Elsewhere – I

He, not worth explaining whom, enters a dimly lit scene via moth-grey curtains, entangled and hanging down off-stage. Itinerant wanderer, dressed as a careworn drifter; vagabond just won’t do. Even paced, left barnacle after right, his gait appears marred; every second footfall onto the left barnacle is marked, comes down belaboured, insular to gravity, his body rolling, the frame weighted-in under the idea of a limp, so heavy, the torso canter-levering through an axe to betroth visual evidence – of design, limpfen; if he himself, that is to say Lambert, is not merely rehearsing what has, by sheer doggedness, become a habit, or a facsimile of habit, his frame ploughing back in tow to his weight – femur-roll-on-stiff-left-hip-up-via-arc-top-downward-right-on-barnacle-drop – Lambert wheeling himself ponderously through the arc of his tread, the gait fashioned by the burden, one that he feels must be his to endure; here all reason retracts itself from cause, regardless, for there is none; understand that something offsets every third pace out of four. Artless, Lambert has made an entrance:  motion itself, designed in a limp.

Resolve stiff. Unrelenting body. Rectitude cast upon another day and into work, hushed labour, hence unrest. The manual toil of moving or affecting movement. Often met by an imperceptible pressure to exhale. Sigh. A dip into thought. Extended. Sigh. Oh to be done with it. Unspoken thought. Of a sudden, the urge for evening. Comes tardily, without effusion. Evening: gentleman of leisure; host of slaves. Ever so slowly, Lambert relinquishes the day, returns later from the post of toil. A vesper of thought chugging at his heels. Maligned and cheerless, his shoes tramp in after the shadows, the day extending into nightfall. Befallen. In tow, his shadow, only longer in coming to rest beneath him. Seated.

There and elsewhere each day met with harsh usage: dragged through pavements and trees; pulled over mounds; swept by leaves and twigs; to say nothing of the broken bottles and glass and puddles which the grey matter is chastened through. Bedraggled by the light. A life lived flat under headlines and wasted pages. Sliding over verges and the muck of the day that accumulates about its many edges, aback behind the curtains, those maddened, and sagging beneath the soles of his boots. Belatedly is never late.

Earlier arrives before the hand reaches the door. Lambert limps in second; beating only his evening lamplight twin. Sibling. The prefix of evening is befitting, an eclipse of night. An interlude of mesh runs through wax. Hard. Flame rushes. Soft light. Lambert begrudges not his limp, trotting, so and so, into its halo. It is design. Limpfen. Made in Deutchland. Das Limpfen. Auto-limpfen.

Not a word from his lips, though. Double-dealing barnacles, risen, and raised on high above his toes. Lambert’s mouth pursed in distaste to motion. The tongue disgusted by the conversant. The palette boisterously still, quiet, held above all aversions. Words licked like stamps, the tongue, deep carmine red. Still sticking to his teeth. We read nothing on his lips. Chalk and clockwork: an impress of silence in the throat. Agaze. Looking on. Fixed attention. Eyes cast solemn, cast still. Fasten and wait. The message is an expression of an old intention. Unrelenting. Unremitting. Indefatigable life. We wait. Lumbarisation: the shifty expedient of unchanging Lambert habits. The collapse of days. The task of entering the gate. Enter Lambert.

Ingress.

Exit.

… endless.

There is little else to pin on him. No histrionics. No tale of woe. Eternity seems too grave for contemplation. Too long to ponder into, about, never over or under. One wonders why. Wonder, always under the spell of. Though if one were to turn wonder over in a thought, sempiternal sawdust from the heavens would befall us, fall about us, we falling down. One would have to wander across a Sunday of Italian plazas, each replete with millboard and stiff-billed figurine smiles, bodies bathing in an abundance of plastic florescence, munificent yet distended, if not melting at the corners. Too long: would too long prove the wait, the gait forever entering, one ever crossing the threshold eternally.

To be lost in perpetual ingress. Consider: to be lost to motion. The horror – of entering in perpetuity! And what of the terror of eternal elation, with no peak or trough to up-end the unrelenting tedium of joy? Rather woe, for there would be no rest for the eyes if forced to thrill were to beset the musculature of the face. Orpheus sleeps. Styx is better. Indeed mud. For there, merely a perpetual farce to fix oneself into. To set oneself upon. Let us end the demonstration there.

