had to love to get to, to be her love, Ah, to find her down, the voice, the earth the air the moon, the House-light, the ceremony; these rollings of the earth for voice for beloved, for ever hair and scent, known so, so known, and long a long and sent down to doom, eared and tongued, ah, seed. Dead.
I pause / in act / it is no use.
Eye plastic air to I and se as high as eye. That mood has scent, has sense has be/come seen, to move mood and purse my ears to flow be flown. As she as hair my eye to listen to listen to the music and scent the air with seeing, that the mood moves and drives you back, but carries velvet cushions, enacted and re-enacted, this this moment above all others to be seen in seeing out & in, forever up & Down, in thy eye a pupil.

I suppose I mean to make some measure of what I mean, or to describe language with my self. Maybe merely to possess it for a few moments, though the writer pre/occupied with his means is less apt to restore than a conscious description might do to, also, recover. So in style I see nothing to be gained, & to move in a direct line to the matter is to write prose. It is measured & compacted. There to tell, or there to catch an instance of saying where it came to be known. This endless confusion seems attractive, seems only to make work out of clarity.
To go on, namely, is neither to follow nor to risk but to be possessed, like inertia, of habits. The imbalance of the statement leads to what a poetry is, then, the means to describe an event which is the poem, which gets actively toward simple objects, which is making.
To say being in doing, then, is to miss it, though I’m embarrassed to take so long to get there, one would pursue quality in his acts & discover there some music. That relation of voice to her is also direct and simple. So named.
In the fundamental marketplace, where there are exchanges, & where dreams are living, the flesh pursues.
…to have ‘…faced and defined the possibility of madness…(a possibility from consideration of which others as well as (sic) himself may have found it impossible to escape) and (have) arrived at a moral attitude toward it, an attitude at once defined and communicated by the poem…’ it is the ‘cracking’ I suppose, an unessential differentiating of myself and others. Or to suppose about nothing, neither in watching (at the head of it, nor the tale, but ‘it’), what became only recently, as a sound, hysterical and high pitched. Then, in moving closer, in coming to it, I have less personal means at my disposal, to come to touch: so that the isolating progress of death is seen as the isolating progress of life, that as I come to it, life, I am more and more my own, have identified only certain relations in my person. If only to have seen importance in the remainder (neither abandon nor value but only importance
so what I have to say to Shelley, at this point in all of it, is addressed immediately to his style, and that insofar as he is a slave, he is hysterical, and that I seldom believe his hysteria except as it reveals the means of his intelligence and passion: to fool with others, not as I read myself, but as I see the inability of one to defend, and of the issue of defending poetry. One might be poetry but one defends objects (strongholds, positions, statements, finally poems.
In what I find, less and less to be confounded with, there are never designs but an application to be made, on my own part, and by choice.
At a moment, defined along a North
south East West Axis, which shifted when I did, and made location less than a kind of relief. Which meant that there were other monuments to have revealed, new material to place my feeling in a determined position.
Winters: ‘…I merely wish to point out that my critical and moral notions are derived from the observation of literature and of life, and that my theism is derived from my critical and moral notions, I did not proceed from the opposite direction.’ Which intends some work, to admit to the existence of those who are mad, and to find one’s way among them. There are directions to be had and locations one might set out for.
The anti-thetical could be said to be negative & as such subject to certain arcuments about illusion, insofar as maintenance is concerned. One might not exist in the same manner and to the same degree that he might.
To move in the direction of love would be anti-thetical to the degree that one allows.
Moral behavior, then, would lie more in the direction of honesty than in consistency. To be alone, then, is subject to control, or to move from loneliness in any direction is moral, insofar as it is an intelligent position one seeks. A defense of poetry would still be just that, poised between voice & act, as I said, and to be among others manifesting loneliness, is to begin a statement on one’s own behalf.
There are ceremonies to be observed. Telling tales is no benefit. The gain (‘no error!’) lies within what one does. That condition, as a voice, or as air exploding from the body, would be to map a possession with all the care that attends the ceremonies. After honesty, there is nothing to pervade one, & to that extent, the primary virtue, the aspect of consciousness most deserving cultivation would be patience.


