her earliest recollection, parts not clear
there were her father, her mother
face so strange, so strange
white cloths, his head, strange faces
not seen before, strange stillness
strange new fear
her father did not move
so quiet, memories blurred
not sure which memories
grown from what she heard
the funeral, never forget
silvered handles, shining coffin
women in black, her touch
the prettiest things ever seen
run away, frightened, empty
her father thrown against a tree
unconscious and buried
shiny coffin, silver handles
Posted by birds fly on March 24, 2017
Erased from “Imperfections in the Social Habit of Man.” In: Instincts of the Herd in Peace and War by W. Trotter. London: T. Fisher Unwin Ltd., 1916. Courtesy of Project Gutenberg.
first feeling of the ordinary citizen
fear—immense, vague aching anxiety
the individual fears for future
food supply, family, trade
with fear, a heightening of intolerance of isolation
loneliness urgently unpleasant
the individual experienced desire for company
and even physical contact.
in such company aware of
confidence, courage, and moral power
isolation tended to depress confidence,
company fortified it.
the change in frigid atmosphere
of railway train, omnibus, and all such meeting-places
was most interesting
most striking of all was
the strength and vitality of rumour,
startling evidence that a stronger force than reason
was at work in formation of opinion
non-rational opinion so widespread,
such opinion spread so rapidly, established so firmly.
the successful rumours invaded all classes.
the observer found self irresistibly drawn to
acceptance of popular belief
allied with accessibility to rumour was readiness
with which suspicions of treachery and hostility
grew and flourished
about anyone of foreign appearance or origin
attempt to discuss origin and meaning of
various types of fable epidemic in opinion—
we are concerned with their
immense vitality and power of growth
Posted by birds fly on March 21, 2017
Erased from “Strange Sea Creatures,” in Pleasant Ways in Science, by Richard A. Proctor. New York: Longmans, Green, & Co., 1905. Courtesy of Project Gutenberg. [click to enlarge]
so-called fabulous animals
the merman, zoologically possible, of course,
the unicorn, the dragon, the centaur,
the minotaur, the winged horse,
recognized as known forms.
the sea has been misunderstood,
land cannot long escape.
the most powerful and ferocious beasts struggle.
savage man must be killed
and the true appearance of the animal determined.
powerful winged animals remain mysterious,
a mighty bird might swoop down and disappear.
from time to time the strange winged monster
would be seen hovering.
savage races of man, animals now extinct.
power of the winged enemy,
sea creatures monstrous.
we remain ignorant.
hidden beneath the waves
creatures of the deep sea expose themselves,
great sea creatures, monsters of the deep
seen only for a few moments,
sinking back into the depths, a mystery.
repetition of the story
the creature, its true nature recognized.
understand then the fabulous creatures,
remarkable, the monsters of the deep sea,
understand the truth.
Posted by birds fly on March 18, 2017
In these uncertain times, the demise of the International Society for the Appreciation of the Nonexistent (I-San) was inevitable. Whenever things begin to get real, as they say, there is always an immediate backlash against the rigorous examination of absent phenomena that I-San engaged in. This is tragic, for if ever there is a need for an intellectual exploration of what’s not here (but still could be) it is in moments when we are faced with extreme reality. For example, think about that empty space above you while you sleep. What if it were actually filled by a grand piano strung up to the ceiling by a length of dental floss. Or a herd of buffalo silently grazing in a green field. Have you ever wondered why it’s not. See, this is why I-San exists, or rather existed until quite recently. I-San took on the hard questions, the ones you’re too busy (or afraid) to entertain.
Now, you may be thinking, yes, but wasn’t I-San a voluntary organization? And if so, why would its committed members suddenly choose to cease and desist their operations, especially now when many feel they’re needed most. Well, it’s a fair question, albeit one not easily answered. First, one must sort out the facts from the conspiracy theories. Of the latter there are many. Some say an undercover agent infiltrated the organization and planted the seeds of self-destruction. Others speak of an elaborate I-San plot to feign public disintegration while retreating to the underground. The truth, as it usually does, lies bloody and mutilated in some forgotten alley. There are no facts to be sorted out. I-San eschewed facts like it eschewed all else real. It did not try to obscure them nor did it deny their existence. Facts simply fell outside its investigative purview.
The good news is that there is something you can do to help. Before I-San officially disbanded it released a brief statement. Despite attempts by the powers-that-be to suppress it, the statement has been disseminated through back channels and, during yesterday’s windstorm, a printed copy of it chanced to blow into my face, resulting in a paper cut that despite its innocuous appearance shed blood for some time afterwards. When I returned home lightheaded from blood loss, I transcribed the statement into electronic form which I now share with you below.