Ever Lambert: he is an evidence of nothing too particular.

Himself: A written spectacle of waiting in under, weighted under, one-sided wellness. One not merely of his body: a receptacle, a vessel conversant with the day, light ranked with its elements and particles and principles of particles. Overt. Limpid. Pointless, and unsure where day aims day’s listless endeavours. Yes, it has none. Error. Is that not enough, sufficient to suffice? There is little else to pin on him. No histrionics. No history other than the story, his, one contained in the vessel.

If one glances at the visual world, sets out to really observe what an eye penetrates, then one can count on Lambert coming ‘round again, re-appearing on another leg. A man. No mischief in claiming what isn’t there. A mere man of chink and fibre. No point either in the prick – of pretending. One jabs at it. Hoping. One stabs at the truth. Amiss. All the same curtain of moth-grey, tugging, a curtain that one appears through, disappears into folds. Falls under. Clap. No point in dismissing it. Clap twice. Claim full view of a man dipping left through the third of four steps to his veering motion. Claim it. See. There you go. Molly. Claim and be done with claiming.

What’s there, question, beneath your barnacles, answer, what you see yourself standing on? (Lamberts always claim what Lamberts elect to see. But beneath their feet they perceive no signs of shifting shadow. Yet Lamberts’ feet aren’t blind. Lamberts pretext cecity. Far easier on the Lambert gaze.)

So: maintain your claim, Molly, look on and be done of it. There is nothing more, alas, nothing concealed or camouflaged by what is not out of sight. What you see casts a veil over the seamless world beneath your feet. Lambert is a spectacle of himself unseen. Undress the regard of Lambert. He is a man under the mantle of a simple trajectory. A man possessed of a limp, design, or of the idea of some or other lameness located elsewhere, a lameness that may cause the idea to limp, the result of which – both – meets the eye equivocally in the same wheeling – femur-roll-on-stiff-left-hip-up-via-arc-top-downward-right-on-barnacle-drop – action. For he who observes, claims to see what he himself has laid claim to having seen whilst observing: a man with a limp; this is Lambert. He, one not worth explaining whom, has entered. Any other claim would be just that: any other claim, one waiting to be made, vetted, vetoed. The point, listless, hangs elsewhere. The fifth letter, after the letter following D, is E for exit, for end, for the eventual eternal, the letter that never ends.

Halt.

Monday morning Lambert was seen on Short Street, near the lumber store. Johnson, the proprietor, claimed that Lambert came in near noon, wheeled himself up to the counter, halted, attempted to raise his shoulders, after his fashion, hoisted them in a dignified manner, so mechanically dignified, and coming to halt in mid elevation of the shoulder motion, which is a rotation, like clockwork, after which he brought his hands down to the counter in what appeared to be a willingly fashioned intention to secure his unsteady frame, and at that instant his head nodded, the forehead bobbed forward, (bobbing: as is sometimes witnessed by Lamberts in wordless greetings to other Lamberts). Nodding and bobbing: Lambert code for

– Hello.

– You there?

– Me too.

– How’re things?

Johnson is not sure whether this nodding was meant as a salutation or if it came in under its own weight, much like Lambert himself, that is to say as a bodily result of Lambert’s unsuccessful attempt to raise himself up into a dignified position from whence he might proffer a more clearly recognizable form of greeting. Bob-hello-bob-nod. Stop bob. Halt. Nod. Wait. Nonetheless Johnson responded, as custom would have it he bob to the cusp. Nod-greet-nod, nod-stop-nod or nod-a-word-nod-a-word halt. His head amiably tilted to the proprietor’s inclination. Though less mechanically inclined than Lambert’s wordless greeting had itself bobbed to. Then, done nodding, he felt this was the better action to adopt. To this reply, Lambert himself did not respond, which is a form of acquiescence, an effect via waiting; after which Lambert’s hand came up, fingers enclosed about an unfolded block-note piece of paper, square in shape, nine by nine inches, thin, a form of transport, of flat ideas stretched across the counter; it was a sheet, Johnson says, (and claims) upon which was etched a sketching of three pieces of wood, each piece of a precise measure, also a diagrammatic instruction suggesting how the trio may be joined, here and there, thus together, formed into one operative design, a distinct piece of mechanical evidence. Dovetail. Lambert did not proffer any further instructions. From the counter, and from Lambert, Johnson removed himself, block-note in hand, and went aback so as to carry out the required operation of selecting the timber. Johnson disappeared.

