Tyler Flynn Dorholt
Dear Dénouement,
For me to be with you, in this infinite conversation, we must say I understand the dead language, and beyond. Yet as I sit, still I am under where you stood, stand. That the inordinate force of a question will always leave an answer, even if correct, with what the force of the question brought into questioning. When I pronounce a word, say lake, I know I am bidding high—for—the presence of everything the word excludes. I’d like to leave feelings out and how their absence in words makes me lake. I’m not alone and cannot confide to you such. As lake, my desolation means the most if I consider you as fog. If I had nothing to say I’d be alone. As a lake I will not lose the fog.
Writing, the human condition, not the occupation. For instance, I let some boats go over me, some canoes slide. I am most likely going to have trouble in issuing you, especially as a lake, for waves will be gone when you come over. This is why fog. I am lake in that other lakes are temporary and for then too a nothingness. Waves are what is, thus the meeting point of a possible and an impossible.
Remember when you said something about being and nothingness being like finding and seeking? (1) Together, as they appear, success and failure. And totality. The boat is an object I produce and its energy will throw you off Fog, but it will be out again, motoring, in places not your claim. Fog, what happened to the self you were when you were writing, the one you prevented from existing? Are we not the whole of our parts even in destructing them? (2) You reached yourself through the enigmas and thus fog. Here where I can splash you. You had no part in how I stage you but you stand when I sit. Your usage has no value as constraint. Non-meaning excites me, makes waves. I applaud circumstance; let the big yellow up there reflect from my skin in slants. I bring actions together. You can have them as feeling, lightly.
Yet I am not a lake right now, stand a field out with a light unending. Objects are plans I plan on putting into the goal. Wind would like to be a product that gets plugged into. When you admit to, denying everything you are, you will become what you are not, and I will see some fog out. History is your own to step aside from. If again, as I am—lakeing—you’re a good hat. (3) I object to this. (4) You had me in unnaming and because I was about to lake. In naming, death. Before it then, we move objects about in our subjects; objects, as in I put a wave against the little boat and some water went over the edge.
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1.) It was that French verb boutique you let you air down into—trouver (literally, to take a turn about)—chercher (literally, take a turn around)—that startled its selves.
2.) I abandon what tries to make me weaker: seasons, motors, sometimes birds.
3.) The end of one’s life and not having a right to it, that the separate existence separated from fall.
4.) See Blanchot—“we can’t do anything with an object that has no name.”
Tyler Flynn Dorholt writes, paints, and works in New York City and Cornwall, CT. He co-edits the journal Tammy.