Appendix to part two

The poem, to be perfect, should likewise be a new word in the same sense, a word of which the line as we have defined it,* is merely a syllable. Such a word is, of course, composed of much more than the sum of its words (as one normally uses the term) and its syntax. It is composed of an almost fluid complex, if the adjective and the noun are not too nearly contradictory, of relationships between words (in the normal sense of the term), a relationship involving rational content, cadences, rhymes, juxtapositions, literary and other connotations, inversions, and so on, almost indefinitely. These relationships, it should be obvious, extend the poet’s vocabulary incalculably. They partake of the fluidity and unpredictability of experience and so provide a means of treating experience with precision and freedom. If the poet does not wish, as, actually, he seldom does, to reproduce a given experience with approximate exactitide, he can employ the experience as a basis for a new experience that will be just as real, in the sense of being particular, and perhaps more valuable.

*…the poetic line…should be a functioning part of the larger complex, or poem. This is, I imagine, what Mallarme should have had in mind when he demanded that the poetic line be a new word, not found in any dictionary, and partaking of the nature of incantation (that is, having the power to materialize, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, being, a new experience.

Ivor Winters, Defense of Reason

THREE
Mining

The intimate is the union of the personal & the impersonal
I am is Father
The hero leaves her satisified
Imposition is a definition of the times
The parallel isn’t unity of what comprehends the most ultimate division.
Who controls control?
The forms of thought are not the means, they are the content

I have seen the best and the worst, I suppose. And found myself seated at the edge of the bed. Or lying on the floor
That I had some terms arranged. Made local. I’d avoid that, if I could. But the shaman-poet consideration is still a contradictory state. That to be is not to name, only as naming leads to a certain state or quality of experiencing. Gurdjieff has it that the quality of what one says is in direct proportion to the excellence of the formation of the message within the speaker. Information, then, has the same value, of pressure or tension, that the unit, so designated has direction, force, or purpose, inasmuch as it exists in its context.
I suppose by context I mean History, or Time, or Spirit, or silence as a means or experiment as its opposite, statement, is all a matter of loss. One descends. So I get to Dante through EP, ‘a canzone is a composition of words set to music…”I don’t know any better point to start from.’ I would still get that the place to start is with birth & that the ‘experiencing’ would be cumulative, inasmuch as there is no such thing as error, & that to find Form (as-such) is neither to name nor to move, but to get-from & get-to. State or being again, or presence.
“With his work, as with a glove, a man feels the universe.’ (Trastormer/Bly) Of course, thee is yet some distinction to be made between taking off the glove and finding presence, or finally, understanding language. It is not in act or in law, but in relation. I would still like to bear some good will toward ‘the image.’ It is a plastic & so might be abandoned, inasmuch as relation does not imply event. The business of ‘being in the present’ does not contradict event but must redefine it. Event redefines present. No! It is first how one feels, how one remembers, how one gets value-words & the illusion that word reveals state.
‘In him was life; and the life was the light of men.’ (John I:4) ‘Circles and right lines limit and close all bodies, and the mortal right-lined circle must conclude and shut up all.’ Sir Thomas Browne, Hydriotaphia. ‘Before the sun was made, there was a light which did that office of distinguishing night and day; but when the sun was created, that did all the offices of the former light, and more (Donne, Sermons, St. Paul’s. Christmas Day, 1621)
Which is not to say that the peculiarity of the scriptures as we have made them lies in the culture or style from which they came, but that an immediacy of style or rhetoric as it has been called, is an important statement, and should be accessible. Style should be accessible. As it looses, it becomes mysterious, full of fear. If the mysterious is a measure of loss and if fear is its manner, the business of the work: to work one’s way through. Or that the poet’s concern will be that he achieve silence.
The direction of silence or the continuing momentum, accumulation, would lead back to common speech. In the vernacular, all forms are recovered, the means laid bare without context. The relation between the speakers, who are verbal, and the silent, who are visual, who see, is ritual. As they are dependent they are makers. If we get to culture & language again, to what becomes manifest, it is Event, Means & Relation, & how they come to be the present precisely by not existing.
In contradiction, the anti-theticsl, there is scale. As scale reduces the tension inherent in the presence of the negative, that is by pushing energy upwards; as polar forces resolve in all that is synthetic, God, so named as the unity of the earth is at once magnified y the reduction of all that is not earth. As all that is parallel becomes oversimplified in the qualities of construction, ie, if the parallel is a notion which resolves tension, it is likewise impossible to create the parallel out of states which are not of themselves contradictory. Finally, the parallel, the infinite, when it is located, say, in a notion of perspective in painting, is the intelligence which is found between the parallel lines.




