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.


(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

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

Exit Ingress II

E was not far removed from where E himself had not been before on similar occasions when, as has previously been stated in Es formal claim, what is said there to have happened, occurred. That is to say, E was not far from where he claims not to have been on former occasions (which admittedly we cannot explore here) when, roaming in Es peripatetic manner, which on occasion E claims to have taken for motion, E would find himself out there, and at these moments E would, E claims, find himself in certain vicinities that were neither dissimilar nor similar – given the uncertain means of determining the exact whereabouts of the location – to the location in which E says E had found himself when it occurred. Nobody, however, has come forward and made a statement, thus corroborating that E was seen in the general whereabouts of that or any another vicinity, which may be considered either similar or dissimilar, further or nearer, closer to or farther from the place not far removed from where E had not been before on former occasions. So nobody can confirm Es claim. E himself, of other bodies, recalls having seeing none: there was no body with whom E avoided a collision, or so E claims. Alas, there is no one with whom E can be said to have collided. Which is unfortunate. Neither collision nor an intersection of paths can be established, not even on the oddest occasion, as sometimes occurs when paths, for want of a better orientation, intersect at a concomitant moment of embodied motion, and, as such, the bodies set upon these intersecting paths are hence said to successfully collide. Of this form of collision there is not the merest brush of air on an epaulette or smudge on a cheek to mention; neither the faintest tussle of a trouser leg nor the slightest feint of a gesture hinted at prior to deviation, which would have followed the apperception of an oncoming body in motion; formerly stated, there is, it appears, no trace of another body that, well, never was. No chequered encounter, no faltering of a foot against a lesser body, no path defiantly crossed, not a bump to have nudged into. And no counter argument, none whatsoever to strike Es claim from the roll. Es back unscathed by breath and vexation, both. No limb or Lambert, none to speak of. Must one, then, surmise that neither Es envelope nor Es eye was ever met by motion? Did Es feet encounter no disembodied paths – or was there merely no crossover of paths he can attest to, for abstract reasons? For what if the interpenetration of their motion, Es and that of some other unknown body’s, was one of a passing through that may have occurred unbeknownst to either of the two, thus oblivious to both, if not only E himself? What if the intersection of their respective pathways was of another mode of form altogether, that is to say one that may now, in retrospect, be considered to have been formless? If so, and should an intersection thus have occurred, would it not then have been of the very intersecting form of which E himself (given the formlessness of the oncoming body in motion) would continue to be ignorant, of both the body and of Es own successful intersection with the former body’s formless state? Whence Es ignorance of such a collision would seem, well, concomitant with his attitude – objectively disinclined to perceive of formlessness anything that Es reason may of its form formulate – and hence E, having seen neither cinder nor shine, would then make his claim to having had no intersection whatsoever with whomsoever due to his subjective ignorance of the formless object in motion? We must ask this: Is ours reasonable speculation? For apart from Es own appendages, body afoot, on foot, feet gliding through the moment, each barnacle turned up on its scant cushion of air, toes in motion and upward, the foot strong in the usual thrust of palm to heel under the action of perambulation, E himself seems to remember having put off from himself any matter of commotion that may have arisen in the environs, that is to say in the whereabouts contiguous to Es accepted form, contiguous to though off from himself, off from the parchment of his bodily envelope – if indeed co-motion, other than of Es feet, there was at the lost time of his claim to motion without intersection.   

Out and about, nowhere particular, wandering in an informal location, himself clear enough of the keyhole so as to be considered nowhere E knew too well, hence nowhere in relation to a particular somewhere where E previously resided on occasion. Where was E?

Never on Es person, neither map nor measure has E kept. Convenient. This E formally claims. For fear of losing one or the other E kept on Es person neither nor. For dread of losing either or both. So E claims. Note: E was always cautious in his aforesaid motion, so E claims, again, claims still, over and again, to it lays claim. Yet knowing neither this nor that, and being neither hither nor thither, Es form of caution, formally mentioned, is quickly called into question, as is Es loose claim. Albeit informally. E says that for fear of losing both direction and purpose in an undefined context of motion, where no claim to direction can be established, the vector of purpose formally hints at a non sequitur; E, for fear of losing direction of motion, which is the designated cause of Es alleged movement (the origin of which is yet to be established) E himself kept on Es person neither map nor measure. For fear of losing the sum of the two, E says, claiming no specifics, neither of place nor of person, E himself there included – which is something quite frightening, if fully considered.