Of the measuring operation carried out by Johnson, Lambert saw nothing; circular, the saw cut across Lamberts earshot, into, and as the planks fell to the floor the sound of the saw cut further into Lamberts ears. Leaning on the counter, still, he groped about for the schematically represented evidence sketched on the square nine-by-nine block-note. Then he realized, somehow, in the now prevailing silence that Johnson had in his possession both plan and the evidence of the operative design plan. Plain possession. He felt this unfortunate. Felt awkward, regret too; both came chemically fused. Together. He felt himself to be to blame. Relented. Blame too. As memory would have it, he had none of the plan in store. Pocket. Nothing. But he saw no way to counter what was aback the shop with Johnson, the proprietor. Hence he waited on, the counterpoint, Lambert leaning, as if the counter were a perpetual resting place. There was no evidence to offset this. He felt the idea too odd to accept, and operative. So Lambert wondered off into that space of rest, motionless, at halt, attending, as if waiting were and had been and would ever be, never ending.

Waiting is an exit, he thought.

Lambert stood, shored-up against the counter, waiting on Johnson to exit with evidence cut in hand.

Exit Lambert.

Curtain falls.

Grey morning.

Johnson.

ingressus: transit, eclipse, (right of) going on.

I too had a dream


Can I tell you? It’s true. Last night amid the corn I saw a whorl, a night-field of words swimming in trepidation. Colours too. And yes, there was a screen, a digital canvas with an expansive array of symbols. Now I ask myself what the colours were? I cannot say. At least not with certainty, my eye not having clasped the light under its lid, thin and frail, the lens not having caught the pastel hues. No. Of colours and shades of coloration, each lodged within its husk, all remained in possession of the corn.

It was growing dark. The day, vanquished, was reclining in full retreat. Banks of cloud were piling up above me, the little guy, my gaze eye-locked, aghast below the firmament. What, then, did I see? I recall visioning a kaleidoscope of motion, a helter-skelter of shadings lodged somewhere beyond the centre of the field, off to the right, lingering there out on the edges, like a palette, like a palette splashed by Dali, spinning in a blur. Some indigo and a shade of pale in there, too, I believe. The wind washed through me, sweeping across the field, through the fences and further out into the dank nowhere of night. I myself stood still. Motionless. A soldier sleeping in the army of the night. Nothing clearer to my eye could I behold. But for the whirl (and the whirling within the soft walls of wheat) I would have seen it all in focus, etched out line for line, adumbrated in the boldest of brush strokes by a hand more skilled than mine, and more besides I would have been able to reach in and touch them, too, the ears of corn, had it not been a dream. Ever dreamed of blogging? I did. Last night. Or so it seems. Shall I tell you?

Words in sequence, spliced and sewn, strung together, cut and punctuated into eloquence, then thrashed to lean, cropped, and tied-in together tight, riveted to structure and hemmed into an informal layout, now formal, with a dollop of singular trim. Nothing spectacular. Nothing the next guy or girl hasn’t already seen twice on a Friday morning between café and coffee and the bald guy standing on 13th Street. Have a donut, Marshall. Thanks Fred. None of it! Humbug! Just a vagueness, a mere blur fraying into the bleak – fading into the bleakness of an evening sky, if you can see her up there, above me, hovering. Nothing? No? Nothing, no. Nothing alas but a stir of night-fiction; a shade of grey-drift, soon lost to the inexorable, lost to morning – unremittingly sequential. But what about the fields? What of the corn? Was it real? I ask myself now.

Whether or not they were – who knows? – there was a flash or three, coupled to this inveterate sense of urgency to action, to formulate, to bring words to fever-pitch, to embellish the landscape, as it were, to hone the text and get it out, yonder, further than farther, move it on into the deep-seated humming magenta of another field, another screen, flecked iridescence, yes, flickering there behind the glass-eyelids that you love to blink into, wink at, scowl away from and then, right after, write yourself in through, via, but into whom? Who do you become when you compose?

