17, Setembro (superlative ipseity, acht)

Forgetfulness has no worth by itself; it lacks an economy of space. Past our brutal archway of knotweeds and spruces, the pathways opened only to an abandoned garrison. Sucessive instants of nature hued the rubble with that superlative ghost of placeness and immortality, which is so rarely reflected in insomnia. The cabinets had illegible files and expired medicine. We sat on the desks; their dense plastic fibreboards weren’t neither fit for rotting nor eating, but still fit enough for the dangling old art of carving incomplicate symbols. Writing now feels much the same — this hum/urge/daub against the crudity; an attack, a volley of landfilled fragments of emotions that never quite found a fitting elsewhere. A b(l)oom.

There’s grace in this coldness we feel, he said. I disagreed. There can be no corollary to nothingness. I always found myself to be cruel and lavishly dramatic; my cinders were in agony if they could ever be fumed to digladiate at all; I’d defend agony with the tint of selfhood; I’d idol trauma as a tribal rain-god. The all-dissolving empathy of this world, chiller even than an arctic gale, was yet to prove how dramatically undramatic I truly figured. It ends up being an ourobouric realisation. You mustn’t blur revolt with sadness, he said. I agreed. I must feel mit bewegtem Ausdruck¹, as if the factionalism of thoughts could be dammed in or transferred like an equalised liquid, escaping only when our inner kingdoms inch in a certain manner or another. There’s so much to keep in, so much to keep out. There’s as much frustation in quantity as there are frustrated quantities; serried columns of hurtful notes overspilling like piles of sand or roadside weeds. It’s dark, I must phone home, and so do I. Somewhere right before some iron-sounding annihilation. After the hum/urge/daub. I tear up. The molds and lichens, captives of this senseless calaboose between heaviness and conscience, transude that humid odour of digging as the dusk brays across the clouds. There goes the performance, the anger, and so much disappears. How you’ve let yourself be polluted, he tackles, to this point, he digs in, to this point of irreparability, CLINK, he hits the bedrock. How noxious a sentiment; how synthetic; how opposite of tribal. There’s nothing moving about irreparability; nothing expressive at all. Tragedy can be unbearably dull when it is conceived to be lived and not performed. Our freedom to conceive of it is precisely as mythological as the rain-god. Out there where the moon sears the dense curtain and bones thud against each-other with wails of longing we wait for a golden spear to emerge from the earth and unclutter the theatre with a white undomesticated light. A beacon gobsmacked where no one can find it. Out there and not here where we’ve abandoned the prospect of spatial economy. Out there and not here where we’ve composed effigies out of instants of hunger. Even the pain, he scribbles, ends up as hunger, he closes deeper into the fibres, somewhere between coming and going, CLINK. 

¹ –  with a moving expression, a musical composition by Anton Webern.



Gray,
João-Maria.

Published by João-Maria

A tick clinging to the bristles of a purple boar.

10 thoughts on “17, Setembro (superlative ipseity, acht)

    1. Thank you so much, Bob. I suppose, from all my posts thus far, this is likely the one with the most force of depth. A lot of things mixed together, I guess. A culmination of sorts. I’m glad you enjoyed it, Bob, I truly am. Means a lot from someone as talented as yourself.

      Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you, Suzanne! I received your email and I can’t quite recall if I replied. I’ve been scatterbrained lately, truly. I have work and studies and now the pandemic… It gets me a bit muddled, a bit mixed. I shouldn’t make excuses, but I ever do appreciate your presence.

      Liked by 1 person

  1. Joao-Maria, I am a big fan of abstract art and love the Kandinsky painting! I thoroughly enjoyed reading your piece with its vivid imagery. I read the poem with quotes from John Ashberry several times just enjoying the flavor of the words and imagining myself to be in an ancient dungeon. The painting, music, and writing make for a very well-coordinated post. Thank you for sharing this. ❤ Have a great week! Cheryl

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Oh, thank you so much, Cheryl! I’ve been finding this format quite fitting for the midseason. Things often come to me in chunks of digestion and it’s reckless to treat them individually when they are, in earnest, a collective of expression. Sorry for the delay in response, have a nice week as well!

      Like

  2. João-Maria – sorry I haven’t commented on your wonderful poems in recent times but I’m all a bit in a muddle these days – sort of scrambled eggs really – and I can’t muster any comments up other than facile ones. So it’s not that I’ve abandoned your writing, I hope to catch up with myself soon I hope. I have 9 more stories to write to get to Story 2020 (note the year) and then I’m going to stop for a while. Bruce

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I understand completely, as I’m much the same. I’m a bit ruined in the psychological realms. One can only dam so much in before all of it pinnacles and bursts.
      It’s important to me that you read since I respect you so dearly, and we must converse further when we’re both in a more balanced space. I also think you do well with some period of reflection; the pressures of publishing daily and being expected can sap our connection with what is being written, I sometimes find.

      Liked by 1 person

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