Attention Fellow Citizens: We are living in troubled times. Some say we’ve come face to face with the ultimate reality. (We at I-San hope we’re at least facing only the penultimate reality, so that there might still be one last period of unreality for us to study prior to TEOTWAWKI). But never mind that. The point is that for reasons we are not at liberty to disclose I-San is shutting down its operations effective immediately. The good news is we are transferring our investigative powers into your hands. May the crowdsourcing of investigation into the nonexistent begin! We’re counting on you to make a difference. Leave no empty space unexamined. In the face of so much reality, there can only be one response: turn away and concentrate on what isn’t there. We hope to see you on the other side.
Posted by birds fly on March 12, 2017
The road. When I could drive no more for weariness I huddled in the back of the car and uneasily dreamed for a few hours but I did not do that often, I was in a frenzy that precluded rest. I felt that I was in a great hurry but I did not know I was speeding toward the very enigma I had left behind–the dark room, the mirror, the woman. I did not know this destination exercised a magnetic attraction on me. I did not know I could not stop.
In the mornings, the ground was white with hoar frost for it was now late October and a crimson sun rose over plains that rolled as far as the pale hem of the sky. There were no trees. The radio in the car fed me an aural pabulum of cheapjack heartbreak; this nasal country music was interspersed with voices that sang the praises of innumerable articles of consumption and sputtered out frequent news bulletins. The Harlem Wall grew longer, taller, thicker; the National Guard was on permanent call. Riots, incendiarism. I could not have picked a worse time for my trip. Only fatality could have possessed me to go high-tailing off in such troubled times, fatality and the unknowable impulsion of the destination ahead of me, a destination of which I was entirely ignorant although it had chosen me long ago for our destinations choose us, choose us before we are born.
And exercise a magnetic attraction upon us, drawing us inexorably toward the source we have forgotten. Descend lower, descend the diminishing spirals of being that restore us to our source. Descend lower; while the world, in time, goes forward and so presents us with the illusion of motion, though all our lives we move through curvilinear galleries of the brain towards the core of the labyrinth within us.
—Angela Carter, The Passion of New Eve
Posted by birds fly on March 11, 2017
Outside the wind howls. Inside a trio of snowmen converse in the vicinity of a conference of paper birds. Last night the ‘artsy’ neighbors continued their grand tradition of slamming doors and other unidentifiable objects against floors and walls for several hours between approximately midnight and the archetypal 3 AM hour. Result: current state of apathetic grogginess. Desire for absence of shared walls swells with each passing night of lost sleep.
Days less measureless than before. Crystalline structure of incipient routines inches out beyond the borders of a now worn and tarnished impersonation of L.B. in Rear Window. Except there never was anything even vaguely menacing to observe, only a sea of moment-waves rocking gently against the fragile hull of this origami sailboat.
Return to Pessoa’s words: no novelty in the universal, no comprehensibility in the individual. The old ruse of intentional obfuscation falls flat. But still the urge to fit words together roils inside. Maybe to do it, like Pessoa says, ‘to reduce the fever of feeling.’ Yet if all is unimportant (which it is), why bother describing any version of it. Unless perhaps to merely locate and handle the words themselves. To dive to the bottom, seeking words buried deep in a consciousness whose mirrored surface rests fathoms above undisturbed layers of sediment. Yes, perhaps it is for that reason: to extract anything worth contemplating from the granular level, to slip some small truth from the interstices and examine it from all sides, even if only to then return it unseen.
Posted by birds fly on March 2, 2017
“What is there to confess that’s worthwhile or useful? What has happened to us has happened to everyone or only to us; if to everyone, then it’s no novelty, and if only to us, then it won’t be understood. If I write what I feel it’s to reduce the fever of feeling. What I confess […]
via ”I make landscapes out of what I feel.” — Time’s Flow Stemmed
Posted by birds fly on February 27, 2017
Click the face.
Posted by birds fly on February 9, 2017
It is odd that we have so little relationship with nature, with the insects and the leaping frog, and the owl that hoots among the hills calling for its mate. We never seem to have a feeling for all living things on the earth. If we could establish a deep, abiding relationship with nature, we would never kill an animal for our appetite, we would never harm, vivisect, a monkey, a dog, a guinea pig for our benefit. We would find other ways to heal our wounds, heal our bodies. But the healing of the mind is something totally different. That healing gradually takes place if you are with nature, with that orange on the tree, and the blade of grass that pushes through the cement, and the hills covered, hidden, by the clouds.
—Jiddu Krishnamurti, Krishnamurti to Himself, p 10
Posted by birds fly on January 1, 2017