The keyhole, there, in the locked space, the metallic hole in the closed-door, do you see it as ingress, or do you merely peer in on occasion? Does it matter? Perhaps. Either way, who knows, for words do venture through, don’t they, eventually. Does the keyhole transport you? If so, where to?

Please don’t frown. The keyhole could have been your dream. In fact, perhaps we shared it. Were you there too?

Can I tell you what the keenest sensation was though? The desire to peer in, the iron-heated wish to take a long look at the others – whatever the others are, whoever the others were – and having peered in at length, to then propel the urgent motion, push it firmly on, propel it into that greater space, from here to there – hither thither, gone – launched instantaneously into the yonder sphere. Posted. Docked. Ready to access, if not open.

Out roaming I read somewhere, believe me, recently I read that there are programs that aid the writer, formally, formal programs for (in)formal writers, programs that assist the matchless scrivener, to say nothing of the scribbler or poorer scribe – or of me too, I think. The dream reminded me. For if apart from the words and colour, if what I saw – minus the text – was a page, a screen, then that rectangular space was divided into parts and parcels, cultivated quadrants, like as many a farm field viewed from above, eagle-eyed from on high with all the variegated shades of earth and soil, and the golden hue of wheat and wheat crop culture written in the soil… that, people, is what the screen looked like: a vast crop of written harvest, a map upon the page. Can you see the windswept fields, cast your eye over their texture, behold the lettered landscape, can you? Did you see the same expanse of grain, of lush culture? Did you pick an ear of corn and taste the wheat? I believe I did.

More precisely, what I saw was row upon row of ripening victuals, stretching as far as the eye could focus, then blurring, shifting out, as each row became a series of rows, and each series forged itself with others into ranks, and then from ranks into fields, each wrought by toil, each fashioning an idiosyncratic tone, field upon field upon field, each tucked in side-by-side on the screen – in sum, I saw a harvest of words, relished, eye-nipped, savoured beneath the cover of shelter in silence.

Borne by desire.

In a thousand words or so, that’s more or less the picture, the dreamscape, or what I thought was a dream; what else could it have been? The feeling was incisive, needle-urgent at two a.m. Perhaps I ought to have sketched the detail; but alas my hand is poor.

One can merely attempt to thread light into the inner husk of words, and, tilting them upon the tongue, then try and spill one word into the next, tipping each one over so that the light falls from the cusp, painting pictures, summoning an image on the canvas of your mind, up from the screen, in beneath your salmon eyelids, and out under the inner-curtain of your eye, curling, so and so, reflecting thus when you blink, again. Can you hold it there, like butter, can your irises caress the acoustic texture of the wheat? Perhaps beneath your gaze the corn is shifting, perhaps the surface of the field rippled, and the barely lengthened in the wind. I myself got an eyeful. Did you? I myself tasted the corn. For I had a dream. I was a child again, dressed by the fields of wit and barely, afoot, wandering with words, a roaming in the languid yellow pasture of my youth.

Lights out Lambert.

Goodnight.

(Photo credit: Golberz 2010 – link on photo)

written.work.Copyright© 2011-2012. All rights reserved

Exit Ingress V

What E grasped – little more than speculation based on claims made by E himself, after what can only be considered a non encounter in those vague whereabouts that are yet to be adumbrated formally – was the emerging fact that E himself was formalising something which E himself had apprehended within Es recent acquisition of the questioning mode: a means of formulating questions. This was a matter of which E had previously been ignorant, and moreover, E had been particularly ignorant of the formal framing of that singular question, the shifty one concerning Es undetermined beginning, that is to say that E himself was somewhat ignorant of any one such claim, Es own included, to an existence – or of having indeed begun.

If E is to be believed, for but a moment, then we may speculate that whomsoever should take stock of the impaling moment of interrogation, and thus, whomsoever should deign to formulate such a question pertaining to the beginning, in so doing, that particular Lambert may be said to take leave of ingress. It seems fair to say that henceforth, from that singular instant onward, an exit will most eagerly be sought, an exit toward which the motion of any Lambert would transport him, or her. The question, then, as described, may be considered thus: a form of transport toward a source of motion, one that would push the wanderer, i.e. E or any other Lambert, on toward a formal exit.

