WHILE-WIND-LAND

by

 “Sedge”

 

a response to a whole thought that stayed from April 2018 till June 2024

“There’s always afterwards when it’s too late.”

 

 

While-Wind set me down at an inconvenient distance from myself. I was spawned singularly simply by responding to having noticed the thought of this event being possible & I observed, huffing with delight, as I lit up upon the surface, immediately distanced from While-Wind suddenly miles out, carrying more away, setting more down.

One cut-out cloud broke off & part of it extruded in descent, funnelling rain, & the other whorled from field-level up & danced side to side, & no rain, became a discreet form, a discrete person from cloud flesh. I believe it still is.

 

Mostly, shapes arose. I saw a whole life, which was mine, although only details — threat textures, delight sounds — & no other great events than what was happening now. In which I expanded exponentially, in the light of myself. It seemed I was expected to start at a time unspoke.

I am there. Without capital or obvious desperation, I am audible, visible as a ship’s hand. All I do is squander my spirits. Sequencing particles without exposing my virtues. Marvelling at birds’ punctiliousness, & at generalities of nature, more properly accounted for in natural histories. I have looked within a workmen’s tent. I wish you could have seen me.

Future objects cannot but exist, even though they are bottlenecked & hardly get past twentieth century reportage.
 

Objects presented in evidence for those who don't know how to start doing the thing they're already doing. My emotions engorged by Bernini. Extract prevarication & deferral. Archive is instant; plain individual, sudden. 

 
How to stop humming is very difficult. Ask the air. Display greater fondness.

Recursive instalments of knowing nothing in a way that can be connected or said again. All dialogue sounds the same, situationally & processually. If you watch a lot of films. Silence dialogue of all leaps.
 

Intentions seeking intentions. Not everyone loves seeing. Enjoy things people love to see you doing versions of.
 

Speak through the setting bounds. Speak through equivocal descriptions of power. Speak word-stuffs beyond independent grasp. Speak no creation except once & no agglomeration of voices, other than the ones the vent approximates.

Transformation is a public announcement without precedent. With everything I've got to give. Fallacy of how to love out loud. To do myself doing. Hauling facts. 9 & alone I sought evidence of its being myself in action. First, by seeking the stillness myself not doing. Not valueless, but not totting added value.
 

Acts of doing nothing, unaware of form, discovering you’re quiet.
I worked my way through ignorance set aside for me, always differently arranged as if rooms set out for me to sit down in. Working class music for dancing might as well have been hymns. Commons existed. I’d seen it done & thought I might try it some day.
 

In the dream republic, all dreams are republics. Idealism is death-rehearsal. Who's work we are. We await mechanical means
 

Abandon illusions with generic markers. How could you leave yourself there in a wilderness of fantasy with no one to guide you?
 

You can teach yourself to death. You may fill the whole page.
Seeing is inimically attached to & productive of objects viewed & thoughts thought; with the effect that actions are not separable from imaginings. I’m careful always to see the whole thing as it is.
None of this stuff needs to happen. Things can’t come unless the present condition is imagined. What is the shaded portion?
 

Can we separate necessariness of consciousnesses from their etiolated structuring by those who are defined in the structures of these structures? In such a scenario, structuring seems to be an obligation on those who choose structure — to be regarded a default position for others who would choose structure if only they knew how.

Seizing corrected trajectory, between dyke’s grooves, singing out loud to every car & crow. At the beat of the 10,000th iteration I know this is my subject. The condition to which we come, every day, being special. Appending a full night’s reading, cycling out the last things of lessons, half a day across While-Wind Land.
 

In While-Wind, in its time. We are what could have prevented false men tugging at extrusions of infinity.

Products of previous plausible futures sufficiently fulfilled.
These things are the things removed & driven off by the While-Wind.
Bent out of shape by tellers hoarding present moments, defining prismatic genies & illusion & complexity models as primary signifiers of freedom. No representation. No landscape. No fiction. How do I do it.
 

Presumption of mystery, sit down & sigh. Rest amid all my reports of indiscovery. I’m a sort of true thing. I say this aloud as I write silent.

Were a fly the herald of love. Pursuing oeuvre swimming among statutes of myth & commons. I never presented strands of others, for others to know them as their own, to hold them.
 

Your words are as hailstones on stained glass. You talk of days.
I’m more likely to be exactly where I am, sitting on a moving or static bicycle or a picnic rug or a tuffet of stalks, evaporating still at the edges of While-Wind Land.

