The Necessary Endurance of the Infinite’s Possibilities, or, the Saying Within the Said

So much to be said
Afraid that the “*saying*” will surpass the possibility of what can be “*said*”
The sadness, already filling my heart with anticipation
Alternatively, the joyous expectancy of the infinite enveloping my soul: what has always been and what will ever be
A little death, I will suffer: a death within life
Nonetheless, life remains, possibilities sustain
Knowing what will be is what will provide my Being with nourishment
The hole to be left in my heart will be temporally insignificant, when compared to the fullness of time, which we will have, when…

We have waited before, though perhaps not so painfully
A waiting to have love realized, to embrace and lose ourselves in the joy of our always has been: the unconscious brought forth to consciousness, the concept made concrete reality
We will wait once again, this time in the fullness of patience
Patience: from L. patientem, “bearing or enduring without complaint”
To bear and endure the unbearable and unendurable; it will be done
Impossible, however, to promise that it will be possible to do so without complaint
For the complaint from my heart already bears what is yet to be, though soon

Yet, hope abounds, manifesting its joy in polymorphous imaginings
From four to one, to seven: from four to three to six
This is my hope, our hope
Let us make it be
Certainly we will
We have always been together
We will all be together
Just know it
Finally, what I am “*saying*” has, perhaps, been said

© 11/19/09

The Necessary Endurance of the Infinite’s Possibilities, or, the Saying Within the Said by 

A poem anticipating a parting, which painful as it will be, will only exist in material temporality. It may be sustained in the knowledge that we can never be separated in the mystical, metaphysical infinite. A paradoxical mix of temporary sadness and eternal joy.

A repost

I came rather late to poetry and even later to photography. I have graduate degrees in philosophy. I realized sometime ago that nearly all of my work makes some sort of implicit argument, and it often makes rather esoteric references to philosophy. Sorry: not trying to be turgid. It’s what I know, and it what Pan whispers into my ear.

You may find my newer, more formal photography at:
Thanks, Rusty

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  • Christie  Moses
    Christie Mosesover 5 years ago

    Aww Rusty :) Beautiful writing on the sorrow of what will briefly come but the joy of eternity later. Let us all pray that four will become seven soon xxx

  • My eternal thanks, Cristie. Have no doubt, we will add three to the current four. Wholeness awaits at the bottom of the hole. Love, RBG

    – Rusty Gentry

  • Hathor
    Hathorover 5 years ago

    This is beautiful, love.and something I have not wanted to, nor still wish to think about…the hard part and the necissary heart part is coming. we will be turned on our backs, sides and tip to tip in seperate hemospheres, but same ones. this is a blessing and a truth come and yet to come…if that makes sense. it simply is and will be.
    this is a time of great change, on so many levels…all working towards a final goal…all searching its answer out.
    xoxo thank you, for all and everything,
    we are the great we are,

  • Indeed, difficult to think about, difficult not to think about. Yes, you make sense. The truth-little t, necessity, inevitability, cosmic mandate-will come, for that is what it does. It simply sets its own timetable, for reasons the impetus to which we will never know. (Wow, I sound like someone else I know; can you imagine this 6 months ago? Rather shocking.)
    Change is the necessity of the telos, the goal. I would imagine that, if anything, we have at least already learned that much. What’s more, necessity works on more than one level, and this is necessary.
    You have nothing to thank me for; we should just plain be thankful, something to ward off the pain. And yes, WE ARE THE GREAT WE ARE. We always will be. Just know it! ME

    – Rusty Gentry

  • autumnwind
    autumnwindover 5 years ago

    not actively commenting, but this pulls at my heart strings so much, I had to stop by. you both need to know I am sending positive energy and am filled with hope that everything will turn out more beautiful than ever. it will, and I feel it deeply. love and hugs to you both and your precious family. xoxoxo

  • Hello Dear,
    I am sorry that I have taken so long to reply to your endless reserve of kindness. Just as I KNEW things for CERTAIN—a word I will use only in the most extraordinary times—about Kat the minute I “heard her voice” come through the ether. I KNOW for CERTAIN that you have an unlimited reserve of unadulterated kindness in your heart, that your heart is full of love, compassion, and giving. I cannot thank you enough for all of the support that you have given to me/us. You are a beautiful person, of that I am CERTAIN! Love Always,

    – Rusty Gentry

  • hsien-ku
    hsien-kuabout 5 years ago

    two caterpillars curled in a leaf, and one says to the other “isn’t there something we should be doing?”
    change is only scary when time distorts the lens. another thought-provoking and moving piece of writing mon ami – i have missed you.

