Monthly Archives: December 2012

Of Psychoanalyrics and Psychoanalyrism…

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I do have quite a -proven- record of linguistic maverick-ism, to the sometimes loudly outspoken frustration of some of my fellow writers, critics and others (writers and critics maybe in their own right, but not mine).
Convinced NoamChomsky-st, applying his

“Language is a process of free creation; its laws and principles are fixed, but the manner in which the principles of generation are used is free and infinitely varied. Even the interpretation and use of words involves a process of free creation.”

to “the letter”, I sometimes pride in “assembling” (all right…, have it your way: “coining”… duh…) novelty concepts mirroring needs risen amidst my own creative storms…
That’s exactly how the title giving weirdos have… how should I say… come up, while -recently- attempting to explain a very promising writer why the “smaller” details of his texts reveal about -both- his writings and his very own self, much more than any other, “bigger picture” of them.
Yes, from my very deep personal point-of-view, poetry is -or at least should be-, lyrics to the sweet whispersome song-child of a writer’s known or unknown wandering, with his known or unknown daimon / daemon…
Having said that, I should proceed to explaining my newly discovered concepts, asking myself nevertheless the reason(s) for doing so, because you see, psychoanalyrism is the new “science” of critically understanding a writer’s art from the personal angle of his own thoughts, against the twilighted canvas of his personality, regardless of ALL known standards, except for -of course- the standard need that these be expressed in a language available to the critic’s comprehension, anything else mounting to dictatorial censorship.
So, is there any other reason to explain?
Well, yesno, because while psychoanalyrics should be understood, their understanding is as multidimensionally vast as the uniqueness of every writer’s writing fountainhead, making therefore any such attempt(s) psychoanalyrically futile…

Oh, do I hear well the slowly emerging choir of merciless voices accusing me of bookish insanity and grand Freudian theft?

Yes I absolutely do, and from the heights of my cervantesque saddle, I foolly agree!

The other side of blindness…

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If side,
there’s always there, another…
With no communication
but the bridging self
of the betweenness,
like the torn flag
of broken, subdued ideals…

It’s the betweenness oftentimes
the side of otherness,
spread, squeezed, immense, belittled,
there,
forgotten victim “rightfully left” paying dues
to the left,
to the right,
to whosoever’s shameless
“I’ve been there before you…”

Poor child,
hanging there,
betweenness for
baptised and pagan,
circum- and uncircum-,
soldness* and freedom,
blind between twilight and darkness…

There is no light;
just the uncertainty behind the other side
of blindness…

* – a state of being sold…

Abiding deep…

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Abiding deep,
like drying, reedless water;
unwanted, bitter tasting washer
of anything
offered, dumped, forgotten
there, where light has never thought
of dying…
Making its way
to any fountain, well;
to any pond.
For seas are salty teardrop oceans,
eyeless witnesses of what it was
when clouds were roaming free
embracing winds,
of south, of north,
of anywhere…
Making love,
raising wild children of prairie grasses,
smelling early of sweet dripping sweat…

My woman’s armpit smells of nails
biting hard my back’s skin,
my thighs, my arms;
of blood biting lips unwilling to let go…

Scar me oh woman, scar,
until there’s nothing left this flesh’s to cover…
Unskin me lover, hurt me,
until all flying seeds shall find their rooting playground…
Undo my former self, and hold me,
until our children, all shall wish to sing…

Give them our bones, my thunder,
until their song shall raise the dying…

Suicide from death to life…

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It’s a lie,
our birth into this world…
Mourning should have welcomed us,
late,
but perfect companion
for all
sweat, tears, blood and
“doctor, doctor, the baby’s not crying…”
tube in, suck, “slap”, “slap”
“-frail, agonising human meowing…-”
Blood all over,
with our hideous, blueish
cut away companion swimming in a pathetic plastic bowl…
“What is it nurse?”
and the embarrassing silence
following a sobbing;
dad wanted “something” else…