Conclusion: Neither limb nor Lambert was seen, not for the duration of the time that the question remained suspended, or, that is, not for the brief duration of the invidious moment of impaling, Es foot there anchored, though unmarked, beneath the interrogative; and from this claim there can be little doubt that Es body began its formal motion toward what may be considered to be exit from ingress. This seems, based on sheer speculation, to be informally conclusive. Yet this too E did not know. At no previous endpoint had E encountered the matter or the manner by which the matter comes to be moulded. So it proves nothing, and proved less still E himself not knowing. Nonetheless, and for want of proof, E gave himself over entirely to the task of seeking the exit.

How did this come about? It is too early to enquire, but not to late to ask the question. For it is a reserved inquiry about a fact. A fact, the response to which can come as no less speculative than its speculation would prove itself formal. For whom does the question concerning the beginning transform its unseen trumpet into a formal instrument of inquiry? The answer, even though inconclusive, as stated above, is of an interrogative matter (spoken by whom and to whom?) that remains only to be reintroduced, if only by echo, in the form of a refrain leading toward the exit.

The questions would seem to declaim themselves thus: primo – when did E begin to wonder Es head around the beginning of what had previously begun?; secundo – when, albeit belatedly, did E take stock of the question of Es own beginning, also of Es having begun in a moment somewhere anterior to the present moment of realisation that Es beginning preceded the place where E himself took stock of the relic that E had, notwithstanding Es ignorance of the written shrine, formally begun?; and tertio –  what is the place of motion impaled by the question – have I begun?

What seems to be conclusive is this: the moment E began to understand that ingress and the question were of one unformulated yet emerging matter – the location of which was of no more bearing on the signification of where, than was the direction of his flat feet at the undesignated hour – from that instant onward, E began to take stock of the matter, of the arbitrary fact, that on his passage through ingress to exit, that is to say via the question, E himself had immediately sought to exit Es uncertain whereabouts.

This is a transcript of Es statement:

You do not commence, E said. Never. Well, in an uncertain way you do, formally that is, yet, of that which constitutes what you may come to call the beginning, never do you take full stock. At the instant you begin to realize, eye cast ‘round, peeping closer, sensing as you do the haphazard blur of motion, like vinaigrette in a whorl of purposeless commotion, looking in, without the requisite tools to formally identify neither the liquid nor the ambient odour, nor any predetermined origin of these unspectacular things, of a sudden, in the very hemidemisemiquaver of that instant, sensing underfoot the motion of the road perambulating beneath your barnacles, what indeed you realize when finally you engage your senses, or rather, when the signal they have been dispatching discontinuously for an enduring moment, and without formal interruption either, at intervals more regular than doubtless you have cared to realize, there and therein, within this briefest of instances, when you finally latch onto the aforesaid signal, at that moment an opening presents itself, one that appears opportune to apprehend the question: this is ingress to exit. (At some point, anterior, now long forgone, at an instant when a nodule brushed ignorantly beneath your gliding feet, somewhere in the course of what was a segment of time, call it elsewhere and makeshift, if you prefer, in a segment without windows through which your eyes could gaze in upon and see the tread, there the road began moving, and you, thrust onto a patch, not rougher than any other, struck out, somehow, as it were, enacting one blue barnacle after another, foot over hand, knee leading shoulder, heel booting toe, and toes rising – a motion repeated repeatedly – you transported thus in an informal motion toward ingress.) From the instant of impaled realization, one begins to look forward, in earnest, and sidelong, at length, so as to identify an exit (from ingress).

This claim, while it is understood poorly, seems to be somewhat conclusive. Ingress is a keyhole, through which the whorl is unseen; and all is always of the purest speculation. No ingress. No exit. This seems to be more conclusive. Encircling the question in the keyhole – this is exiting ingress. Reclusive motion around a soundless trumpet – this is brass. But this too is poorly understood, Lambert. One proves motion by exhaustion of reason. Exit Ingress.

***

    Lambert, c’est celui qui revient d’entre les mots.

    Ignotum per ignotius.

written.work.Copyright© 2011-2012. All rights reserved

Exit Ingress IV

E is glad of the erection of the question, for no other reason than its emergence marks the moment of what was no more than a nodule of successive nodes through which E had been moving without formal inclination, though inclined to, onward by motion. So E claims: E holds to Es claim of motion, a claim now uncertain, and thus the matter of a question.