The meaning of that emplacement, which supports the infinite, is to generate the pressure of what is behind, as the gap widens into a conical rushing of air, colloquial & imprecise, which allows the work its tenuousness. In its very quality of being, the work contradicts its existence. Again, I’d fix the point at seeing, how it leads in infinitely upward and downward ‘directions.’
Direction is location which is space. Event is sequence is time. Back in Time and Space is Technique. Style & how to so manipulate, to eradicate the form and get to—Form.
Work is unitive, poem is unitive & personal, the relation of the personal & the impersonal is precisely word & state, one is where one is or else coincidence, data. The law holds. The eye is personal as long as it is. Though it is, finally, impersonal and only then prophetic or silent. The visual eye is that contradiction which results in making, or the parallel. So, the silent speaker or the shaman-poet has his means in Word. Or words.
‘(Language) does not as a matter of actual behavior stand apart from or run parallel to direct experience but completely interpenetrates with it. This is indicated by the widespread feeling, particularly among primitive people, of that virtual identity or close correspondence of word and thing which leads to the magic of spells. (Sapir)
‘Poetry begins to atrophy when it gets too far from music.’ (EP)

Language : word : technique : god

‘I put into my films what I want to put into them.’ (Bunuel) who is ‘…a successful anarchist who has discovered that the greatest freedom to practice and spread his ideas may, in fact, be found right at the heart of the system which on principle would most vigorously oppose him.’
If the history of culture extends our means, that is, if to study the history of means (slang for design, control); that is, if to be academic about the present leads us to greater awareness of our bodies, then it might be worthwhile, might lead to culture. If America, as Shaw said, moved from primitive conditions to technological mastery without ever having undergone the processes of civilization, then America would be in a likely position to put the two together. We observe the African nations compacting & compressing history into decades simply by the construction of high-power and water-saving systems. And leave the sur-realists back there where they were, as priests & janitors of the unconscious. As the forms of our society have become increasingly irrelevant (government, law, public instruction) we have become ‘freed’ to activate the real. We have had the time to discover what springs from nothing, poetry. To ‘recover,’ in Winters’ terms, might be to dump intense amounts of energy into folk-forms which are inadequate to the input, simply to observe what results from this input, that is, simply to give of ourselves as the means allow.
Where this is anti-intellectual, it is poetic. We need not ‘observe’ so much as chart the details & statistics insofar as those activities are contained.
Heard the sun clamor and dig steel, means to go down and catch earth mowing. To go toward love in moving easing, and to love her less than leaving, to be her man in time, yes & yes, and heard the air move & heard. Found the senses there: found them limned & bent. The the air-ship (categories were lent for purposes of examination. This week passed too fast again & that meant hard work. That let me gain the objective. Never back to naming. What that got. What that got.
The shaman is a deer. Not ‘acts-the-part.’ IS. The shaman is/has a certain relation to the poet-king, who is hampered by his very name. He has his ceremonies to observe. The shaman is not the fool. The fool is a poet/& afraid. Shaman-king is a species of functional perseverance. Is a detail of pure consciousness, is beyond the names of things, is in a realm of muscular identity working at the meanings of animal life & awareness. He is neither a prophet nor a father, they are his close cousins; he is finally vernacular & silent, modeling air & space to lead always out. A curator of folk myths. Maker.
Vernacular: stuff fear had me going. In an automobile revolution I made my passageway out from out : and meant to stay again within my surroundings telling stories : disguised : and more : and went on and went away I had my ear turned on to listen to my ear… ‘Fuck Fear : Fuck Fear : Caress it,’ she wrote. ‘How can I fuck my fear,’ I said. How get into it, but went along away, making my way. To start and go along & go away.
We wrote it down. If culture is Fear, that is, of being circumscribed, how then shall I see? Does truth pass from eye to eye? Among us, there is truth. Love is the greatest economy from which to take or spend, as you have the means. If I have my instructions clearly, I could pass from day to night with my possessions securely destroyed. In the quality of the purpose, in the technicalities of the present, I have left all alterations entirely at the disposal of ‘others’ and made my way, ‘returned,’ on my own. I have been alone.
‘I alone have returned.’ The mimicry of what followed that statement left nothing to the imagination. Shortly after that he left. I have the air in my, ript, coming forth, exploding from my lungs in short staccato bursts. I have my hand out, scalding-nerve-end-muscles sending act & purpose into relation. That the perception of relation and awareness of existence are perceived separately in the dialog. When there is no separation, if all conjoins in act, then poetry has its Word, neither in vanity nor purpose but in being. The scale of acts has no measure. The symptoms of evening are laid out in empty detail, marking that, just that, and forging for-going, easing up & skinning out. Watch the flow of particles / bleet bleet / and oscilloscope chorizo must throat cough hurt and ease door/way through through.
The shaman-king a manager of spatial-relations, an editor of data, a research document in being, an experiment of the times, thrust in-to the open space of flame which precedes the species // explorer in the time of consciousness, intro-naut; carrier of the species, magician.