When in distress,
or asleep,
humans have an instinctive reaction:
we curl back
in foetal positions…
Assembled into existence;
tiny atomic conglomerates of material memories,
embraced in a lightless quest for temporary shelter,
growing, dreaming…

Something’s wrong outside,
here,
in this limitless dimension of suffering,
where we are denied even our thumbs ’cause
“it’s childish, you silly…”
It’s not what I’ve mindlessly dreamed of…
Ladies and gentlemen, comrades, brothers, sisters,
we’re all dead;
tagged,
wretched food for the all-devouring chronos…

Can’t you see, you, miserable clients
of Freudian stock,
that life is just the opposite
of living?

I’ve had enough…

I’ll close my eyes -again-,
pretending to be functional(ly):
blind,
deaf,
dumb,
numb.
And tasteless,
and breathless,
and heartbeatless,
mindful nevertheless…

I’ll stay calm, still,
until
all material memories of my
mothers and fathers
shall force my withheld senses
to return;
where?

If life’s the opposite of living,
what’s death?
The opposite of dying?

It’s just the recipe for it…

Dreaming’s our continuous suicide
from death,
to life…

* – photo from cover of Joel Arnold, “Fetal Position and other stories”

Ars Poetica …

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it’s so hard
to live like a cube
when the square
hasn’t been invented yet…

Ars Poetica ..

” For a creative writer possession of the truth is less important than emotional sincerity. ”

George Orwell

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The mental matrix of “my reality” – an introduction 1

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1. Preamble

Gazing through the narrow space left between my old Angels T-shirt over to the surprisingly sunny West Midlandish winter sky dully interrupted by the same chimneyed rooftops, I suddenly realised how much of what I see is just the moody construct of my own mind, coupled or not with tea, coffee and other controlled, well …floating devices.
Everything perceived by senses has been, is, and always -dependent of dependencies- will be, an influentiable but uncontrollable matrix I’ll call “my perceived reality”, because everything seen bears the innumerable marks of the more or less invasive, infinite number of touches, cumulatively translated by our senses into this, “perceived reality” of each and every one of us.
Because, you see, regardless of how much my honourable “realist” critics would complain, for most of my senses the “world” behind my over-washed Angels t-shirt simply doesn’t exist, fact majorly interfering therefore with the perceived reality of all those existing close enough to the multidimensional area from behind my boring, formerly red, Angels t-shirt; and having said that, the truth has become rather something to be found in-here, with its out-thereness more and more irrelevant.

Coffee, errands, (duh…) more errands, back, cold coffee…

Good, I’ve changed my window obstacle to a whitish t-shirt gravitationally stretching on a white hanger, just to notice the change of matrix: what’s been room-wise darker has become lighter, and feeble rays of a shy sun are penetrating my humble, hanging attire…
But as time generously passed by, and my unwillingness to be peeped at from the street forced me pull the curtains between my whitish t-shirt and the window, this perceived slice of “my reality” changed, making the outer world a mere soundtrack competing only with my breath, the clock and the dryer’s kitchen located humming.
Just me, with my formerly red Angels t-shirt discretely displaying chest-high, the fact that my wife’s crepe suzettes weren’t truly meant to be the -pancake built- maple syrup’s final destination; all part of a perceived reality, as diverse as the uncountable angles from which all participating, perceiving senses can or cannot access it’s molecular aggregate, paradoxically complete nevertheless on my iPad’s screen, becoming therefore an adjustable-brightness featured extension of this mental matrix of “my reality”…
Banned for so long, outcast of a a world hijacked by conglomerates of power cast social nets, individualism has ceased to beg at remote altars of group indifference, reclaiming its birth-rights; because that which has been made, has to bow before those who were born…
And that which was told to be collectively “good”, has to finally bow before what’s personally good, with the “higher purpose” remembering its “lower” infrastructure.
Just to make sure Prometheus’ liver won’t end-up anymore, as a daily pâté on some pathetic chef’s scavenger menu…

(to be continued…)