In every positive, still the Negative

To those who argue for or subscribe to the philosophy of universal balance

that preaches “for every negative a positive, and vice-versa”

such that good things and bad things follow one another and ultimately cancel out,

I have a pinching question

for an internal debt has been growing slowly with each change

and I have not by myself been able to resolve it

thus, I ask:

is there not a sadness ineradicable that lives through all endeavour and hope,

despite all endeavour and hope

which fresh endeavour and revived hope never annihilate

only temporarily survive, then by which consumed, once again

no matter how articulate or vivid the promise of a Future

or how widely the children might be awoken to a new time

or how near or distant, audaciously or austerely, the parameters of paradise be set?

thus, is there not rather this understated melancholy so necessary and clear that it need not be said ever because it is already said always

said by a default mourning

every morning

there in the feeling that knows the difference between

gaining something and losing something

the irreplaceability of something, the absolute individuality of all things

that replacing one thing with another is not replacing it, at all

but trying to forget it,

to kill or postpone its memory with the presence of something else

as the day today does not replace the day yesterday

it is here instead

and all days are in their own way

once done, lost forever

tomorrow will come and be lost its own way too

and nothing will be able to replace it, just as it never replaced anything, either

the new only takes the place of the old and that is felt

the absence of the old is not covered or forgotten by the presence of the new

but is quietly mourned through the experience of the difference itself

as if the only real difference between a morning and mourning were a spelling mistake

fundamentally, are they not the same event?

to the philosophers of great balance, I turn and posit this

is not the miracle of birth still no consolation for the senselessness of death?

thus, is there not this residue in us that accrues like a debt

and no future able to satisfy

without adding to it when its place later taken, too

in the eternal return to the Negative?

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Purple, historically (the horizontal perspective)

Different things can only behave indifferently

for their difference is at stake,

their indifference, met by other differences behaving the same,

begets more difference, unbeknownst to their selves indifferent

next difference comes as a shock

a destabilisation

turns a simple change to ex-change:

the future presents without the full sight of its pre-sent property

this is what turns history on

what sexualises history

and a bastard is born.

 

The search for Genesis

that seeks the day before a birthday

comes as history makes visible

the Invisible

is at once the interruption and resumption

of an ever land-ing fall.

 

Where the fall is just the continuous bastardisation of everything.

 

The colours of the Fall (the vertical perspective)

In the permanent fall

Red and blue are different colours

one falls red, the other blue

 

Because the fall,

although permanent,

must at least sometimes land

otherwise it neither falls…

 

(permanence is not permanent

unless it can be some time interrupted

and then full Time resumed

the interruption that which makes it visible

with resumption later confirming what was seen)

 

…sometimes these colours will spill

on the surface of an interruption

and then they act on their differences

red flows out from its landing place

blue likewise from its own point of contact

 

there, on this sur-face,

red and blue difference is not just a distinction

it is an indifference of red to what is blue

and of blue to what is red

in logical spread they will meet

the faces earlier they distinguished

will clash

this is the violence of being indifferent in

a room of limited difference

limited visibility

where the horizontal shape to being visible

causes a movement of indifference

spillage, that spreads

goes on to over-take, from itself,

and does not change itself in that

but will be differentiated again

 

The encounter

Red clashes with blue

 

What happens?

Purple signals the resumption

from indifference to difference again

the interruption has changed

confirms that everything is falling

From strong Cause to mere Difference, either way Trans-modernism

I am the puzzle of a forgotten memory

or

just the presence of an impossible one

 

Either way, the process is always re(-)collection

to recollect a distant but motivated past informing the present

or

to re-collect the confusing terms of a present to build a more sensible future

 

Either way, being is a re(-)minder

a reminder of what of time now points unknowingly to a time before

or

a re-minder of how all time ongoing is but the repetition of itself without a full concept

 

Either way, there is a di(-)stance

a distance of time broken between past and present that reduces the latter to the former’s lunar re-presentation

or

a di-stance time put together by a difference that will never be caught by a single invitation

 

Either way, a person is a people

from the many possible iterations of a buried experience to the complex personhood they hold today

or

by the mercurial stand they cannot but assume from all the unstable difference perpetually flowing through them

 

Either way, the weather still needs company

the solar smile to wake us up from the ever-returning nightmare of the repressed

or

another half to complement the mere halves we rain down into at every possible moment.

 

Either way, either way.

 

Everything is the puzzle of a forgotten history

or

just the presence of an impossible one

Desire

Ever since I was of age enough to desire truly

I have not been able to bring myself through words and time

To the meeting place where the daydream of seduction sparks

Without rerouting unforewarned to a safer address

Or screaming soonest what a timely speech later reveal

 

The years have been many and the occasions almost countless

The approach to trying to approach always breaks the same

The intensity of the desire burns from hope to shame

A belief in the new, the will to the unknown, take root

Then yanked by the des-pair that cannot self and love together

 

I have asked myself why, rethought the cold story of cause

Also told myself off, let myself off, sworn on, sworn off

The role I play in the stale theatre of my head holds

The wreckage just ahead awaits with a sinister smile

Rehearsed to death: the chasm in my expedition with desire.

 

If the meaning of desire is a want that needs whole

Putting the end of the self at the start of something else

Where the meeting point would time a rebirth in a full person

The self half of something before, and after if unmet,

How does a thing grow twice its size if not enough already?

 

Maybe it is time to reflect on a new truth of feeling

The thirst of wanting, the task of willing, build on a castle

It is ruined, empty, out of time but still stands in spite

Repeating like an unfinished death, an unbanished ghost

Suspended in desire for life-or-death absolution.

 

Now that I am of age enough to expect myself truly

I have not been able to encounter through words and time

The solemn place where the nightmare of desire returns

Without looking at myself wanting more than what I see

Or trying to call the desired more than ruined “me”.

 

The meeting, to work, therefore, must be two halves kept so

No transcendental transactions of flesh, mind or spirit

No hot exorcisms or holy revivifications

But a mutual seduction set on shared revelations:

That halves cannot fulfil desire and Love is acceptance.

The Water

On damp plains sits a morning dew

It crystals spotted through the light

Soft on the eye that sees it true.

 

But imagine all mornings due

Fallen like a bath on green site

Turning all it is sudden blue:

 

The landscape changed by ocean hue

Would be all eyes, of day or night

The years and their growth, old and new.

 

This water of the due of dew

The meeting of Seed with its height

Would spring all life and its death, too.