I'm inside an arena. I'm here with a friend to see a pro wrestling event. We are wandering down strange and angular hallways but we just get more and more lost. We end up in a room where people are buying guns, combat knives, and weird military apparel. We look intently at the merchandise. We marvel at strange alien camouflage where the patterns of colors are moving, as if they are sentient. At some point we learn that we are on the second floor of this structure. We have access to the second and third floors of this arena but the first floor is oddly inaccessible. It is impossible to exit. We want to leave but we are unable to. At some point I become separated from my friend and I am wandering down weird and angular hallways by myself. The ceilings are incredibly high. This is visually similar to The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari but more expansive and alien. I enter and exit strange looking doors. I walk down a very long hallway that is like a cold and sterile version of the Versailles Hall of Mirrors. At some point I enter an ancient cathedral. It is very dark and everything is covered in dust. I feel alone and this is when I start to get really lucid. As I step into this weird cathedral I am blasted by an enormous gust of wind. This is really extreme hurricane-style wind. I feel my hair getting blown by the wind and large gusts of air are entering my mouth. This is unimaginably vivid and my perception of this event is so intense, so strong that it felt as real as any gust of air I have ever felt. Huge concentrated currents of air enter my mouth and then I open my eyes.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
excerpt from an interview in The Price of Experience, Black Widow Press 2012
Clayton Eshleman: In The Time of Voice, one poem is titled "Every Language is a Second Language." Does one write poetry to break out of second language into first language? Is the language shamans tell us they hear, and converse with animals in, a first language?
Robert Kelly: No, shaman talk and beast talk are second languages too. First language is what happens to our skin and eyes and mind in the world, the hurt of happen. The touch of hand. The wind. We can name all those things later, but when they happen, they are first language talking to us, and we speak that language by moving, touching, tasting. I mean the movement from perception into language is far greater in its abstraction, its terror, than the movement from English to Japanese or Tibetan. My title, its idea, is to keep people firmly aware of how remote all language is from the healing joyous horror of primary sensation.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Open your eyes to what I now reveal,
and you will see your thoughts and my words join
as one truth at the center of the round.
All that which dies and all that cannot die
reflect the radiance of that Idea
which God the Father through His love begets:
that Living Light, which from its radiant Source
streams forth Its light but never parts from It
nor from the Love which tri-unites with them,
of Its own grace sends down its rays, as if
reflected, through the nine subsistencies,
remaining sempiternally Itself.
Then it descends to the last potencies,
from act to act, becoming so diminished,
it brings forth only brief contingencies;
and by this term I mean things generated,
things which the moving heavens produce from seed
or not from seed. The wax of things like these
is more or less receptive, and the power
that shapes it, more or less effective––stamped
with the idea, it shines accordingly.
So trees of the same species may produce
dissimilar fruit, some better and some worse;
so men are born with diverse natural gifts.
And if the wax were perfectly disposed,
and if the heavens were at their highest power,
the brilliance of the seal would shine forth full;
but Nature can never transmit this light
in its full force––much like the artisan
who knows his craft but has a trembling hand.
But if the Fervent Love moves the Clear Vision
of the First Power and makes of that its seal,
the thing it stamps is perfect in all ways.
Dante, Paradise Canto XIII (Mark Musa translation)