Of a sudden the question emerged. This seems to be conclusive; E says it is formal. We must hold it off as having been formerly formal, then, only to have mitigated to a form more informal, and hence inconclusive. Officially. Out of some nowhere, from an uncertain location, one which E never previously had had reason to explore, something formal is said to have emerged. E claims that this emergence erected itself in the centre of… somewhere unknown, a whereabouts that, although its geography remains uncertain, must henceforth be considered formally, if one is to take stock of the claim that E himself was in a particular location, though unbounded – at least particular to him, and for him, for his barnacles and from the friction beneath his feet – there, bolt upright, when it occurred; for it is henceforth a place that E will forevermore equate, link, associate to that exacting moment, one impaled by the emergence of the singular question, and that even though the debris caused by the impalement occasioned no mark or established measure of its impact on the designated location, nor on Es bodily person, none at least that we were at means to formerly identify.



E unmarked.

In a place devoid of things certain, void of that which E may have considered certain, E began to encircle the aforesaid question that had impaled the moment. Somewhere, in an open space beyond the keyhole, a whereabouts rid of all formal shape of everyday currency – chair; hand; shadow; lamppost – in a place, itself lost to those things that ordinarily demark most other more certain locations, locations with which E would claim to be more familiar (given past events, and, more particularly, given Es memory of the events through which E may have passed, and which E somehow claims to be of Es past, including, of course, those moments in which E himself would claim to have partaken, after Es measured fashion, which is to say at par, looking on from a distance – were E at the time not a mere witness of the past moment, according to Es claim, that is, taking into account the past existence of the events that make up Es claimed past, a past spent yonder side of the keyhole – in another place entirely, locked away there – one through which, if E were to fix Es regard, E might claim to have some previous knowledge of the whereabouts of this or that, of something somewhere beyond the keyhole in a location henceforth lost to these memories and things, and memories of things, and things of Es memory, in and of the thereabouts, that is to say) in a somewhere and a nowhere else that would not represent any of these former moments, none of them, the question, impaling its point, is said there to have emerged. This E claims. 

It is, E continues to declare, a vague place, one that may be no different from any other undetermined sphere, say, if one can speak of spheres, as one might discourse about the motion that would impulse a circumnavigation about a sphere, of a movement around this or that, the eye leading, its gaze fixed on the object, of a circular motion, spherical, or evenly rounded, the globular form of which would permit one to cut across, through the radius, after having followed the motion of an insect, say, buzzing in orbit around the evening lamp light that itself would have, and perhaps still does, emanate from a lamppost yonder side of the keyhole. From nowhere, then, in this sphere of vagueness, the interrogative erected itself – up and about him, uncertain in form, yet there, or so E claims. Its presence, for E declaims that like a flat trumpet, it had a brass presence that somehow incused enquiry, an informal presence that bent into the whereabouts, bending its brass neither with nor without noise, nor being properly silent; the emergence of an interrogative, questioning; an interrogative emergence, questioned; in short, a question that was neither accusative nor showed signs of wanting to recuse him. Merely, E claims, a questioning matter declaiming itself as the interrogative, and thus enquiring of him, as though E himself were being called into the sphere of the probing question, called in and under this bent formulation, entering thus, E himself less and less certain, drawn in though, as it were, E ushered in and under its emerging form; and this, E claims, and formally too, is what happened in the vicinity, somewhere out there, in a whereabouts into which E would allegedly have wandered on too far, apparently. This has not been proven. We require further proof of motion, of cause to motion, hence of transport, and of direction, but mostly required is proof of this notional idea of purpose without proven reason – all this has been stated above, inconclusively. For what proof can be offered? It should therefore be stated that this ought to remain the matter of speculation – of a substance most undetermined. That itself is a recommendation, not a formal claim. It is, however, formally recommended. Should be stated again the claim that E was not too far removed from where E himself had not been before on similar occasions. Yet nobody saw him. And E himself, of other bodies, recalls having seen but none. No intersection to speak after. No disembodied motion of the formless, and no intersection, though how can one formally claim this as what was formerly so? Not a stray limb, neither nuisance nor Lambert. No scratch or scathing. Formally there was no encounter. A brass trumpet turned on its head was never present, E claims; formally it was not there at all. Yet the question caught his ear. The question did emerge of its own co-motion, that is, if E and Es words are to be consigned to any form of cursory belief, momentary or monumental.

