/////////////////////////////////////////////////////// / / / / / / / / / for rif/t / / / / / / / / C U T S / / / / / / / / / / / / / ///////////////// //////////////////////// //////// / matthew / huddleston / / / / ////// //////////////////////////////////////////////
for rif/t cuts glac-split to water ponder-ous(ly) smash me mass slow-side head or bask plain a regal chance thumberly. rift (Scandanavian): a cleft, fissure, or v. to cleave, rive, or split and towards an etymology, etymon=3D a primitive, or root word how we skelp w/ language. a. Authorities "one who does anything w/ his own hand." as genuine / real / trustworthy and what is worthy of trust, Ken? But not "augere" -- to increase, produce? Distant or near presence? -- but we are replication, no matter how masked by fad, by mind trips and the scrambling words of intellect and ego. How is this freeing the word? Our mandate of breath may escape like a bird of paradise, fowl or flower, shining briefly in the sunlight. Or expression may freeze, Bunyan's winter -- but spirit. On the other inextricable hand we are original and all that stems from or through us is authentic, genuine. What is, for instance, natural? The voice forms, or the mind prancing gestures behind the voice. Language becomes, an ember awakened by the breath of the individual, judged by the accumulated grunge of a speaking population. Forgery? to forge and reforge -- heated and hammered on the tongues of another cropped generation. Or is this feigning fiction? The phrase is no longer my own, maybe never was, but that's the riff -- a horn in my mouth I blow w/ varying degrees of consciousness and modesty. Rif/t, fabricate, revolve within the dance ever so authentically authoring, humble before expression and misexpression laced, however cliched, by spirit and an earnest participation in the grand pageant of being. b. When is a poem done? Mayhap the poem is done as a person is done leading to conceptions of death -- forgotten, swallowed by the linguistic currents -- transformed in revelation? Do flawed poems painfully wander the bardo states seeking rebirth as newspaper articles? Are they, like us, revolving through verbal samsara seeking perfection? Not Welch's "accuracy" -- that's the expression of a gunman to the end -- but exceeding praise. Exceeding praise and celebration. c. (Ken, do you consider your body a machine as well? archaic, spec.: "the bodily frame": machine) I aspire to this, to "transmit and modify force" -- a goal of the poem as Olson alludes, effect another with no gap, or "no resistance in the material." Maybe that's the art -- using a form of resistance but minimizing, through skill -- through electric energy, that same chosen "resistance." Is this a form of duty? The potter simultaneously works w/ and against the clay -- the clay actively inert as we see it, but the art consisting in a mesh with the clay, coaxing undifferentiated mass into chosen / inspired form. Blowing the trumpet isn't easy, but hear Miles (resistance overcome -- no, reconciled ("to cause to be friendly again") -- isn't that enlightenment? "Comfort's in heaven and we are on earth Where nothing lives but crosses, cares and grief" to take this maelstrom of desire and "make it friendly again," to find freedom through accepted resistance: to thus approach an art of living? d. how do you deal with obscenity on internet? e. doesn't every space have a multitude of contents? Freud seems to me too hung on concrete correlation -- maybe this only a pop viewpoint -- and I argue not so much audience mandated relativism, but rather endless possibility in every direction, in even the most confined and restricted space. (understand, Ken, I am very serious about this. We deal here not with words without substance, or entertaining ideas, but w/ belief, faith, understandings of the universe, directions of thought by which I seek to guide myself. Faith, w/ dis-asters and our own pending mortality as we know it, with love, how should we not pursue this serious joy?) f. "By its even tone which can be maintained as long as desired the organ has in it an element, so to speak, of eternity. Even in the secular room it cannot become a secular instrument." -Albert Schweitzer g. I hope this doesn't bore you, Ken? Maybe you are very busy, and writing is, as X confessed... another form of ego driven presumption: presuming the interest of another. As paths are, I fill myself w/ experiments on plutonium and mt. bike riding and not so much in the "required texts," or the theoretical doors. If something, then, communication. If nothing, empty penance? blessed practice? (music: practice to performance to play) h. Can we consider God the ultimate sculptor of resistance? i. Where do I find any entrance other than my own? Is it enough to string vocabulary? Or, the gallery opening tonight, potter friends of X, and all these people straining to appear artistic: the dress, the dangling cigarettes. Can