Hey, I hope you had a happy St. Patty's day. I did (see: uncertainty in previous post [see also: Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, because that shit's just wicked cool]).
The hellish finals week has got me all fucked up with sleep, and I'm back to indulging in my nocturnal proclivity. I hope to amend this soon, but without further ado, Amen.
gentleMen, Ladies, indefinitely Confused, I give you my 'POETre reADING reVIEW' (an assigned attendance and write-up of a local reading in which poetry was read [that really turned out to be a "scathing... review" of the worn-through postmodernist literary conventions {intentionally plural, intended as a pun}]) and my 'Æsthetic Statement?' (an assignmeant to reflect and elaborate up/on the "questions, processes, and impulses that underlie the principles or directions of your writing". [which because by the time I began to write it, I'd already written ≈ 9-10 pages of text for about 8-10 hours, it did not as I would wish very consciously, cautiously do this, but together with the accompanying document, may have very well done a satisfactory job of]), both of which were assignments for my now over Poetry class.
Enjoy; fill in the blanks; fulfill your life and yourself
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| aesthetic_statement.docx | | File Size: | 28 kb | | File Type: | docx |
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Happy St. Patrick's Day! I just realized that even though it's a personal favorite holiday, mine have been plaguingly poor... I hope and will try to change that this year.
...So it seems now that I'm making a blog post or at least some elongated writing every night--viz. the last four. Tonight's was a facebook post in response to someone's: of course, KONY 2012 post, and its necessarily-accompanying KONY-2012-is-evil (should that be the issue here?) post, and then a retort to that saying (to which I agree), among other things, "Letting the world know who he was is the primary mission to the campaign." Including any more would probably be recursive--or at least add to this post's already presumably staggering length--so without further ado, my response:
Well this whole thing has had an interesting development recently, with Invisible Children's co-founder (whom I've personally heard from a best friend that interned at IC to be a very admirable, dilligent, selfless person) now being detained for acts I won't discuss here.
And Ashley I agree with you that letting the world know who he is is the primary mission of the campaign and really the primary purpose of all of this week's KONY-IC to-post or not-to-post FB hooplah (which unfortunately is what it's come down to by virtue of it being "to give" instead of To Help) if a positive overarching purpose is to be taken from it, instead of just ironically scoffed at like so many now are doing to IC's KONY, those who post/support it, and transitively helping the situation.
I mean they're scoffing at helping and simultaneously helping, because we're still talking about it, still directing attention to it while diverting it from it, and so still "educat[ing]" enough to maybe effect some good for such horrible situations.
But the rest of your post really made me think about what actually would effectuate some good (which is what all this is about).
{the following is my first submission to a poetry journal. this happened like 20 minutes ago. it's for NW Poetry's 'Science' themed issue. we'll see what happens. Love you. I'm going to fucking sleep.} Hello, You (editors)! I'm Walker Jones, and unfortunately I am a little late. For this, I apologize.* However, I'm submitting my poems to you directly--for a number of reasons. One of which (pardon me, I posit rather obstinately) is that the causal circumstances of this casual submission are "silly, such arbitrary lines | that cut" some submitters from some submissed. And these poems would be missed if they were missing from your issue, which I feel would be a loss of what would be a win-win for your magazine and me. "Why?" Well, I'm glad you asked that, because these poems explore questions like ---'Why?' ("To what point does my lifeline continue? Does this plane of existence have value?") ---'Who?' (" i am "; " n0 name") ---'What ([is] "the best thing since sliced bread")?' {"a sandwich...", duh.} ---'Where?' and 'When?' (directly: "here/where | then/when") --and 'How' they do this is of most significance to your forthcoming poetry issue: in science-literate language. I am no scientist (I don't even know if I passed my chemistry course), no mathematician nor philosopher, no writer nor poet--yet, "all | i am | is nothing 8 u+" a person (albeit a young [19 year old] one). And as a person with an awareness, (that) I think in thought that I think is the "ought" to what is (and "it" isn't it), the experience taken out of and from the experience we are intrinsically a part of--i .e. abstractions, symbols, language. The only reasons I'm including such a prossibly {sic} confusing sentence are to - show that using analogous terms (/analogues), non-letter symbols, and fractured (or unconventional) arrangements is really just using the same iterative abstractions (from latin "strahere": 'to pull, draw' and "ab-": 'away, from') that are the foundation of plain written English, poetry, science, thought, and consciousness.