Who encouraged Es motion via vagaries into ingress? None can say. Merely out wandering beyond the keyhole, thereabouts, as it were, for such claims remain undetermined, wandering in a certain thereabouts, both not here and not nowhere, a place, E claims, which is the location in which E found himself when the interrogative emerged, erected itself, informally, bending into the moment like a brass trumpet. He saw no instrument, neither of pewter nor enamel. The brass is the trumpet E claims not to have heard.

The beginning, E said to himself, should be considered. This seems to be conclusive: the question. E knew nothing of ingress.

If one is to attribute belief to the claim that is Es, then the moment of impalement was somehow of the measure that is required to receive the question. Again, this is speculation.

There was no trumpet. Of course this is wholly uncertain.

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

Exit Ingress I

The sky lay flat in an ill-appointed place. There, or somewhere in the vicinity, E had been wandering about through the vast sheets of light taken in via Es gaze, neither hidden nor veiled, Es eye shifting, hither thither, so as to canvass the extent of the void about him. Ill-appointed, E muttered, Es feet rising to fall and falling to rise, and this incessantly in what E elected to call a spherical action, one that E himself could only name as a form of common motion, so as to be done with it, though E never was, Es feet somehow given over to the rising and falling there where Es foot, neither left nor right, had hitherto never treaded before. Outstretching rearward of him, a mass of grey lay strewn upon Es footfalls, below Es shadow thin. Ill-appointed, E muttered on a wave of misgivings, the thrust of which pushed reason farther from Es heel.

That which E best understood, E understood poorly. After Es own fashion E was out wandering. We must contain this, and be content with our lot. Period. Lost are both the hour and location; and of that loss, all suffering too is amiss. This seems to be conclusive: E was meandering after Es own fashion, gliding, E claims, a body gliding along if not perambulating fluidly on the heels of some or other motion; E was out wandering. Of this, E made a claim to be certain. Cobbled in together with the full complement of Es usual accoutrements, E was elsewhere. This was his claim. Of this E claimed to be confident; confident E was, at the time of the claim, confident that wandering had been the chief activity underway, then, that is to say at the instant it happened. E merely wandering, E said, reason unreeling further and further behind him, outstretched in a mass of grey, the ancient sky prone, flat beneath Es feet.

Long it was in coming. Es claim has since mitigated. Es tone, less pointed. The quality of the matter less than little that might qualify the claim as formal. Thus informally more conclusive. Officially unsure, E certainly inexact. Of Es former confidence, misgivings now grieve death uncertain. This too wears doubtful. For Es footfalls fell somewhere out there, if E, bolt upright, was on Es feet having a wander somewhere beyond the keyhole. But nothing appears to prove this claim or disprove any other.

E: an itinerant walking off the day on the heels of wander. E, the foot of whom fell for no formal reason, not the smallest relic would enshrine a fact, apart from Es word; apart from what E himself called hard evidence – to claim what, of which now seems certain?; confident E was – of himself included – now less hard on the fact of his former footing is Es reason, having fallen further out, farther behind, further still from him, E is somewhat softer on Es claim to evidence.

We can, then, advance this: A body, merely wandering in a deambulatory motion, neither shifting formally toward a shrine, nor gliding informally without grounds for no reason. Simply gliding, E claims, without a firm hold on unreasonable ground. Although E claims that motion often leads him, for E wanders about frequently, E cannot be of a more specific tone apropos the agency of that claim – of being led by this or that motion, common or uncommon, uncommonly common or commonly uncommon. Unknown.