An exigent poetic sentence excreted into an archival land-book, an idea posing as & nonetheless remaining a brief report, animated. Where a wind has not settled yet, where a stream dried & ran again. Fear is long. Dispatch riders never remembered. Perils will have our viscera for breakfast. Perils we cannot imagination as food are worse for us.
 

Fogs’ absence of any shapes at all, identified noise in darkness — the thing of the thing. Mystery is pattern & vice versa, long & nearly forgotten pattern. Philosophers are always sufficiently exhausted. Exhaust yourself. Whether all is well is not a subject. Confident in fear, errors become ineffectual in damping down noises of invisible fears - turn those to god, seeing the end of your effacement & the beginning of the effacement of terrifying mystery by new, terrible mystery.

 

Readily love to conjure your image in my lives, that I may trample down hard, invisible terrors of hard, mysterious day-to-day years. How may we endure?
 

Tired of sense of purpose’s permanent rough cross. Mystery as much as the identifiable pattern. The mystery is the identifiable pattern.
Having thoroughly researched everything, I resort again to accompanying myself musically. Universalising fields in While-Wind Land. It is special words.
 

Consider two mysteries together: one will explode & the other will explode. There’s never two mysteries examined side by side that weren’t linked inextricably or bridged under by a great mystery river or valley, or obliterated by the other. Two mysteries are impossible. There can only be one or none. Gather about yourself mysterical protection.

In While-Wind I saw only god reading an unread book. Speculation is inventing god’s intent. Taxonomy is tragedy. When you’ve said all there is to say do not stop. Half your chatter at the end of knowing.
 

Perhaps we are to do this. Wind whiles the land.
 

When poetry is spoke of as not anything like common hulloos that press the bell. Mystery is uncovering night light on your own. Whether you tell it.
 

Someone you & I know is in the same spot in While-Wind Land. Sorting & pressing barley grains of the exact scent of warm sun flesh.

Thanks for getting all those people together & lying in your very deep grave. Deeper than I’d have thought with rosa Damascene petals in a sandpile on your coffin lid, still wise on the tree as I’m inhaling them. What comes to life isn’t song sounds, or the medium, but sometimes, yes, but the skeins we assembled & unseen fear is airy as.
 

Not much of an idea but a great story. You can see where it is set. It wasn’t the future I couldn’t see. I was set down for the first time in While-Wind Land. I was meant to be pretending. I keep repeating myself like I’ve just learnt. Finding the boring point.

Equalising pressures balancing vectors. I’m in love with pressure. I swim in them & know their lapping around my knees & swishing in my ears
Delighting unevenly spaced harmonic intervals. Descriptor of music.
Living with evaporating music. Music rather than musical space or musical space for music, where music could be. If it sounds like the shape & feel of it, then it’s done. Abandon the breeze. Two different real things.

The magnitude of what you would have recognised, at the moment of recognition & understanding, if you hadn’t been dreaming of a way to make it into words & if you hadn’t veered to avoid acting on death & resurrection of the idea at your own hands. You made a hand of your mouth.
 

Tarmac shimmers in all the closes, haze hotter from double glazing. Wizening cloud speed, fly apart, you’re older than you thought & drift further. Neither a finder nor a keeper be. Pictures won’t help. Not cloud pictures, not when they are slowing down into the shape of the While-Wind. 

I have desire to witness ghosts & speak with god overwritten — & now, While-Wind, I see I’ve done little else. A glistograph shows external shaping, but not for all whose image is reproduced. If you do not know who you are, you will not come out right in a picture.

I am alone, untutored, unprompted in a TV broadcasting region

Crafting ignorance into the medium for grand gestures of opposite understanding, to witness implosion of impossibility. Cultura preta of all possible discontinuities. I cannot value. I rest uneasy. Having to make up my own story. Ideas hover, switching, swything-swords clipping language. 

A man writes two words on the back of his hand. Not projected into buildings. Learning loneliness. Stenting spaces. I remember everything lonely separately. I remember all shapes & sounds. I make up. I taste of myself. Sight & sound combined, I lead you to suggest. You never heard this voice before. Force in nature, the physical movement to intent, to action, spoke of as force of nature.  I’m more you than you are me. I’ve got your eyes.
 

All my words sieved, desiccated to survive mould & mildew. As soon as I remember a thing I forget it. Words outrun. Rely on that. You may wipe the pigeon’s beak. Dwell on similution. Be descriptor turn to steam.

What are they, serials always completed? It’s not far to travel from not working for nothing to not working at all. Culture is the same thing, is respite. Mimicry sees the day. In While-Wind-Land, I make up titles for future works, to the sound of my already working on the other page. Hard to think on certainties of all the pasts so far, at all, now. Respond & see.