- logically connect this connection: that
art is a subjective experience of science. [I'm afraid I'm getting too abstract, so I'll spare you this justification; though, if you'd like me to I'll gladly share--but for now, just trust me on that.] Art is a subconscious bridge between consciousness and existence. It pulls us back to an Experience, drawing us away from the very abstractions it--and we--employ(s) just 'to be', to ex ist; and what's more, once again, connects the factored experiencer to the fluid experience. This is why I write poetry (the way that/about what I do). I don't mean to be so abstract and impersonal, but I guess that's what it took for me to really spell out the personal significance of these words, pieces of me, of mine that I've pieced together and am sending to you--and why committing them to you, in particular to this (pardon the pun) issue, is so much (not in, but) our mutual interest. At the least, I hope you find some interesting connections in these pieces. Thank you for your time, considerable attention span and attentive consideration. Looking forwords to you's n' him's works, Walker Jones *[But, it is not by much. I was on the submission page, and then took the time (which, as you will see, it does take time) to put my poems all into one document, and by the time I'd clicked the button to submit the document, there was a "processing error" that redirected me back to a submissions page that was no longer accepting submissions. Frustrating, as you can imagine. Instead of getting frustrated,] P.S. I started began this submission at around 11pm, but after abridging the texts into one document, writing this whole darn thing, and in the middle stopping to journal some digressive thoughts that occurred (to make some pretty relevant, comprehensive connections), it's now nearly 4am. Why I include this is because I really did start to submit this when you were still accepting submissions, and that slight (tardiness, its consequence, and the incredulity and stubbornness [I'm a Taurus]) is really the whole why I busted this out right now (and submitting it against the "rules" or whatever they would be referred to in this case) whilst I am already unbelievably sleep deprived. I'm just gonna stop now. Thank you. Goodnight. | nwpoetry_submission.docx | | File Size: | 15 kb | | File Type: | docx |
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pre-P.S. this post is in "reference" to the one below it, but I don't pay for this site so I can't move them around. (though to be fair the documents included are in fact independent of any prior references, and both existed well before the post they were referenced in)
glkjaldskjfajdsfk Okay so I still can't attach them as documents [ALKSJDFLKAJSDFKLJADSLFJAKL!!!!!!!!!] but I am now posting them here as bare text. If you've borne with me to this point, please bear with me now.
{Contents: my "personal statement?" to Evergreen (because I like questions more than statements) and a fb reply to my mom. haha that sounds funny. it has bible verses. i'm not christian. intrigued? probz not.}
GOODNIGHT. I LOVE YOU. SWTDRMZ.
^^^READ THAT^^^ [I mean at least its links, not what I wrote--unless that gets you to read the links.]
Forewarning: the text below was spawned by surprise, sentimentality, excitement, and (is cleverly under a guise of) a willingness to share (the cloying bastard) of a person whose standing as "sane" is questionable at best. Like most personal blogs you will find on the internet, what (little) entertainment value it has is probably less valuable than your time. Just full disclosure*.
* Further disclosure. I wrote that before I wrote these footnotes (this and below) and while most all of this is almost definitely--considering other productive things you could and very well rather might be doing if you were not reading the parts I'm grammatically qualifying as I type and you're reading this that's--not worth your valuable time, there is some of it that just actually might be. Fuller disclosure.
Howdy, y'all! Feliz dia de los remembering the Alamo.
As noted in the post previous, I have been writing more. And my laptop was in the Philippines I believe getting repaired. But now it is back, on my lap, going to work and getting filled with my heady ejaculations--of words, you pervert.
The new wordks you can find, per the uje (/as usual), on the following tab: Walker Jones' Other Works. I don't have everything quite done yet, but I have all I'm going to do tonight and will finish the rest as they come. I just can't help myself with the innuendo...
which tells me I should take a break. Stop. Drop. Roll. Fire. Smoke. Flash. Dance. Voila: a diddy:
[the following was a post on the Seattle newspaper's online personal forum
listen: it was free and sometimes I get lonely, don't we all. so I had fun with it, since I'm so much younger than everyone else, and composed, well, you can read
{N.B. i do believe there will be more of these musicalike things to come.}]
Hey there good evening how ya doing ladies?
