and then our exile

A language is composed of names. The power of language is hidden within the name; its abyss is sealed therein. --Scholem

Navigating, esoterica constructed with such infinitesimal care against portrayals of life, a sociopolitiko revolution against how to construct my own literature, centred always on my own stereotypes, my own roles, my own holdings, and always this consciousness of those who will read words they throw off. And a crevice somewhere, a muted question, why, in the first place, turn to yourself but not this, what the neurotic complex that demands this? And then doubt, proof for this is where? But then this, this is rationalization, it stinks to high heaven—and so dialogue dies, conclusions are gagged and returned to their dank crevice, another day is lived through.

In the end, just to fight the dovetail shrug—is this what it comes down to? And if you do not fight?

…kafa yaa nafsu, ma kana…

Language birthed hours too late, made only a tool and a mask.

Sitting in Damaskus, seconds becoming hours and months, and the weight of each is so blatantly laughed off, so bluntly lorn, and at the end of it all, mantles of the roles self has made self construct, the robes of these high duties, vestments of now-banal rites. Envy, then, and vague regret, but it is too late. Even these words, you know, shape the same curves, reach up to meet the same elegance of dress—more so, even.

I have small details, the Iraqi baker across the street has moved his shop and now there is a fruit and vegetable stall there, an internet café near my house now has an automated coffee machine, there is an uncomfortable glaze over the back of my throat, I might move to another place in a few weeks. I have futures, philosophies and language, small volumes of text spread through the few close-people built from years, horses galloping across the northwestern plains, young saplings entering soil of this earth (and how many of these, again, are made only of cloth?). I have fears, of my own self and forms of happiness and of the final recurrence, and histories constructed by an amnesiac. The first is simply trivial, the second inconsequential, the third private. And enough socioreligiopolitical commentates already exist to spread gauze. :: this webglob is left without a mandate.

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keep on rockin the free world. neil young was right, you know. ‘we’ve got a kinder gentler machine-gun hand.’

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"i need a geologist to examine this thing i call my heart." [Ph-R-D]

"I've entered a realm neglected for far too long. A land of myst where the host leads me along through its unweathered pages, waiting, nay, rather longing for my footsteps.." [Abu Sha'r of /Innocence Orphaned]

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I have asked you before, I will ask again, but each of those who read this (ie, you.) must please throw an answer into the commentbox: how or by what do you define yourself?