  • J. you flatter me. Indeed, I am not naturally the poet in any way. I was thinking not long ago about the essential difference between what Kristin writes and what I write. You and she have quite similar styles, actually. You are masters of metaphor and metonymy. I can read one of your/her poems at 5:00 and find the nugget of profound meaning wrapped up in such brilliant metaphorical trapping. I read it again at 7:00, and find that I have convinced myself that my initial reading was entirely wrong headed: in fact, diametrically opposed to the initial one. There is something ineffable in each of your approaches. I have been corrupted, however, by too much training in critical thought. Thus, it is that I was struck by the thought that each and everyone of my poems contains some implicit argument, be it one of my earlier, painfully existential ones, or a piece like this, which is nothing more than an outpouring of love, and its attendant duennas. I have tried recently to write some purely metaphorical pieces; I failed miserably.

    Nonetheless, I am very pleased that you enjoyed the piece, Judith. It is always great to hear good things from one whose work stands so clearly apart. Currently, poetry and I are not getting along. My muse has abandoned me, alas. I require a certain immediate stimulation so as to be able to write poetry that I am willing to share. It simply happens. These days, my mind finds not the peace enough to deal with the delicacies of the poetic. Thus, I am relegated to my theoretico-critical abode, which is, after all, my natural home. Sorry that it has taken me so long to get back with you. I have not been on the site since I published my last piece, until last night. So, I haven’t ignored you. I have simply become a stranger to RB. The day on which I return with gusto, will be a happy day, indeed. Thank you, Judith. :) Rusty

    – Rusty Gentry

  • hsien-ku
    hsien-kuabout 5 years ago

    I know the tyranny of the intellect only too well – but we are three brained creatures, not one brained creatures. the muse of poetry is poetry itself, in that the act of writing creates the writer (or that which is to be expressed is formed only in the act of expressing it). Don’t let thought boss you around – thought that creates philosophies, races, religions, classes; divisions which have bred violence and all forms of barbarity cloaked as intellect. Poetry does not fall into these artificial categories so easily and through it we may discover the parts of ourself that are not divisible (and a paradox only makes sense when viewed as a whole – neither extreme can be resolved without the other) . . . and, by the way, a poet is a poet no matter what company they keep. You can be a silent poet or a speaking poet but not even the absence of a muse will take the poetry out of your bones . . . xxx J

  • What do you know oh inspired one, the muse struck me in the long night of insomnia. I am a philosopher by training. My natural style is thus theoretical. I am trying to write fiction, as well. It is incredibly difficult to switch styles, which are so radically different. In spite of the fact that even my philosophical style is rather literary—I should also mention that I am anything but one of those thintelligent dogmatist—given that my area of specialization is in the continental tradition and I often write include literary sources in my pieces, I still struggle mightily to switch voices. For example, certain of my characters speak to me in the passive voice. Yet, it is difficult for me to keep that in mind as I write. I continuously want to correct myself. At any rate, I am happy that I found my poetic voice again. One off the pieces was roughly outlined in mid Jan. I just could not make it express what I wanted it to say. And, yes, one of the fantastically liberating aspects of writing poetry is that there is no one form. It allows much more freedom than does any other form of writing. There is no poetic genre. I’m not exactly following the sequence of your comment, but you can be sure that I don’t advocate theories that would incite division. Indeed, coming out of the continental tradition as I do—my primary influence is the later Derrida, who I believe to be the most profound moral philosopher since Kant. Of course, Anglo-American analytiical philosophers would lynch me for making such a statement, but that is only because they have never read Derrida, perhaps the most misunderstood philosopher since Nietzsche. Lacan and Foucault are other significant influence. My MA thesis was on the latter’s theory of biopower. Foucault’s concern, like Derrida’s, is with inclusion, though Foucault is more of a historian of thought. Derrida’s main concern is a commitment to justice, which is precisely to put oneself in the place of the other insofar as such a thing is possible. In fact, the first of his Seminars has recently been published. Much of what he is concerned with there is with the notion of the “animal” and how the use of the term has so often been applied to those who are of different races, classes, religions, and so forth. One of the last papers he delivered, I believe that the title of the book version is I Am the Animal, Therefore, I Am—I had reconstructive knee surgery last week and am not currently at home in proximity to my library—hence the necessity of my guessing at the title of the work. I will spare you my further philosophical ruminations. Sorry, I am all wrapped up in Derrida, Heidegger, and Levinas at the moment, as well. Yet another project of mine is a paper that includes those three. Thus it is that I leave you bored stiff. Thanks for the encouragement. It’s been a long time since I’ve been on RB. I need to catch up on some writing other than my own. Have a brilliant day, my dear. I believe I will check out what you have been up to lately. Chow, Rusty

