Writings from Walleye #6 12/13/15

 

For anyone that stumbles across this, walleye is a weekly writing and movement workshop in Seattle that I went to for a couple of years.  Now that I have moved away to go to college, it has been awhile since I have been.  I was lucky enough to make it back today and it still inspires me.

Here is my writing from today.  It's not supposed to make sense, it's just what comes out, unedited.

How to be your own decorator:

        PART 1

        intelligent-keen, subtle, sharp, knowing, downy, wide-awake, gnostic
        intelligence is the ability to start a fire and then to get out of the way of its burning.
        intelligence is growing sharp teeth when the time has come to eat.
        intelligence is conversing with the clouds and listening to their advice.
        intelligence is knowing the value of (k)not knowing.

        death bell-passing bell, knell
        debris-eluvium
        decay-decline, ruin
        possess

        In the distance, a bell is ringing; knell.  Someone is passing by, someone is passing through, someone is passing on.  What do I possess?  The whole of the world.  Intangible.  I sit upon a saddle and am myself saddled.  .listen.listen.listen.  In the distance I hear thunder and a bell.  .listen.listen.listen.

        PART 2

       "There are innumerable smart and fascinating varieties of trimmings and finishes."

        More than  one.  Far more than one branch blown from the tree, blown by the wind.  More than two,  branches laying.  The wind sings its old song and we all howl in unison.  Three and more than three branches.  I have lost count; bright holes poked into the black sky and the world is tearing and being torn.  Four branches and then five still seem to be creaking there where they lie.  Six and more than six lies, told with a twisted and tattered tongue; a tangled mess of stories.  Stories of the day you were born before you knew the space between the ground and the sky, no sense of differentiation.  Nonsense and what difference does it make?  Six beetles scramble across the floor.  Six nails holding the wings to the wall.  Six bent and broken forks, tuned to the frequency of nothing, lie buried in the dirt at your feet and your toes are there and they are squirming.