.

the beginning of goodbye

finds its conception in hello

which has to do with style
like the repetition found in all beginnings
and like a tune one sings
when

1. one is at home (contentedly territorializing)

2. one is away from home and in need of courage
while searching for a way back

3. one is saying good bye (deterritorializing)
and carrying 'home' in one's heart

a refrain felt along the way of certain themes
that draws a meeting place
into a particular kind of play,
maps territorial motifs into shared landscapes,
leaves a signature upon a space
or stamps a sign across another face
to remark one's own rhythms and melodies,
notsomuch to make it larger
but to couple counterpoints
that describe the relation of its interior impulses
to the folds of any moment's exterior circumstances,
into something more than just singular signatures piling up

deleuzoguattarian style

and great works are also composed like this,
by connecting and reconnecting little ritournellos
into beginnings of tunes that fade from farewells,
however slow their repetition grows
until they all but disappear

into a style

that sows a certain assemblageofennunciation,
into the transmutation of something more

composed of two things:

the first

mobilizes everything
(the author's will, his/her wishes desires, needs, necessities)
into a syntactically original treatment
that sticks language to itself (not the writer stuttering),
(p)reformed by a glitch
that causes repetitions, bifurcations, proliferations and deviations
into a resonance,
just as any great stylist does not necessarily conserve syntax,
but recreates it,
deforms and contorts it
into 'ands'

and the second

pushes alloflanguage to its musical edge,
to a border that separates it by some sonorous taptaptap

so

it carries language to a variability
by progressing it beyond something
not-any-less-complex-than-language-lived
at the musical edge of its lostandfound
and captured
in that intersection between selfandwords
by the moment of its writing-down

into a modulation or a beat
like Vincent's rhythmic blue
brushed along a linguistic ledge
that only language holds up
and dragging-dry until it fades into a text-ure
whenever affects and percepts reside
inside the writer's wordsandmeanings
and
whenever language no longer defines what it means
but becomes a force that causes it to move or flow
into

a (new) process

of reading text
not as an act of mere interpretation,
nor as a scholarly test in-search-of-what-is-seems-to-mean
but one that leads to an extraction
of the writer's revolutionary force,
towards language pressed up against the border
between Self and Other,
which is somewhere inbetween the outside
and its silence

and after having moved through one thing
to get past something else
is when she wails

hers is no retreat
but hovers into affirmation
trailing life-lived-raw-along-an-edge,
and at the end of any inward journey,
when all the notes have fallen into place
is when she climbs backoutofself,
knowing everything that follows
will be changed by what was taught

and so it is

a slow drive home again
from the stationary space of a departure
that divides the world in two
when only wanting to reside inside the sigh
that reconstitutes its value
while the rest of it just carries on

the colour of appreciation lingers
like cadmium yellow
stretched into an alizarin blend-beyond-goodbye

and just like me
she nods her head and smiles
when she sings

The sky is crying.
Look at the tears roll down the street.

Etta James