White magic → healing (Asclepius)
Sympathetic magic → imitative (Aristotle)
Black magic → destructive (Faust)

The rites & ceremonies are actual, are ‘carried’ ‘out.’ Now, to spend three evenings after work, cautiously dipping slices of newspaper into flour & water, layering them over the domed, framed chicken-wire phallus-nodule, painting the masks with bright colors & documents of chance, all of this leads only to the mastery of the craft, just as Roger the mortician, who complains about his word load, knows so much about the communication model. And does.
The management of the mysteries may not lie in Risk & Exposure, but in the hierarchy. See Hesse’s introduction to The Bead Game. I appreciated your comment, knew it was right to the point, but I was unable to do anything about it until now, only twenty-three years later.
There are all sorts of silence.
The matter: having a language: being malleable: selection & edition as functions of consciousness: emplacement within & toward the creation & discovery of a form. Oversion. In humanism, three definitions of character: (1) the obtuse, (2) the formular, (3) the static. In within poetry, three definitions of character: (1) the solitary, (2) the ecstatic, (3) the unitary. Unitary as unional, as manifesting of coming, emergence.
As an age, we are at a moment of convergence: in the medieval period, thwn the skeletal made its familiar appearance (plague : Artaud), it came on visually, in terms of characterization. In the modern period (1912-1928) when means was considered in terms of design (Bahaus), it came on conceptually. At the moment of the apocalypse, it comes in the garments of paranoia and its complement, love. Where we have the means, we are capable of both. The business of inertia is not-to-think. Hence, the monumental failure of ‘the intellectual life’ has led to poetry rather than to the poem. Had we come to the poem, we could consider craft (a boat which soars over the waters), and Winters would be the hero: precisely what he gambled on from the safety of breeding Airdales. What one does is important, it is his very visibility which gives it meaning.
If we come together in the language language of love, the total revision of our verbs is necessary. At lest in terms of the visual equivalents, ‘to come’ now reads ‘emergence’ and ‘to be’ a smiling open face. ‘Went,’ a wood-nymph, a moment before flight. Similarly, as the old culture dies, the husks of its forms are inhabited by us as caterpillars until, up to the moment of metamorphosis, they dry & wither and our own visible true feeling emerges. For instance, ‘time is money’ will be regarded only as a formula. In the sense and to the degree that the formular is only a promise for deliverance of the goods, it waits waits to become less than formula, ie, fact, and a manifestation of ‘the good.’
The good has wings; the goods have location. Finally the suitcase opens and the man flies away. I am rising through the tubes of the Post Office, circulating inside tubs of old newspaper, wrapped in clothing of visual significance. Word. Now in the moment of cats, now agencies of true desire. Now the language of charitable excess. The good is known.


if the communal is arbitrary
(which it is
can the planet
be divided
and if so,
why are there children?
(Richard Sassoon)

Measurement has its own quality of time (expense, expended. I mean you to work on this, to help me with it, since there is no dialog, since the forms are dead, we will live with only the sounds of our own voices.