After wondering, if not fondling, abstract and unevenly, about that very informal formality, E serves it headlong, interrogatively. Es enquiry is now formal. Have I begun, E asks? E himself, now motionless, is, by all appearances, unsure yet formal, and somehow even more uncertain than he was previously of his existence. This too E claims, with a sigh, as if by this moan E would provide an attestation of both Es speech and motion, hence proof of E existence, for this is Es emerging question – inchoate and ill-assorted.

Here, all motion ceased: Es feet no longer gliding, fleeting or afoot; Es mind steady, perambulating at length, legs firm, firmly put down beneath him, though unanchored to the present whereabouts of their general vicinity, shifting, here and there, like this…

What was I, before, if now, uncertain, I must give thought to the very question of my beginning? Somewhere prior; but when? This appears to be the nub. Am I now beginning? Can I rightly say that I myself have indeed begun, at least formally, if I have been before, yet do not recall the extent of having been? If so, what of me can be said to have begun being – whatever being entails?; and what part of me has not recognised this formal state of having begun – if formal it is? For previously there was motion, my feet claim evidence of that motion – both of the friction and of the after feeling of movement felt underfoot, from the grounds for movement and the perambulatory activity of the thrust from heel through to rising toe, upward on individual cushions of shifting air. The shifting – of the fiction of friction. Heel to toe. Is memory of movement not memory of motion? Is motion of memory not proof of a formal shift to motion? Or is this merely fiction, gliding? Do I need to goad myself into believing that I began, formally? Is my motion not proof of my having been, whether that be this or yonder side of the keyhole, whether that be in and of places, or within the vicinity of their respective whereabouts, no matter how uncertain that exact geo-spherical-localisation? I, hither thither, have formally been here and there, there & elsewhere, have I not?

Where is Lambert? Have you seen Lambert?

Wondering, thus, a mere body, Es, moving after its own bodily fashion, gliding along on the heels of some or other questioning motion, merely wandering, although E claims that the motion of the question now leads him, E wonders about the formality of beginning, of the beginning, that is to say of Es beginning, which is the formal fiction of having hitherto, at some backward point, perhaps begun. E navigates the extent of the question, and is, of a sudden, bewildered by the existence of the unexplored peninsula at Es feet. Wondering, then, about how E might reformulate his served interrogative – have I begun? – so as to determine who, at some point, one that would demark the formal place of Es beginning, began, and wondering too what it was that E, who may be said to have begun, did – given the sundry and inconclusive proof of motion underfoot that E claims to feel – begin. For whatever it is, now, that then began, somehow it must be traced by the motion afoot of Es body, mapped via and through the undetermined whereabouts toward Es beginning.

E wanders on and through, off and under, across and over, looking for the exit, somewhere about him, in the vicinity, thereabouts. Nothing about him appears to alter its course. As ever, E is alone. E has not altered his bearing. It does not matter. E himself driven by the motion of Es own feet, gliding, or rather Es feet shifting under the question. Forward as before. Now toward the exit: forward or backward; over or under; whether retreating or advancing, either or, for it does not matter. Why not continue the motion in a circular formation about the erection, around the interrogation, winding himself in, tighter and tighter, closer to the alleged mark of impalement? Why not shift in little circles, of three foot and a quaver, tipping in a syllabic rhythm and for an unceasing duration, to the beat of something quite hideously new, something of which the whereabouts, circle after circle, appears quite unseemly, and seems to be, after its own fashion, more and more uncertain. Feet moving, one after another, onward ho, through and over, thereabouts, somewhere in the vicinity of the question, in that undetermined place that grows in scale to the rhythm of its own upward commotion. Insomuch, the formulation of the question, as it came to him, after Es fashion of hearing the silent brass trumpet – have I begun – formally, appeared to be all of a piece of an inconclusive formality.

