3d
Critical thinking for poetry reading
July 30, 2023 5:00am
The Atmosphere and the Environs
Be attuned, uniquely sensitized, to all that is extant,
outside (the weather, the landscape, the sky), eyeing the slow steady changes occurring for you do not live in a vacuum, and these modifications of your immediate surroundings will, must
impact the writing.
I awake to thick fog, and only the outlines of the trees, though grayed and invisible only within a short distance, are undeniably present, like giant figures, shrouded and menacing, but immobilized. This fog, is it emblematic of my state of mind or just a modifier, a tangential influencer of what I will now be writing.
To be foggy when first you stir to a day ahead full of knowns and unknown, is not unusual even if the shy sky hints at a
bluer clarity to,come. For the morning fog is the story of transitioning, as humans do repeatedly throughout their days and lifetimes. In particular when passing from the fog of nighttime sleep,oft populated by terrors and all,we suppress, morphs into the no man’s land of dusky consciousness.
As I write the fog outside is clearer as the morning light from
above changes, and though yet present, forms remain i distinct, modestly identifiable, but overall, the world is u known and possibly full of dangers. The dangers I sense are in my own
foggy interior, a 1/ reciprocal of the outside, matching and moving lockstep with the outside haze. Thus, I do not know what will be the next words I write, though the words will,emerge of their own accord, or rather from my knowledge base, but not asking permissions, they come of willfully, voluble though unspoken, from the silence within me that is
confluences by the silence and the slow sea changes in my exterior world.
Even now, some few moments later, the distance is hinted at,
what could be a body of water, a mass of land, is shadowy
haloed, there, but not there, ghostly but discernible.
Am I a ghost or discernible? I could bite my flesh and presumably feel and view the test results confirming but confounding,my apparatus is functioning, but instead I settle
for the assumption that placement of theses new arrangements of old words is proffered proof enough,
that therefore I am.
But in doing so I have crosse the line into
My Interior Domains
Various lands, territories, states, states of being, consciousness, conscience, moral frameworks, goals,
needs,some conflicting are being slow stirred in the cauldron
of my ****** soup. Here in lies what we think are the sources
of our expression, slow stirring repeatedly, an admixture I add
and remove from, maintaining a semblance of weighted balance, but no guarantee at all,of being balanced, even remotely in balance, or just ***** and the weights of what is in
side of mean, is always tilting, and one mental gyroscope is working overtime and all the time to keep me satisfied that I will not perish in the next few seconds, though I might!
Ah, those pesky know unknowns, that cause us to expel
our particular soupçons of rambling, transgressing notions
(I don’t think of them as thoughts, just passerby’s, who
of course,can be on or off course, mine, or yours imbibed by
mine eyes, or my decaying hearing, or any of my subpar
sensing sensors, that are the inviolable flowing blood of my body/ mind time continuum.
(An aside: the exterior world goes brighter as the sun rises, but in no,way is there clarity; for all is as before, clouded over on earth as it is in the heavens, just a shade, a tad of degrees brighter, so still and always, still transitory, as if that process could ever be halted and frozen into place. Proofs: no animal
movement is visible, no soundings risible, no activity though we are close,nearby the official morning hour of 6:00AM.
Dear-me! How could I have failed to discuss notation of the measurements of time, markers that are essential to writing down our history. “For it was at this time” an existential and essential tool, one half of the denoted time and place intersectionality of our white lies and soulful black holes,
some of the most critical factors in properly aligning ourselves
in the universe relative to where you are thus fixing the distance between us that is the challenge of why we write,
i.e. to bring us ever closer.
(An aside: the moisture of the atmosphere coats the window,
but in strange QR type patterns, but my camera is unable
to successfully open and opening their secret doors.
I fact I AM suddenly sleepy and will return to this missive
Tat a latrt
time and place as of yet unknown?
so, later.)
July 30, 2023 5:00am
The Atmosphere and the Environs
Be attuned, uniquely sensitized, to all that is extant,
outside (the weather, the landscape, the sky), eyeing the slow steady changes occurring for you do not live in a vacuum, and these modifications of your immediate surroundings will, must
impact the writing.
I awake to thick fog, and only the outlines of the trees, though grayed and invisible only within a short distance, are undeniably present, like giant figures, shrouded and menacing, but immobilized. This fog, is it emblematic of my state of mind or just a modifier, a tangential influencer of what I will now be writing.
To be foggy when first you stir to a day ahead full of knowns and unknown, is not unusual even if the shy sky hints at a
bluer clarity to,come. For the morning fog is the story of transitioning, as humans do repeatedly throughout their days and lifetimes. In particular when passing from the fog of nighttime sleep,oft populated by terrors and all,we suppress, morphs into the no man’s land of dusky consciousness.
As I write the fog outside is clearer as the morning light from
above changes, and though yet present, forms remain i distinct, modestly identifiable, but overall, the world is u known and possibly full of dangers. The dangers I sense are in my own
foggy interior, a 1/ reciprocal of the outside, matching and moving lockstep with the outside haze. Thus, I do not know what will be the next words I write, though the words will,emerge of their own accord, or rather from my knowledge base, but not asking permissions, they come of willfully, voluble though unspoken, from the silence within me that is
confluences by the silence and the slow sea changes in my exterior world.
Even now, some few moments later, the distance is hinted at,
what could be a body of water, a mass of land, is shadowy
haloed, there, but not there, ghostly but discernible.
Am I a ghost or discernible? I could bite my flesh and presumably feel and view the test results confirming but confounding,my apparatus is functioning, but instead I settle
for the assumption that placement of theses new arrangements of old words is proffered proof enough,
that therefore I am.
But in doing so I have crosse the line into
My Interior Domains
Various lands, territories, states, states of being, consciousness, conscience, moral frameworks, goals,
needs,some conflicting are being slow stirred in the cauldron
of my ****** soup. Here in lies what we think are the sources
of our expression, slow stirring repeatedly, an admixture I add
and remove from, maintaining a semblance of weighted balance, but no guarantee at all,of being balanced, even remotely in balance, or just ***** and the weights of what is in
side of mean, is always tilting, and one mental gyroscope is working overtime and all the time to keep me satisfied that I will not perish in the next few seconds, though I might!
Ah, those pesky know unknowns, that cause us to expel
our particular soupçons of rambling, transgressing notions
(I don’t think of them as thoughts, just passerby’s, who
of course,can be on or off course, mine, or yours imbibed by
mine eyes, or my decaying hearing, or any of my subpar
sensing sensors, that are the inviolable flowing blood of my body/ mind time continuum.
(An aside: the exterior world goes brighter as the sun rises, but in no,way is there clarity; for all is as before, clouded over on earth as it is in the heavens, just a shade, a tad of degrees brighter, so still and always, still transitory, as if that process could ever be halted and frozen into place. Proofs: no animal
movement is visible, no soundings risible, no activity though we are close,nearby the official morning hour of 6:00AM.
Dear-me! How could I have failed to discuss notation of the measurements of time, markers that are essential to writing down our history. “For it was at this time” an existential and essential tool, one half of the denoted time and place intersectionality of our white lies and soulful black holes,
some of the most critical factors in properly aligning ourselves
in the universe relative to where you are thus fixing the distance between us that is the challenge of why we write,
i.e. to bring us ever closer.
(An aside: the moisture of the atmosphere coats the window,
but in strange QR type patterns, but my camera is unable
to successfully open and opening their secret doors.
I fact I AM suddenly sleepy and will return to this missive
Tat a latrt
time and place as of yet unknown?
so, later.)
