facebook | J.J. Smith's "Numbers"

CL.

December 23, 2012 § Leave a Comment

returning to what? inflection substitutes for what my linguistic preferences were at a time

returning for whom? no person replays what I meticulously labor on, be it a synthesized keyboard, organ, or an arpeggiator; no amount of virtual stringed instruments or mixed, spoken vocal tracks will attract the common ear as it will my own;

returning for whom? each note chosen, each key touched by my own hand, tweaked by my own ear

words, in their own right, chosen with care

octaves are no different

rhythms, too

commas, periods. dashes / colons: cuts

what is begged of me is internal, the audience within

A measured year has almost passed

spirits wane—

may restraint illuminate! may a certain self-temperance allow my instinctual self to recoup,

the narrative-structured prose to recall

Returning: CXI.

December 15, 2012 § Leave a Comment

I must practice writing as Earth practiced itself

until I emerged

now words surface

to stars and to black [crushing] voids

[press lead / press diamond]

I / You

I / We

……… / ( )

Returning: CXXXV.

November 29, 2012 § Leave a Comment

Watching films of stars receding and stars expiring

planets consumed

elements exhausted

matter compacted, clouds buzzing

It’s okay. Holding you, it’s okay.

CXLVII.

November 21, 2012 § Leave a Comment

If I could stare long enough at a single point . . . say, I was standing in a room and staring—not into a corner or at a blank wall, but if I could stare long enough, holding my friend’s hand while I did so (because her presence provides such strength), I could see into that spot, into this empty air, this vacuum, this invisible little nothingness between the ceiling and the floor and the walls, the part we walk through daily without feeling it pass through us—

if I could stare into the nonspecific space long enough I might see the atoms buzzing.

There is a law in quantum mechanics stating the specific placement of an atom cannot be exacted. A definite number cannot place its presence. The measurements are given in scientific notation so as to account for error. This is because the atoms are never not moving. Everything buzzes always. Without movement, nothing survives. Without the moon’s gravity and the tidal push, organic matter does not shift, life does not emerge on land. Stagnant lakes harbor death and bacteria. With only movement does life and light exist. With collision, new life is birthed. With a dying star, elements are hurled out into the nothingness; here, the debris collects and compacts. Planets are made. They move. The atoms they are made of move.

The laws of physics we are submitted to are specific to us and our size. Our atoms do not follow the same laws. They follow their own. How is it that the very essence of which we are made of does not follow the same rules?

The meteors and the red giants and the colliding galaxies are rushing ever-always, looming overhead. We are stuck between the quantum-sized fabric of matter and the ominous threats, the larger, unfeeling, relentless beasts. We are the Middle, a harmonizing of the unseen and the incomprehensible, all coalescing into brawn and sensuality and intellect and humor.

Vibrations of the atoms affect each erogenous pocket of matter—

screaming, we enter

pleading, we exit—

how magnificent, how frightening—

this begs interpretation but the truth remains evasive (“truth?” is the wrong question to ask here but I am left lying here, fighting off sleep and these poisonous thoughts that often plague a young man in his twenties.)

Another quantum law states how no prediction can be reached on what will happen in any given circumstance.

CXLV.

November 19, 2012 § Leave a Comment

a man broken

absent of brawn

aged, bent

Not me

branchless, I spring

bathing, rising

rooted to rock

origin reaches origin

Youth nourishes ambition

Forever young, I rise

not like you

a man broken

CXLIV.

November 19, 2012 § Leave a Comment

Encircled by an arrangement of barns and sheds and other farm houses now converted to art galleries, cafes, and gift shops

my eyes focus on the tops of trees far off. In Nashville, landscapes feel swept aside, the acreage owned by freeways or rich estates. The remainder is in the hills; there, the trees gather, bronze-cinnamon heads peeping up from thickets of deadened redcedars, locusts, hemlocks…The heads, their color clinging to life through the cold…almost a rusted copper-brass like the buttons you see on dark jeans. Longer I look, I see green tinges.

On the tourist-hangout-outskirts, the ground hops and chirrups with dark olive-gold warblers. Their miniature, pointed beaks nip at gravel and things squirming in the soil, things tinier than them.

I can hear the hidden wildlife scavenging through scraps of a fire pit and flipping through tree limbs. I hear the many workings of Nature, my own workings with pen on paper on the picnic table with the heat of the relentless Sun down upon us all (and what is Sol but merely a labor of the elements? Are we any more than such?)

CXLIII.

November 18, 2012 § Leave a Comment

During the flight, Simon & Schuster’s World of Physics brought consolation; Weaver and Feynman affirmed my own life-mulling in the way that Fichte and Kant had this year previous–thank the Germans! Today, Blaise Pascal–thank the French! But these are only names, only heritages. Their words transcend them in the way that my own notes scribbled on airport receipts belong no more to me than anything else (do I “produce” these notes or, rather, discover them? And what is it I discover? That which lies dormant, breathing and waiting in nature.)