Once erect, the question, formal or informal, marked a new beginning, one that was neither before nor after, neither loftier nor despicably lower than any other. A mere proposition of enquiry: a question, or so E told himself. The interrogative had never before been launched at him. No notional intersection of any given pathway, which the interrogative may or may not have taken, has previously been claimed. The question’s formal interrogative mass had never moulded any verbal form whatsoever, neither one claiming to be of the beginning, nor of another claiming to be not of the beginning. Never before had the interrogative’s sharp formulation begun to take on this new and emerging formation, and hence, never before had E come to entertain, if that is the word that best moulds the moment, Es own wonder of such things. Thus, via the question, E had, for the first time, given ingress the slip, pushing himself, the wanderer, into a motion toward and through the door and out onto and over into the search for the exit.

written.work.Copyright© 2011-2012. All rights reserved

E en colimaçon

C’était l’heure. Il fallait se décider. E le savait bien. Pourtant, E hésitait encore. Rien ne bougeait autour de lui. Ni voile, ni mouchoir. Debout, habillé de sa salopette de travail, E se tenait immobile, comme si E était englué dans l’air dense, moite. Son corps moulé sur place, tenu par le poids du vide autour. De l’intérieur, ses poumons se remplissaient sans hâte, sans peine. Le corps feignant un contrôle martial. Feindre : de « modeler », tel un état de tension qui ferait mine de ne pas l’être ; une « fiction » donc, celle dont chaque fait découlerait de la même feinte…

E regarda le perron : vide. Visiblement E s’était trompé de voie. Au premier étage la lumière d’une seule ampoule accompagnait le silence qui filtrait de la villa. Son œil passa sur la façade en brique, descendit lentement les deux étages, glissant, comme de la peinture épaisse, mollement ver la porte. Bienvenu. Seul constant : la question – où ai-je commencé ? – elle s’était tracée en filigrane depuis le début. Voilà sa petite ritournelle sans mélodie, celle qu’E caressait comme une pierre lisse au fond de sa poche sans fin. Seul problème : la pierre ne se transformait pas en dés à jeter. Car le moment mûrissait. Et E le savait.

En réalité, il ignorait par quel chemin y aller. Y aller, où cela ? Et comment ? Que voudrait-il dire au juste – y aller ? Derrière quelle lettre se nichait la réponse à la question? Le Y ? Le A ? E ne possédait aucun indice. Depuis combien de jours maintenant, trois… cinq… une dizaine… ne voyait-il que des visions abstraites, des signes dépourvus de sens, des abstractions insensées ? Des signes surabondants et inutiles. Autant dire des feuilles mortes, crispées par le froid d’hiver, recroquevillées les unes sur les autres, muettes à même le sol. Une terre jonchée de non-sens. De haut en bas, rien ne lui semblait être à sa place. Et pourtant c’était cela la question. Quelle place octroyer aux lettres ? S’il parvenait, lui, à restituer à chaque signe son propre espace, là où il respirer au mieux, là où il fallait qu’il soit, E voilà, il trouverait sa réponse. Mais le détail de toutes ces choses lui échappait, comme le sens ici, toujours.

Seul le silence répandait dans la nuit. En vue de s’emparer d’un repère plus solide, plus tangible, il essaya de revoir mentalement tout ce qui se trouvait sur le chemin, celui qui l’avait mené jusqu’ici. Une ligne jaune, une flèche. E la regarda. La ligne, peinte à l’horizontal, sur l’enceinte en brique de la villa, E la suivit. Au bout une lettre, en l’occurrence la première : A. Idem à gauche, le schéma se répétait : ligne, flèche, et le C.  Il fallait trancher. Le temps lui était compté. E le savait. Si d’aventure il y eut eu un signe, un avertissement, un message quelconque, ceci lui avait échappé.

D’un coup, le filament à l’étage se grilla.

E avança de deux pas vers la porte. E leva sa main. Avant de traverser le seuil fatidique, il essuya de son index le mot gravé dans la pierre au-dessus de sa tête. E, dessous, caressa la lettre B, dessus, et murmura le mot, Bienvenu. Finit l’atermoiement. Il ne tergiversa plus. Dans l’obscurité de la villa, E se plongea. Basta !

« Que de choses flottent encore dans les limbes de la pensée humaine » (Flaubert).

written.work.Copyright© 2011-2012. All rights reserved

L’évaporation du commencement, par Camille Philibert-Rossignol

Lambert cherche comment commencer son vase communicant de Juillet. De quoi pourrait-il bien parler ?

Sur le quai de la station Porte des Lilas, une phrase surgit dans les brumes de son esprit,

– Peu importe le contexte, même dans un miroir un reflet ne dit pas plus qu’il ne montre.