The lady sitting in the chair has slumped. She is dead.
Slowly voices fill the air, chanting a colloquy of sadness. We realize that she is no longer alone. It is the others, the dead, and they have come to welcome her into the world of form.
Her form is replaced. A gigantic eye which squats in the chair, blinking, possessed with an oyster-like compassion. The eye blinks and opens. As it opens, we notice that the pupil has been replaced with a turning Ferris Wheel. From the spokes, birds spin off. We hear from Alice, the words of the song of the oystermen. It all takes ten seconds. Blank.
We see three chairs covered with newspapers. Children are crawling underneath, in the manner of snapshots. The children become a serpent with a smiling and contented woman’s face, post orgasmic contentedness, satisfaction attached.
We are enticed: we hear familiar words of warning in a foreign language and move closer. The mouth opens and opens until all is blackness. We do not fall, we are in an elevator talking about the weather. At the top of the five-hundred-story building are fourteen acres of plowed soil and a farmer in coveralls is sitting on a tractor. He tells us about Thoreau’s Walden, and recites a passage about us looking through the eyes of each other. We approach his eyes and hear Bach’s music for unaccompanied cello. Blank.
We see a table filled with food. No one is there. the table collapses.
We are on a mountain top, astride a motorcycle. We are riding under the sea.
We are gathering lock screws from the center of strawberry plants in the midst of a huge field at the edge of which we see a strange building.
We approach the building and hear a rushing of water. She stands in all her familiarity beside a cataclysm of rushing water. We are at sea with her, talking about the weather. On shore, seated at a desk, a man is writing in a huge book. As we approach him slowly, he gets up and walks to a horse, mounts and flies into a head of lettuce which then rolls away.
We approach The Book warily; when we get around and look at the pages, it is a photo album, filled with the same picture of her face, smiling benevolently. Throughout, we are listening to the piano music of Eric Satie played badly on a harpsichord. A herd of camels rushes from the sea. She is astride the leader, wearing the same clothing as she has on in the photo album.
She sings a wordless and unfamiliar lullaby. We fall into sleep. The bed floats away, through a sea of doves and frogs, toward a twenty-five thousand pound cooked turkey and two hundred roasted carrots. The last sound heard is the ticking of a watch, the last image is circular.

The vision of culture supersedes itself. It is, as we said, best to have no vision, but to have visions. All of our activity is political inasmuch as we live in a community of ourself. All that is contradictory creates an image of the good. The beautiful is our own face. She is our own face, smiling.
What the intronaut said was just the same, ‘here are my images.’ There is no longer an idolatry of means, the very act of completion implies that there are no longer any ‘others.’ We have sent the moon to us. A beating heart rises to the surface of the water. The babe, the child, walks toward us and toward us and toward us and toward us and toward us…….

NOTES

1. (page 10) ‘Creative Man & Transformation, (in) Art & the Creative Unconscious, Eric Neumann, Bollingen, 1959
2. Gurdjieff, the parable of brothers Ahl & Sez, (in) Tales of Remarkable Men.
3. Owen Barfield, Saving the Appearances, & Ernest Fenellosa, The Chinese Written Character as a medium for poetry.
4. from the Family of Man, Steichen, Sandburg (MOMA) & Werner Bischof, p. 152 (c) Beggars.
5. National Geographic, V. 135, #4, April 1969, p. 512-3, George B. Schaller, two photographs and accompanying captions.
6. ibid. p. 578. Malcolm S. Kirk. Shaman.
7. Earth photographs from Gemini VI through CII. NASA SP- 171, two photographs. (1) p.150, Gemini X, Jul 21, 1966, #S66-4956, & (2) p. 151 Gemini X, Jul 21, 1966, #S66-45868.
8. (cf. #5 above: ‘But fights do occur. One dawn I found a pride mail lying on his side, breathing heavily. Golden tatters of his mane were strewn in the grass. Deep wounds covered his body. One of his lionesses moaned softly nearby. He had been attacked by three males of a neighboring pride while he guarded not only a zebra kill but also a lioness in heat. He died an hour after I found him. It soon became apparent that the other pride male could not stand alone against the intruders encroaching deeply into his territory. One morning I saw two males from an adjacent territory chase him a mile, then return to a thicket where three cubs lay hidden. The males bit the cubs to death, ate one of them, and carried another off as though it were a trophy. I waited by the body of the third cub to see what the mother would do when she returned. I expected some display of emotion when she realized her cubs were dead, but she merely sniffed at the one remaining carcass, then settled down and devoured it.
9. cf. Camus, The Stranger. ‘…one could object that Bachelard’s more recent book, La Terre et les reveries de lat volonte, extols the rather puritanical values of redressement, and hard work. He says, for instance, that if Camus had made his hero hold a rasping file instead of a useless pebble, Roquintin could have been a perfectly normal ouvrier, conquering his fixation with the viscous and the soft by a hardening of his will; he would have been a hero of surextentialisme.

El Centro, California, 1969