we damn seeming affection? the greased woman in a high neck silk chinese dress? We all want to seem admirable in our own eyes, and this enters into the matrix =3D finding a society and conforming to acceptance. Do I want my poetry to conform? Is this scenario empty? some saxophone serenade with a too thin reed. j. So this editor writes "cyber-shit" and my response conflicts. Much poetry just doesn't move me, spark thoughts, strike as vital to my conception of existence -- and I judge, brutally, succumbing to the western criticality "not this, these reasons, why this" etc., slicing and nicking, turning over each moldy stone with a barren heart. I buy into this. And yet, in typical paradox, I refuse to be judged by others: my work, this voyage, these explorations into the language of my universe. This is ego talking. Where lies the resolution? "cyber-shit" and I agree to the possibility. I merely mistrust all who claim the ability to distinguish, even myself: these aspiring mandators of canon and class, style and beauty -- trained tastes. Why should I bow down before the judgments of others unless they first win my respect? Is it enough to proclaim yourself? k. so much depends on cleaning, to clear the mind's surface, a space for work -- for being, essentially. shove aside the words then reclaim them as your own individual heritage. l. Ken, careful with me, I don't want to drag your marvelous endeavor toward "cyber-shit." m. who is spinning this? do they realize and do battle w/ the realization of death? of life? are we but games playing sexless solitaire in the eddies of dust? (slash and burn) n. two lovers, three, four they eye the moon and must, matching desire to bodily been determine as catch can can love's syllabic anatomy, love's bryne-scape which may be may have must break tangling glass. o. snag me the moon, my love, on a plate and slice me its light until I glow like pearls awakened like dreams unfurled like silk drawn from the gilded ears of saints. snag me the moon for a mirror and snag me the stars for no reason but my pleasure to cast them like fireflies to the mounding waves, my love, the waves you fetch me as bands for my arms, the land wrapped deep and spun to a pillow and fires inset in rings for my hand. snag me the moon, my love, on a plate it is late and we should rejoice. p. ambiguity at the beginning and sometimes there is wisdom, a wisdom in death. for each seeking the sign, the smoking bush if not burning so poetic the revelation of mourning or an error in the sense of a sigh. yes, wisdom, wisdom as can be straight, a home, for perception, each nub beyond sight, a home where flesh will discount the finale, clapping baleful, drawn to the guts of time's eternity the limits which are never enough, never the perception. but more, but less, perfume and dim vagaries of sin like so much paraphernalia and moribund chaos, like hysteria at the mention of reason -- unsputtering -- and helplessness as an abstraction: each ideal praised to smithereens. and honesty is okay, a bearable kind of sickness. and sleep is the illusion howling each mote of us alone with dishonesty. this is not an oxymoron, this corpulence which rides wave line privilege on the razor-back of convergence. be gay, be docile. harmony does smack of escapism, fun as defunct and untitled presumption, and patience a peculiar form of libido like "logocentrism" without style, without congruency, a bland dehortation of detritus and jazz. but with this, always remember, fright misses the bullseye with a clinging radiance, a schwarmerei that smells of uncanny innuendo blessing the blank spaces that spill from the faceless crowd, cheers, high on epoxy and the euphoria of false intuition, their compassion built -- a skyscraper, yellow prestige, optimism all perpendicular to blindness and obscurity, all belonging in the cosmic compost of human kind, caught inertia, drunk delusion declining, alienation and avarice the hand born telescope on philosophy, drained confidence and pecking rich realism lacking majesty in the worm tunnel labyrinth and remnant catacombs of assumed celibacy. this is the fog, the realm of aphrodisia and insouciance, a deficit clanging as the gongs of nirvana yet retrograde with a filial twist. how inspire and measure the romantic panache of heaven when the vessel remains, refrains, underdeveloped under orthodoxy, but by tenacity and the gifted lens of ghostliness passing vaguely cliche through the land: land populated by epitaph predisposition, stuffy in the concupiscent conversions of doubt? q. cut and paste ____________________ too much for now, Ken: at least you know that my mind is engaged and I am very excited about this project, this projection of yours, Ken. the lilacs fade, wet, in the twilight, and we should cook dinner. take care, Matthew ___________________________________ om ah hum vajra guru padma siddhi hum 5 $
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