Puis Lambert se dit qu’un début de texte mériterait une première phrase plus définitive, genre

– A partir de quelle intensité d’obscurité s’estompe le contour d’un reflet.

Lambert se gratte la joue. Il apprécie la sonorité mais ne comprend pas le sens. Calé sur une banquette de métro, devant ses yeux entrouverts apparait

– Peut-être n’y a-t-il rien à voir, la nuit est peut-être tombée.

Lambert sourit, il trouve à ce début un petit côté galvanisant. Il sent qu’il tient quelque chose. A la sortie porte Berger de la station Les Halles, soudain dans l’air des petits points. C’est des lettres qui viennent d’apparaitre, elles virevoltent rapidement. Un essaim de mouches à patin qui dansent dans l’air devant les yeux de Lambert. Entre lui et l’église Saint Eustache, elles jouent à saute-mouton dans l’air, pendant quelques secondes elles forment des mots, toute sorte de mots qui se défont aussitôt. Même pas le temps de lire. Lambert traverse la rue. Venues de nulle part, plusieurs phrases se forment en apesanteur.

– Plus opaque qu’une forêt sans lune, plus mat qu’une tache d’encre de chine, le reflet s’estompe encore jusqu’à ce qu’on ne discerne plus aucun contour, nulle forme. Nulle preuve d’existence d’un visage. Un visage avec un nez qui existe, une bouche qui existe, des yeux qui existent, des iris qui existent, des pupilles sombres dans lesquelles se perçoit un contour ovale et minuscule. Un contour incorporé. Le reflet d’un visage que fixerait un oeil.

En arrivant rue Montorgueil Lambert tâte ses poches, il devrait y avoir un stylo, un carnet. Ses mains ne trouvent rien. Souffle de vent, l’essaim de mouches se disperse, les lettres vibrent, les mots se disloquent. Et la phrase s’évapore…Lambert baisse la tête, une flaque, il allonge sa foulée et l’enjambe. Soupire. C’est con, si prêt de chopper une amorce, un début.

Lambert cherche comment commencer son vase communicant de Juillet.

Ce mois-ci, mon vase se trouve ici

Les autres Vases communicants sont :

Exit Ingress III

Consider this: That the undetermined somewhere, what E calls a place – the whereabouts of which is yet to be identified as a certain and specific location, one that may be designated as somehow singular – that this somewhere may be deigned (despite its own undetermined whereabouts) the favourable location in which the question should emerge, and thus, that it should be considered a place more or less favourable, more, that is, than any other location, former or latter, this remains to be established. Somehow its whereabouts were sufficiently vague enough a location for him to wander into, on foot, and hence, once thereabouts, a location equally favourable for him to encounter the emerging question.

What wonder, E thought, anchored to the spot for an instant, mother of all places – which is to say nowhere, given his incapacity to cite the exact location with clarity. Though of this his Mother, God doubtless, knows less.

What wonder, E declaimed!

This, E said to himself, his shadow brushing up (without realising it, then) ever so lightly against the door of ingress, so E claims.

Was I, E asked? And there Es shadow halted. Was I what, E retorted, his feet poised to exit? Can I enter ingress without a question through which to exit? E had heard this line of enquiry stated elsewhere, formulated in a discourse which E claims to have listened to attentively. The formulation that came to him arose on an air spoken by some other illiterate yet lettered person, that is to say, the line of enquiry was not a reasoning of his own grey formulation, and insomuch was allegedly spoken sometime before, while E was previously out wandering, elsewhere.

Now, wondering after the beginning, E told himself that E must have heard it some place or other, heard it said, enunciated, that is; and therefore, E, it follows, must have been there too, in person, must have been there beforehand, indeed been there, sometime earlier, in the past, if you will, been on the other side of the keyhole sometime before the question emerged; and then E must have forgotten the when and the wherefore. It appears that all E claims to be able to recall, with the most meagre form of precision, is a vague remembrance of the aforesaid question. Can I enter ingress without a question through which to exit? This fact E would swear to, solemnly, even curse informally, if E were formally asked to. E knew nothing of the door. Much less of ingress. As for the question, it had, after its own fashion, E claimed, merely emerged. The emergence of which, E claims, gave him grounds to exit. Of this E is most formal.

written.work.Copyright© 2011-2012. All rights reserved