(Droplet) the diminishing of writing.

Shira Gold with Good Grief, chapter of Shock, is a rending exploration of elemental loss and recovery. Shock covers a stage of both isolation and fatality.

Approach, there are voices, a finished star. We select a stick and twist the algae, what does it contain now? At once, everything, all colour and light any eye is to receive; stringy life in vertical lifelessness, and there are systems as hyaline as emotions, finished stars, beginning stars, some are turtles and some, small tadpoles. This sensory realm unfolds its frills and aqueous dreams spur out, yet there is cruelty: this I see, but how do I say it? Systems are cocoons around the unbending, spiritual cages around sensuous shapes, and none is to float in the air they break. A brush is lifted to reproduce the stream, paints percolate and fall like the corpses of a vision; however, this is the vision, the fatality of colours and lights any eye bleeds to receive; the commissures of expression stretch once more, because more is to be said, motions, movements, the bunting of colours as unfocused displays of sensuality that obstreperously flee from the point of magic; nearly suddenly, movement is an object of dissension, a prize of lack, because what moves cannot do so in all orientations nor arrive absolutely. We are taken back, a squalid lucidity flashes the room, a shiver, a warm bright-white sun which is a finished star and a beginning star, perception is formed and is unstinting, the content of a phrase putrefies, a dusty painting. There is futility in order, yet we so orderly design the dream which isn’t dream any longer: the books go here, by the margin, Bach follows above the gleam, a pestitential smile that dims under an odd tugging of loss; yet another membrane of lack, expanded, intumesced, a breathing wound in horizontal breathlessness, a pulley lowering the ropes around our necks until we touch the ground: the world lies right there, there, you may see it, and this you see, but how do you live it? How do you stand in an unsound architecture?

What boils the dream into a tarry sludge is the statuesque essence of extremity, be in ultimate positive insofar as you desire yourself in each millimetre of bled-out sight, each motion of pain and each dimension of possession; an extreme safety banishes an extreme fear, an extreme hatred dissolves an extreme weakness; we are wholesomely corporeal in our dreams, we are flimsy legs and velvet flesh, we are green, sometimes pink, and rarest of all, we can be purple, full things in a full realm of unsmothered movements that stretch in all directions and arrive absolutely in each.

But it is not the profound dissociation from dream and living that languishes the spirit or dries the stream, it is maddening poise of how inextricable they are, those instants of total sensory delivery that are godly hands rending the systems, fledgling swallows in the flocks of words, poppies wavering in the fields of memory, which become themselves the words and the waverings; instants where life is undiscerned from anything else, a pure fount of sense where we become untetherable from the totalities we contain; instants where we become unobliteratable, and thus, disenchanted with obliterative extremes, both dream and dream, life and life, a beginning star and a finished star.

Those are the truths I’d like to keep, the ferment of my writings, my systems, but trying to encapsulate them is like trying to collect bladed plumes; to reproduce them is to shatter the silent nature that allows their force. Perhaps by lack of talent or stamina or persistence or experience, I can never quite get to them, I can never bring someone to that point of exurgent sensory blossoming that informs my creations, but I’m not giving up just yet.

Shira Gold with Good Grief, chapter of Shock; I cannot encourage you enough to perscrutate her work, she stands as one of my favoured discoveries of 2019.

Published by João-Maria

A tick clinging to the bristles of a purple boar.

19 thoughts on “(Droplet) the diminishing of writing.

    1. Isn’t she, Craig? When I found her I was absolutely riven by her lens. I sometimes struggle with finding conceptual photography that speaks to me outside of galleries, but hers, even through a screen, spoke to me in tomes and volumes.
      Thank you for your unstinting support, and I’m beyond glad I was able to introduce a new artist to you.

      Liked by 1 person

  1. Your blog is beautiful and while I don’t understand every reference in every post I still recognize the quality and the feelings behind it. And thank you very much for following my blog. I’m new to this (only one month) and my writing can be about anything but I’m really enjoying connecting with people I never knew existed. Thank you.
    Mr Ormsby

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  2. I’ve just been taking a walk around the rooms of your blog. It’s lovely João-Maria. It’s like a place to sit and reflect here and there; some rooms you know you’ll return to reflect further; some you leave for another day. All in all it’s best not to hurry. I’m writing this just to let you know why I’ve been poking around and scattering bits of “likes” in different rooms. I’ve almost decided that you remind me of (I don’t mean you’re the same – you just remind me of) Jorge Luis Borges. I like him very much.

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    1. Bruce!, you are welcome to perscrutate, though I must admit, I’m a bit of a skipper. 90% of my blog has been deleted, such is the pace at which I outgrow what I write and become nearly repulsed by earlier echoes of my creative flourishing, no matter how essential they inextricably were.
      Interestingly enough, this specific piece of prose is, in my mind, a bit of a “cute mess”. I truly didn’t have much to say, but I was centred on a formulaic puzzle I wove around myself and tried to get out of. I’m a bit of a Nabokov, but dafter, one may say. I was convinced that I could “dualise” conceptual objects by constantly coupling them with symbols that I’d double: fullness, blindness, fullness of dream and blindness of dream, dream and dream, life and life, beginning and ending. I wanted to write in a form that coalesced these notions so much, they became fully withdraw in themselves, nearly indivisible from one another and, thus, indomitable in the reading mind.
      I used to make puzzles such as these more, but I’ve been disenchanted with the “cruelty” they require. I write more for myself, now. Or, at least, for the likeness of writing and not for its own purpose.
      I’m sorry for the maunder, but no one ever approaches me deeply about what I write, so I never get to justify the whys and hows. I’ve never read Luis Borges, but I surely must!

