absence and thingness

I'm up at 5:00 a.m. and lay awake struggling for some shut eye. Around 8:30 a.m., I begin to fall  asleep, and in-between the grooves of wakefulness and sleep lies absence. I felt my consciousness being assaulted as a falling took place--not of my body, but of my consciousness or spirit, if you will. I experienced a silent, yet extreme and unshakeable weight on my head. I began to sink, moving in a downward spiral as anxiety and perplexity fermented in me. The notion of uncertainty flowed through me aggressively as I was uncertain whether I was falling asleep or moving into utter absence. A formless pressing pressure invaded my night. I wondered if this is what it means to die in one's sleep. There was a heavy force pressing upon me, moving me into nothingness: a sudden deadness and lack of signification. A rusting of the will took place. Pure absence and thingness were alternating, partaking in a strange dance. This opposition was magnified by the realization of my own alterity from myself, where the I became a dislocated material. Is absence a phantom-strangulation? Is it a tightening of the tongue rendering one wordless? Is it an intimacy of interiority? Is it the result of unearthing layers upon layers of self? is it a movement toward death?

rootlessness vs. nomadicism

frequency of buzzards
unanswered questions
falling, falling, leaves

flattening of surfaces
faithless phantoms
boiling poetry in sand

soiled maps
covered with solid curses
of a burning paradise

walls made of dried figs
a mirrored doubling
of knotted tapestries

half of a skip of an eyelid,

and i am in a volcanic cloak
moving against the sprawling sky

on the inside

as if a stranger could involuntarily reveal a fundamental truth; a truth that exposes my insides--a vacuous space. as though this stranger has clear sight--violet-like, temporarily blossoming like fireworks. then, night drifts by and there's something, like tolerance, toward the unknown and the decay of words. the terror becomes a brush stroke, cradling me. i cling to the luminous stars: roadless and halting. i'm on the inside, a vanishing temple. 

sightedness

when silence is agreeable, i can hear my thoughts falling slowly to sleep. my sight feels like stars falling in a spiral into my failing imagination. the scenery changes as the ticking overlooking the city seeps into this silence; it is sunshine lingering on my bed. my sight grows silent again, on a sunday night.

invisibility

When I think of invisibility, Ralph Ellison comes to mind. To be invisible is to be marked, scarred, and highly visible. It is to exude a visibility that is conscientiously blinding. It is to be encoded in ideological masks uneasily worn. It is a winding cry, an inventive laugh, a plotting demeanor. Sometimes, it is marked by panic, and other times relief. It is a desire to forget but be unforgotten. It threatens to transform into a brilliantly inward narcissism.

To quote from Invisible Man: "Instead of the swift imperceptible flowing of time, you are aware of its notes, those points where time stands still or from which it leaps ahead." (6)

solving a puzzle

diving in for a something else. uncertainties burst. all i seem to remember are coffins. this is misleading: we don't use coffins. cotton balls stuffed in the mouths of the dead. this dividing line between the past, the present, the future, the dead, the living, the self, the other, must be dashed. i crumple at thoughts not my own. this memory is perfect, pristine, and palpable. this is not a metaphor, not a myth, not even a mystery, but my mind.  i yearn for a different cortical imprint. my desire is blocked, my affections ignored. this is not a puzzle, but a melodrama. diving obstructed.