Question: Is the motion that is said to give E transport, that is to say offer transport to Es limbs, one that rises of its own doing? An elastic fluid, like gas, airlike: is it a motion that ascends from within Es formal envelope, from the hidden folds beneath the crust? Or is this motion that is said to impel E onward, one that somehow presses at Es bodily form, beckoning him from without, drumming against Es envelope – like one might strike, repeatedly, any natural organ, of skin or parchment stretched over an opening? Is it a motion, common or uncommon, that would drum behind Es knees, pummel beneath Es feet, and beat, if not goad at Es back – compelling him thus to venture on, somehow, propelling him, hither thither, to and fro, bobbing at him from somewhere in the air contiguous to Es collar, prodding him from the adjoining pockets of Es acoustic space – vast and void? If so, this form of motion might be said to tip him forward, though neither elegantly, nor with unbidden force, it might be said to knuckle him on, tap-tap-tapping him without any fixed consideration perhaps, (who knows?), thus tilting Es forehead toward the angle of its own particular inclination, whereby E, his body tipping from angle to angle, would feel himself tugged forward, his form leaning into and slanting through the motion that somehow would marshal him weight on, piecemeal, to a tireless tempo of the oblique penchant, beckoning E to slope on via incremental inclinations, one after the next, like a blind dot to dot drawing E toward the end, if you will, onward and into the gravity of the immediate moment, gradient to slope, E himself incessantly ushered from this particular point to the next precise place of each successive motion, and on and through the following movement into and on through the subsequent, ebbed onward and thus turned toward nothing of which E himself would claim to be even half-certain, neither E – of Es own directed motion – nor E – of the source of the said impulsion that would appear to steer him via the whereabouts of this claimed and seemingly cooperative transport via motion? So: it is an uncommonly common motion within him or a motion commonly uncommon to movement from without? Which motion shall it be? One from within: an elastic gas-like motion, a pall of motion, say, bearing him on from within. Or one from without: an elementary drumming, like the motion of percussion on parchment, say, if not a percussive goading. Or neither, nor? Or both? Or something quit different from the two, some other form of motion, say, unlike gas or percussion? And toward what endpoint does the motion lean him, for to his footfalls having fallen he has made a formal claim? Of all the claims made – confused and fustigated, blackballed and forgotten, ribald and incensed – this matter is the most uncertain. Whence and to what end is this call to motion?

The exact agency of this supposed motion, of Es transport into movement, comes to us no clearer, indeed to us neither does it come nor from us does it shift. We, oh Lambert, merely mediate its absence through speculative dialogue, trusting that the motion will not shy away from our shared efforts. Of nothing, alas, are we less certain.

E himself claims to have no understanding of the origins of the impulsion that is claimed to affect his wandering motion. None. Ipso facto. Forward nada. Insomuch, E is wholly inept to willingly ascribe a cause – given the uncertain context of his reasoning grounds – and moreover to attribute whatsoever a grey reason to Es own gliding motion. If Es bodily movement, of limb and foot, from heel to toe and toe to footfall is to be attributed to another cause of motion, that is to say to an unnamed form of an unnamed motion, a motion that neither the displacement of Es feet nor the resistance of the friction beneath them would know, so as to declaim as known, and thus adequately name – for E claims that something indeed leads him on – then this here question prods: to what agency may one attribute the motion that is said to have been leading him onward when what E claims to have happened, allegedly occurred? This question steers us neither closer to nor further from our goal. Which is, it may be claimed, this: to better understand that which is poorly understood.

What appears to be conclusive is this: our efforts thus far come as confirmation of our aspiration to effective dialogue on the matter – of what is poorly understood.

Where is Lambert?

One may attribute the matter, attribute all of its unformulated substance – in sum, substance of a matter of which E no longer formally claims to have been the construct of Es own means – attribute each node of its original agency, and each connecting nodule of its consecutive sequences, from the first down to the last formal uncertainty; indeed, why not attribute the whole gamut of this sober affair to something of an idiosyncratic moment? Perhaps. It is too early to tell. This E claims too. Yet idiosyncrasy is to reason what relic is to shrine: the shadow of rumour flirts all the better with the matter it alludes to the more the rumour avoids the light. Reason is a mass of grey outstretched underfoot. And shrine is to reason what relic is to the idiosyncratic. Not so? And E claims to steer neither by the latter nor via the former, but merely glide, contiguous to gravity, though not without grounds for some or other reason. This is a claim to which he holds, firmly, formally with firmness, though now less firmly. So any decision taken to attribute the matter of his motion to the uncertain means of movement would seem, well, a most uncertain path to pursue. What I can say though, albeit less than more than would be useful to Es cause, is this: E was out there, somewhere, wandering about the mute point, if not the ill-appointed place, to where the motion had led him, wandering, that is, in a circumambulatory fashion in and around the particular whereabouts beyond the keyhole, when what E claimed to have happened, in Es words, apparently occurred. No substantial evidence has driven conclusive reason through his footfalls and on to the fore. So: if we are to believe him, if any belief is to be vested in Es words – in that quizzical abstraction of Es less than certain claim – then the hypothetical effects of what E eludes to must be formally attributed to, and henceforth be put forward as being of the purest of speculation – and this, on the grounds that E claims to be uncertain.

Apart from the echo and the thud of Es own words, which is itself an acoustic matter, the metaphysical substance of which this discourse would prove wholly inconclusive, the one outstanding matter, that pertaining to what E claims to have heard, that is to say the question, that is according to Es ears – a matter, again, the grounds of which are alone based on Es former claim to have glided on further than the agency of Es mere motion – may, as a question, willing incur further speculation.

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