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I’ve never read Nabokov but I surely must – once I get my eyes seen to because things these days get blurry. I’m not very profoundly deep when it comes to literary criticism. I dislike writing (including film and TV) that feels it must impart a moral. I don’t read anything that tries to teach me something. I read for the story or the feeling or even the form. But I don’t read for the moral/theme.
        I’m going to think about what you just said about your “journey”. I keep everything – most is crap – but I never read it again, or very rarely when I want to pinch something off myself. Probably my best play was called “Cloud Mother” and I kept thinking I was pinching lines from some author that I couldn’t remember who – and then I realized I was quoting myself when I was a teen…
        Your approach to creating is much more exciting – I don’t want to copy it but I’d like to be inspired to liberate myself from the hum-drum I’m in! I want to get to Story 2020 (in honour of the year) and on my birthday Dec. 6th, and then it’s new fields!

        Like

      2. I don’t actually like Nabokov. I liked Lolita a fair bit, but I’d need hours and hundreds of lines to explain why I do not enjoy him and why, concurrently, I enjoyed Lolita, as those two go hand-in-hand. He is, however, generally known as the master of modern form in prose, just as much as Frost occupies that title in poetry. I, too, despise trustic literature. Hypostatic things, or even static things, are great punctures to the mind, because while they serve important purposes in relative moments, their most important purpose must always be their dissolution. We can, for instance, write a book about the inescapable injustice of this world, and we can, through characters and plot, affirm that injustice, but, while a good author uses the characters to express that static nature, a brilliant author is himself or herself used by the characters, while the instrument of their malleability — as is that of any veritable person — is what allows them to transmit that one ought not to acquiesce to what is before seeing the luminous face of what might be. This is, in my view, how Dostoevsky became such a decisive author in world literature; while Lolita will never be anything beyond Nabokov, Raskolnikov will always be more beyond Dostoevsky, such is the freedom with which he wrote him, such is the absolute devotion of his hand in fully giving up himself in its making.
        I tend to shy away from morality, and trusism and the comfort of the ideal, of the arrival. I like lostness, I like description. But I never translate too well; people usually pin me as either mad or a word juggler that tries to be purposefully obtuse for the sake of “the Art”. I’d find it awesome if you were to be inspired, as that would mean a lot. And I’m certain you could benefit from threading new fields; we all can, and I’m certainly attempting to do so too soon enough. And my birthday is December 1st! We are archer-centaur brothers!

        Liked by 1 person

      3. Our common zodiac sign possibly means we could jointly play the part of a pantomime horse – but you’d have to do the top half with the bow and arrow and six-pack, and I could be the bottom half of the horse (which is probably not a good idea either).
        You’re so much more perceptively well-read than me. I’m too impatient. I held the New Zealand speed-reading record (possibly still do) for speed reading an article and getting all the comprehension questions right. The piece was about rats and I was really interested in rats back then. Part of my “newness” after Dec 6th might be getting myself educated.
        When a juggler juggles the audience have to look at the whole act and not at the skill. You are a sort of juggler (more of a jongleur) but that’s only the vehicle.
        On a completely irrelevant note – I once was lent the use of a house in the woods in Vermont USA – so I went there for some time with a copy of Robert Frost and some food. Stone walls, paths in the wood, apples!

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      4. I’ve read much for the purposes of linguistic knowledge and a fair bit for college as well, which might, at first glance, make me appear better-read than I am. When I do have time to spare, I’d love to finally start reading new and obscure literary novels; even self-published stuff that more or less approximates my style. I’m so disconnected to what is produced today.
        How was the tryst with Frost? Your Frostryst (which, I find, is an impossible-to-pronounce agglutination)

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      5. The Frostryst was fine. It was winter and there were bright red apples hanging from bare trees. The image in my mind is very Cornucofrostian. One day, when you’ve run out of things to do and are heavily into obscure novels, I hope you stumble across my novel even if you hate it. Sometimes I think if only six people in the world liked it I’d be so thrilled I’d write another. But that is a a self-indulgence that you referred to in a previous comment about something else. I hope one day you write a novel. I think that the New Zealand novelist – Janet Frame (now dead) – writes in imageagglutinations.

        Liked by 1 person

      6. Bruce, I have your novel downloaded, but I haven’t gotten around to actually give it the two of my eyes. I’m reading Satantango, by Krasznahorkai, the first Hyperobjects book from Tim Morton, Barthes’ Mythologies and Heidegger’s Poetry, Language and Thought, but I need a break from a good few of those. And your book is lithe, I might knock it in a week, so, I will absolutely give it a read as soon as able.
        About writing a novel, I’m not entirely sure. I’m still gauging my talent, see if there is any future in an active creative endeavor. Otherwise, I’ll stick to my path of trying to become an academic literary critic, which is no loss at all!

        Liked by 1 person

      7. Well it’s exciting enough that my novel got downloaded! I couldn’t even spell half of those titles and authors you mentioned. I like mixing with intelligent people (all my friends are) because I’m so impatient with dumb people (which is why you’re a dose of fresh air). I did an IQ test once and got 40! A literary critic is pretty cool.

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      8. See, Bruce? You accused me of trying to sell a novel, and now, I’m reading yours! Winner winner, chicken dinner, as they say.
        Thank you for saying I’m intelligent, but just yesterday, I wrote whose instead of who’s. I did an IQ test once, and I got a voucher for first grade textbooks.

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