His near stammering. With disconcerting promptness one word hid behind another. -- Maurice Blanchot, Le Dernier Homme Contact me: red3ad (at) yahoo (dot) com


One so rarely thinks to look up: at the top of the trees: one thousand stars of militant desire.


file under: Things that Quicken the Heart



faltering: fault / erring


the chasm of the backslash


No epiphanies, but the space between ship and wreck. Touched on, then left behind. Surfacing each day, dawn and dusk, like the tide.

In the middle of last month, I marked a passage for the calend of this, and stammering, stuttering, moved toward it; it could be considered an extended post. Little more than the quote from Ingeborg Bachmann at the top of the page, unchanging from day to day, and a form of work, or working, towards work, building slowly from below. Or composting; it's how this process seems to proceed. And then? And now? The tide comes in and the tide goes out.
Now, laterally, I mention some of spurious's observations, or reveries of late; regarding “The Desire of Writing” -- a reason to turn on the computer in the morning:

The Black Page
Perhaps there is a kind of speech different to that which adds noise to the world. That subtracts silence from noise, as you would draw with your finger on a condensated window.

To speak by subtraction - to let silence sound and speak thereby ... is there a kind of writing that unwrites the written? A white writing, a writing blanched; or is it the other way round: a black page slipped beneath black ink?"


As below, so above: more ghosts of boats. I've been meaning to link to these for awhile now, two of my very favorite words being "slow" and "shipwreck," and these photos managing to mediate between the two in an evocative and, dare I say lovely, way. No epiphanies, but the space between ship and wreck. “Look at any word long enough and you will see it open up into a series of faults, into a terrain of particles each containing its own void.” --Robert Smithson.


The apple tree out back has dropped its fruit by now; next to it, some strange slim tree gone up gold-orange like a flame. The days have dulled and that's as close to an epiphany as I'm likely to see.
The ground is littered with the last of the apples, brown-spotted and collapsing under the weight of their own flesh. The perfect brown orb noted some weeks ago, the first to fall, is now but a husk, recognizable only because I know to look for it, leathered skin pierced and broken, insides hollowed away through the processes of insects, rot, and dessication. This this, crumpled skin, provokes a classical question: is it still an apple?-- And what of these past few weeks-- some form of river?


"On fine October days, as you come out of the Radetzkystrasse, you can see by the Municipal Theatre a group of trees in the sunshine. The first tree, which stands in front of those dark-red cherry trees that bear no fruit, is so ablaze with autumn, such an immense patch of gold, that it looks like a torch dropped by an angel. And now it is burning, and the autumn wind and frost cannot put it out.
Who, faced with this tree, is going to talk to me about falling leaves and the white death? Who will prevent me from holding it with my eyes and believing that it will always glow before me as it does this moment and that it is not subject to the laws of this world?"
--Ingeborg Bachmann, "Youth in an Austrian Town."

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