The work, the vehicle’s light. Tell us, how to drive. As it were done.
Rivulets filled footsteps & the hollows irrigated that land. Thrown off on to the edges.
 

Morning subject. Afternoon subject. Early night subject. Middle night subject. Subject of when night is morning, & morning, night.
 

First, I learnt nothing from my cats. Second, I isolated myself from my cats, offended by their disdain for my effrontery. Third, I understood my cats were generous & loving.
 

Give gods to each other full gifts. While While-Wind-Land’s heights are low.

Came out of a mere, the Knight of While-Wind-Land. Certain of new tradition. New are the dreams. Before light fell on plausible parts. Previous world be as it may. Before truncated thought.
 

Harms’ description is a realisation of the idea. Idea whose duration has been realised. Although ’character’ is moralistic embodiment of luck, causing fictional characters to suffer is the greatest evil.
Exclude yourself on a horse.

Bee coming. Bee, going. All measured by bees in While-Wind-Land.
Write the outline of a glyph & write a whole world out of it
 

My future hangs upon the loosening plastic door knob of ratiocination.
On the same spot, set down by While-Wind at the edge of the old causeway, not looking out upon the fen, just looking at where it once lay.

While-Wind-Land makes you abandon syncretism & scientific romances before they catch — no stages in While-Wind-Land.
 

Excited calm, on this same spot. Birds marvelling, finding, precautioning not to write my name on walls. Worship is descriptions, listings against infinity.
 

Soup & champagne fill me on a train. Recreating conditions of transformation requires a model of stillness & utter communion. Seaside city of filthy glass inhabitants. We are at the edge of water margins. You see it more than me, I can see that. You seen it longer.
 

I see sea edge & fen edge. At the time I was on the fen, set down by While-Wind in the same spot. Nature was gravity. Stand & hear how. See, look, the watery stone.
 

We are not people who move to a place thinking how to be so of it that it animates us. How & why to make porridge. How enthusiasts compose note poems that are completed & begun.
 

The true enthusiast proceeds from breath to god. Acceding to self-knowledge by constant findings of insufficient knowledge as were ever wore, the enthusiast speaks only of enthusiasms & abides by one rule: alight.

I can hear not imaginary songs, but true melodies for the song.
Everyday encounters with terror of the event itself & recognising it.
No performance uncharted. The toys’ reach.
Recording accurately how a wood pigeon works around a crow.
Tickets to see the sunset.
The warning against solid fantasias.
The merry material.
The two realities.
The kinds of loneliness.
Doing nothing, alone, I can do it for three days.
I have 72 hours.

I started on no subject & no idea except the look in my mind. The look of a book, faded dirt in the grossgrain, kindly tingling. Adding to the description is my only work. Recovering collected data in matched behaviours & signs is the great work, the greatest entertainment. The great witness.
 

Inuit navigators’ hand-felt wooden coastline reckoners include duration. Response requires no response.

I had to travel & from there progress from a different starting point I shouldn’t want to start from. I jaunted as a jaunting horse were. Mediating high speed simultaneity, stilt habituses sunken filled with history.

I made all of the past from disparate discontinuities. Whose work standing on the same spot, understanding & making explicable. 

In a way that doesn't work & doesn't seem like it's happening.

Night sky so bright under place-holding tarp of heavy dark. What, the air between the el-train pillars of Cambronne. In the same spot by the While-Wind, it was here.
 

Emptied out of wanting. The cats know this & come to me less often now.
Flying your spirit out. My pockets have nothing to hold them. I’m integral ecstasy itself of bridling forming a crust on the holon. 

 

Gray sky like the side of a big building. I stitch describe a normal life. The address to everything changes as I draw nearer. As wind is audible pressure.

Seek value choice seagulls hungry for domestication, if they want it. All beasts who’ve hung around waiting for acceptance.
 

I rest a little & accomplish gestures before sundown. The hand of my mouth spits up separation of means & technique. I show you an open exploded diagram. Its collapse inward or diminishing is certain, but were it to evaporate as it is extended under usage, all resonances would persist.

It gets done so that you notice it happening. Lone-full separate where you are simultaneously more akin to all things. Someone stands next to you a lot.

Leaves pierce you kerb-side. Abandon time.
 

Doing things I've just thought of & continuing to be set down & seeing a new thing never more in my mind than before & fabricating it. Days string. Wind whiling.
 

You might be alone. It will value itself waiting.