“No human being should be deprived of his metaxu, that is to say of those relative and mixed blessings (home, country, traditions, culture, etc.) which warm and nourish the soul and without which, short of sainthood, a human life is not possible.” – Simone Weil
Let us rest a little. There is much to take in here. After a long process of disintegration, rootedness. The life instinct exceeds bounds and gives off sparks
flashover of anti-form before it breaks free without recall.
To break free will take a lifetime.
A lifetime is a type of flammable cladding growing anxious to ingest the oxygen in cavity walls. The blaze burrows through at length
and eats away at it, as a blaze would. Pain is the conductor, memory the meeting place. There is no immunity to what inhabits old sensations.
… Time’s up, foster a rapid decision.
Foster, for what it’s worth, an image,
At the sharp end of the passage- way were they a sound wave chorus in a vessel being filled
the same memories would turn up the self- same passageway.
Send in all personal inquiries and sit tight, it’s just a matter of investigative procedure.
And wait and wait, for something to happen. Run motions of repetition to reach an entry point …
You left yourself in the old quarters gliding in and out of walls forever ushering new tenants in, hanging on for dear life, having only been taught hate.
You left to see how far you’d come–
When you looked back you were a navigational hyperlink, collapsed, light at nightfall the final sight to mark your progress,
all initial and ulterior installments of escapement born out of a mere change of direction. Flux.
[Reflux.] You’d like to ask moreover what dead book fiction was used to shroud, to mask everyone’s spirit of discernment so completely–
Is it true there isn’t a valve to shut off the flow of that blue smoke in here
the outlet pressure’s going to exceed 1000 kPa and someone may choke to death
before they iron out eventual bugs and safety flaws and add new self-correcting features, and whatever that piece is
that’s dislodged in you might, and why not, reveal a trace in a case of evidence without clues
internalized, in all its continuity and movement, like a compression field stretched across a nexus of events. A human breath collection apparatus in sensorial space.
Channels open in the membrane of the nerve cell as from a swift underwater explosion
during which for the subject to be transformed it must initially be stowed at the center of its vulnerability, it, the subject,
and then propelled, albeit later than ever, high into the air,
into making a farewell appearance
on a tin lifeboat surrounded by its counterparts, pain
and beauty, to see the object of universal contemplation in the flashing eye-ball in the sky
reflecting, upside down, the seeing of events as image,
Not the kind one feels confined to but a harbor of pursuit, a transplant of the will to believe no less desirous than habitual, habitually a size too large.
Because the first act of war is feeling small.
Hard to know when to stop, having arrived into the world head first, anonymously, the next place beside the last, so few crossing rafts.
How much further to keep on as to get over. What was got to is made real.
The sound of the city waking up to life
matched to the waking city’s unique sound print reveals a voice unaccounted for,
checkpoint for a longstanding hunting season.
The guards cash in each time they let the hunters through
free to continue plaiting fresh data strands unimpeded, ununiform with the near- daylight sweep
so that the rest of us here transit-breaths draggled by gusts of idiopathic hypersomnia
should access information at a higher speed, then become it.
The signal is a wave flowing through our bodies. Thoughts are foldings-over in a system of values of symmetry, slow-navigating after-thoughts mapped and encoded.
Not fully independent of to what extent
such almost instant overfolds tend to remain muted even as we try to speak, or speak & act out post-truths all at once,
an atrial flutter every .4 seconds generates miles and miles of industrious erosion.
An investigation has been launched, is now ongoing,
it grows more collapsed from the mirage of constant changings, transformations
configured/ reconfigured in the eyes of statues we can’t escape around the room.
What, at this very juncture, isn’t weighed down by the circuiting breakage?
Insofar as the nervous mind supplies the system’s orchestra, life awaits the big homecoming cheering on
nothing but survival training with a deathwish:
pitch bends the axis and architecture of synapses, ungainly frequencies are visually transposed.
Homelands melt between the cypresses
with the birth of a neo-century of maiden spirit.
The sediment of doublethink crumbles the alveoli on either side of the recruit’s heart
and compounds a vast continuous presence--
having come across the slow familiar missing of the soul, his own private micro- machinist, all that commands him does not exist.
Click & Connect
At night tricks of light sleep at dark angles. The heart feels like waves gently rock you in the middle of the sea.
Misdirected acts of kindness.
Proceed by connecting the following statements:
You don’t really KNOW yourself.
You drink down nature so she spits you back OUT.
You remain deeply UNHAPPY.
Daniel Nemo is an Amsterdam-based poet, translator, and photographer. More info at www.danielnemo.com