I guess you might be on here looking to make some babies
Or just some love, or maybe just to find some
One that's true and not "too good to be"come
"Ya boi"—toy/or/friend—no, wait: what you really want's a man
To make you feel full inside like only he can
And so you scan through strangers online impers
Onals and dime a dozens, your lovelife change is worse
Than it was before you even logged on
And flipped through "ad"s like in a fashion catalogue
On every page, a different mannequin to see
But now you've turned up every last stone and come to me
My stone is rolling, gathering steam up and no moss
I got you scrolling, reading this right? at a loss
Of what to make of
This must be fake, well
Miss you're wide awake, I'll
Pinch you for the sake of proving
I'm real, not complex or even imaginary
I'm oddly radical, makin more waves than a ferry
Or Rick Perry, though I'm sweet as acai berry
In a smoothie, smoother than a Ben & Jerry
Rich as dairy, or extra virgin olive oil
Hot as water heatin up to a rolling boil
And gettin hotta, 'nough to make you recoil
But I play it cool, don't want any turmoil
Just some fun with someone—hey just like you
So listen closely as I tell you what to do:
Just click the button on the left hand side of the screen
And leave a message, don't you worry there's no beep
We can get to talkin, maybe over some coffee beans
About your dog or your life's hopes & dreams
They could come true you
May never know though
Unless you try to
Give a new guy a go
Yo!
Hey people, I hope you're doing beautifully. I have been--
writing quite a bit more than I really ever have before,
for the past couple months, esp. the last couple weeks.
However, in the wake of this creative outburst, I've been sleeping on the polishing that goes into what comes out--a bit too much basking in the sunlight, if you will (I did). Also my computer and internet availability have been trying (and failing).
But, without further ado, I bring to you three new works on the 'Other Works' tab,
and this post--written at a Seattle Public Library computer as time is quickly expiring, but the poetic meat of which was written by candlelight on my back porch in San Antonio the early morning of New Years Evening (yes it has been a while indeed):
~I called; you stalled,
then told me to come over--
for not too long—I played some songs by a band you didn't know,
and you with cards and some glass shards to shine a shadow show.
You made some tea for us and me as we filled your room with smoke
but I spilled mine. You couldn't divine the meaning of the tarot.
The sound was warped; the light, distort from finicky flames still burning
your incense. Insentience almost overshadowed my yearning
to hold you just in short, -in lust, -or maybe as I once did
when we were young. The feeling stung, but I('m) no longer (a) kid
myself—I'm grown; you I can't own,
nor could you be my lover.~
Each time I see you with me it makes me wonder why
when you I leave I have to grieve so much I want to cry.
Maybe I miss whom I first kissed, that passionate primal affection;
but I know now that simply thou art that—emotive ‘n tangible defection.
And so I must stake hope and trust in that which really is,
thus extinguish fie’ry anguish that you won't be my mrs.
The short bio I submitted with some works to Cascadia's Lit. Mag:
Walker Jones is a recovering alcoholic narcoleptic addict who enjoyed his past times and appreciates the future's present. Tensed as an object oph repositioning, sentenced to structure, his occasional sin—tactical manipulation—is hopefully reconciled by your indulgences. He lives on Capitol Hill with records and no player.
Another note, this from last month:
Listening to the sound of falling rain,
I wonder what it means to be insane.
Insanity is to do the same thing
And expect a difference resulting,
But each new day the sun rise brings me hope
That my life too could see a rise in slope.
What I ask is: why does this hope for change
Plot me out of accepted sane range?
Must I drudge constant on this plane, flat line,
And to insane domains my hope resign?
To what point does my life line continue?
Does this plane of existence have value?