On the receipt acting as a page placeholder,

unlike the Greeks, I must form a concept of the nature of physical laws in the way that I have sought a relationship between the forces and structures of nature

no structure can exist without forces

the laws of nature which apply to a human apply to any celestial bodies as well

observation, reason, experiment

methods of understanding: control/isolate, deduction, approximation

CXLI.

November 6, 2012 § Leave a Comment

It’s always disconcerting how the ability to publish our thoughts publicly also amplifies the volume of those so naively impassioned.

If you tout around your opinions in a profile status post, you should be prepared for a discussion.

Nothing left to say on this. Any opposition to the above statements is not worth the amount of effort required to refute it.

However, my posting these sentences onto someone’s Facebook profile devolves into the following responses:

“Merp”

“Derp”

“Oh goodness”

“Omgggg it was just a status”

because when we cannot utilize our intellect to form coherent words and convey true meanings, we will mimic a dumb noise or add extra letters to further prove that we are incapable of genuine discussion.

Returning: XCII. & XXVIII.

October 31, 2012 § Leave a Comment

XCII.

Soon as I dictate my thoughts to my limbs

to my fingertips

the keys

the thought vanishes with the magic of its inception

- -

soon as I etch mentalities into a yellow legal pad

I become less of who I was

I become much less

enhanced by refinement

bereft of any chance of purity

- -

am I More now or Less now than prior to This?

XXVIII.

No matter how I try, can’t trace my pen-hand. Its shadow attached, trapped existing; out of light, extinguished, is its only rest.

Move a thumb. It moves. It interprets. It soothes. It means. It mars. It takes.

CXXXI.

October 31, 2012 § Leave a Comment

It nags, pulls here; it is not the impulse to write but

you sleep; I write

is this not true? Or am I deceived?

Skin of my bones, my muscle, my egg-carton of organs (cook, crack, split them; they expire, they spoil; all it takes is time)

all it takes is time and these nights fade

you sleep; I write

there was a life here, was there not? Out here floating off is a boy

a balloon missing its weighted-piece –

not “decorum” because my inflated form does not belong up here

not “decorum” because the wind whipped it about, scuffed the plastic, wore-down the edges

faded; all fades as these nights are closing

in, around — I am deceived

you sleep

I write

CXXX.

October 29, 2012 § Leave a Comment

Each new entry is an apology for the last, each new word having healed what others damaged

/ steady washing, the forms of water rushing –

sleet, snow, rain –

rocks, even vulnerable to the slosh-and-cave of things –

things, how bland, how vague

/ words, how colorless, how white

/ soul, how empty, incalculable –

no amount of back-dashes, hyphens, colons, or markings will alleviate the dissatisfaction

no markings make pause for thought no markings make reason for cause

no justifying my means

nothing answers the call of the clouds

the great descent / the great ascent (of all things water)

as nothing answers the urge to write of it

/ it, how bland, colorless, incalculable, vague; how empty…Is this entry healing what I have irreparably damaged? Might the elements purge the page of it? Might the waters wash it from record?

/ might the fog in this head clear / time, how empty –

might “time” be the sole healer?

CXXVIII.

October 28, 2012 § Leave a Comment

Precipitation, drops hurtling, touching down at velocities, in droves, in numbers; globules of elements (just as All is)

as I am

inside, romanced–how storms trickle through tree limbs, gutters–

ringing on pavement, sliding downward, always downward

upward, someday

always upward, somewhere, the elements, you and I

CXXIV.

October 13, 2012 § Leave a Comment

I am typing from an unreachable space. Here, you are sealed off from the immediacy of the emotions coursing through my nerves, exacted by (oh, as I have referred to them as before) these interpreters made of bone and flesh and all that is invisible to me unless I were to peel these layers back until an emptiness revealed itself, until the void creeping into my thoughts as of late is revealed–

you should feel alienated by my words now. Good. It is best this way. The relationship we are forming is too knowable…You read; I live, I write; you read…How are you living? Well? Not-so-well?

If you are not familiar with this manner-speak, please, humble me by allowing yourself entry and entreat your mind to wander; do me this courtesy and I shall offer a heavily contemplated experience. I offer you honesty.

Here, you are sealed off from knowing me. You know the words. That is all I have anymore, really (do not mistaken this for pitiful remarks of Self.) It is true. The words say what my laughter and my new pair of shoes and my haircut and the artifacts on my shelves cannot.

CXXIII.

October 7, 2012 § Leave a Comment

Isn’t it wondrous how we can publish our thoughts immediately into this nonexistent void? Then, months later, we can read our own convictions begrudgingly. This tracks your ignorance and also your ability to learn past it and continue onward, humbly.

–

There are Numbers I do not stand behind. But I stand behind the past, regardless, bruised ego clenched in these ink-covered fists.

CXXI.

August 26, 2012 § Leave a Comment

Another day on earth passed; that is, the rays that nurture life have passed on once more to aid the other some-billion thriving organisms.

To many, Neil Armstrong passed.

To me and few others, a Facebook debate ensued over the jail sentencing of a sex offender.

To some child, the night is still passing.

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Where Am I?

Follow “J.J. Smith's "Numbers"”