This is an original note that I started as a brainstorming reaction to reading a book on Marcel ("How Reading) Proust (Can Change Your Life"), more specifically the direction he took with his "In Search of Lost Time" [sic], on my phone. I continued on to tangents (somewhat disclosed in a possibly pretentious facebook post, if you saw that) for the next few hours and furnished ideas with wikipedantic research. For you to make sense of it, you'd probably have to similarly supplement the ideas, I don't know if it's easy to follow because it's my own thoughts that I've already checked into. Anyways, just thought it might be interesting to you. It was for me. Merry Christmas.
Whereas Proust's 'Time' is 3rd Om, this is 3rd Ltd. Subject:
A perceptive person with proustian eye for detail, not only of present presentations, but precedences proliferating per processes that propagate current conditions, a kind of post- rather than pre-science. He could say/be "Lost in Finds," a condition conditional to his being found in loss. This omnipostscience doesn't remove him from the present, but from personability—people are interested in what he says and how he says it, but a passing interest, and no one follows him as they are preoccupied with leading their own lives. This is the conflict.
Inner, Inter, World, resultant from the conflict of the world, people, himself. Conflict is paradoxically problematic. Conflict is given, omnipresent, but his resolution perpetuates it, forms new conflicts. The Curse of Consciousness, of course.
Your job: to course his course, plot the points, each and every last one, {notice a pattern?} so that it can be followed linearly, which is funny, because it's not linear at all, it's a sine line (waves), a function fluctuating between simultaneous di-/con-vergent points (particles), inherently pluripotent, not only the function but also the points, because they are intersections of functions from (in?)finite origins, the origins themselves intersections—herein lies the problem: to know {scire} is to cut {scindere} from what isn't, but everything is. An etymological preclusion with ontological implications—to discern {separate} a cause from its effect eliminates the intrinsic connection. Motives are dependent variables upon their dependent actions and their dependent outcomes and their dependent reactions that produce dependent experiences of thought and emotion that the initial motive was dependent upon in origination—an origin/cause/effect is a supposed start of a silk web within the interconnected web that was constructed from the network of strings originally outside itself, tethered to the trees and waving in the breeze that grow up from and blow over the earth, respectively, a nonliving, life-sustaining entity resultant from interactions of larger entities composed of corporeal chemical agents, that {agein} as {organi} i.e. act as instruments, et do work, et work, et do, act: d ø â k t {â g , ô r g} because g , k are non pulmonic consonants (do not obstruct airflow) produced by the dorsal (tongue, most centralized, adaptable) region, g is implosive, passive, velar ex. e/organum (tool, instrument), energy (noun) [* is non pulmonic palatal implosive, next step up], while k is ejective, active, velar ex. act (drive, lead), ägein/work* (verb) [*w is approximant— next step from vowels that produce no turbulence—which involve articulators (areas that produce sound ex. tongue, palate) approaching each other but not enough to produce turbulent airflow] and o , e are in the median vowel range of open-closedness (of the mouth) and front and back et 400-600hz frequency, the median frequency of base (low) vowel sounds, and e is also 2.2-2.6kHz, providing the greatest convergent vowel variation and the sound's likely origination of development, not to mention, though I will, biologically the most economical, primal, and in most ways centric expellation of sound. Thusly energy and work are the composed of the first, most fundamental sounds humans can produce, eject by w o r k , a k t ed out by internal implosions of
e n e r j y , o r g a n s
mirroring the "known", cut, separated, discerned origin of the universe, nuclear fission, an atomic implosion of energy ejected to do, work, act
[b (nonpulmonic bilabial implosive)
e (I, close front)
i (I, close front)
s (nonpulmonic alveolar fricative ejective)
"I"/{I} is the resonance of outer openings unobstructing the flow of implosions and inner ejections channeled through narrow openings near the exterior.]
SEE ALSO: { e g o } — I, self ;
{ g e u } — gheu->zeus(/jesus?)->deus--->god
N.B. Energy, Work, I, God all from elemental utterances
{ e g } = able
{ g e / o } = act/-ed/-or
I turned this essay in a week late, but I was nowhere finished. This topic is so all-encompassing, and I'm such a perfectionist that I might never finish it if i endeavored to. What I have here is basically an outline; I didn't even edit it as a whole, and everything needs to be fleshed out more.
Anyways, I figured that I might as well post it, in case it's of interest to any of us.
Side Note: I took the title from my 'untitled' poem.
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