    – Rusty Gentry

  • #

    Re-reading your first comment, I realize that I missed a significant part of its point. II missed how truly profound it was.
    You are right, change is only scary when it is distorted and oh how many distortions there are. In fact, uncertainty is tendency I have embraced for as long as I can recall thinking. Nonetheless, there are singular encounters in one’s life, encounters sewn together by the threads of inexpressible significance. It is not so much the change, which hurts. We are what we have become only by way of such profound transformations. What hurts, which is not the same as what is to be feared, is the possibility that—through any number of causes; sheer inertia, fear of hurting others, especially those we love and cherish most—that one may have lost the thread of potentiality,which may have culminated in the most unsurpassingly beautiful of beautiful lives.
    Am I making sense, here? If so, I would imagine that you have something of a different take,, given my experience of your writing. If so, and you are so inclined, perhaps we could take this up through Bubble-mail.
    Thanks, as always for the wisdom, Judith. Love, Rusty

    – Rusty Gentry

  • lisameryl
    lisamerylalmost 4 years ago

    Hey Mr. B, this is one of the most HEARTFELT, POWERFUL and BEAUTIFUL writes I’ve read in quite a while. This deeply moved me. =)

  • Thank you, Lisa. As you know, this was not my easiest example of self-expression. It is always fantastic to hear that a piece of work effected someone in the appropriate affective fashion. No, I love to hear that words move people, whether to joy or to be just a bit maudlin for a second or two. This was one of the longest writes I’ve ever posted in terms of time. Not because it was a difficult piece or I had to think about it. Like all of my work, I was called to the elaboration of myself, and thus it was, snap, like that. Yet, I remember struggling to see my screen with sufficient clarity to see what I was typing. I must look at WHAT I am writing, for, given my “method”/this is a profoundly inadequate word, being that had I a method, I could be a perpetual transcription machine/ I often literally don’t know what is coming next. Hell, I never have a clue more than simple logical intuition, and that is circumscribed to the particular “stanza” at which I am at work. As for segues and the becoming of the next concept, it may as well be something infinitely on its way. Shit! This sucks. Thanks, my friend. Love, Rusty

    – Rusty Gentry

  • HamperRefuser
    HamperRefuseralmost 4 years ago

    Wow, brilliant write. Really emotive. I agree with Lisa, have not read anything this decent in a long while.

  • A “decent,” even? I’m being, or trying to be a merry prankster. It means a great deal to read such a comment from someone who is not a regular to my work, and who I don’t know. Again, as I mention to Lisa, I love to have the affective power of the language reaffirmed, for it offers me some sense of hope for humanity, if only on the micro-level. I truly appreciate the comment, HR. Cheers, Rusty

    – Rusty Gentry

  • Betty Smith_Voce
    Betty Smith_Vocealmost 4 years ago

    The halls of beauty are falling silent and it has a hollow sound to it… Beautiful write.

  • Yes, I know this silence. It is the deafening silence of one’s battle with sanity, or even the desire to remain sane. Wow, what would it be like to have a brain that did not work on warp speed, that did not demand of me, that would allow my body to be something more than a convenient mode of transportation from perception to perception; yes, the human body as taxi-cab for the brain, on call 24/7. It is the sound of absence, of the morning one awakens to realize that there will be no patter of feet down the hallway to jump in the bed and amaze me by virtue of the simple complexity of the ritual and what it means. It is the silence, which separated being alone from the far different existential experience of “loneliness.” You know, Betty: it took the experience of plenitude, of absolute fullness with an Other, to call upon this strange creature, “the lonely one,” who subsequently showed up, as if to fill the void. I have always been a loner, perhaps to an extreme. It was a mechanism of survival, when I was a kid and teenager. But, I was that way longer before the Monster came out from the closet and married my mother. Yet, I had never felt lonely. I was always too hungry to learn something new. It turns out that all of the years I spent learning the most improbable and esoteric crap that I became enamored with, in addition to those more structured years, provided me with absolutely nothing in terms of recovering from an experience of total and absolute identification with another person, of non-pathological absorption, and passion supreme, which I am surprised it took me 38 years to have given my predilection for taking everything just a degree or two past the penultimate. Frankly, I’m not sure that I ever will.

    Yet, I wouldn’t trade the experience or its effects upon me, for anything in the world: not for a body ravaged by the vicissitudes of a brain tumor, not to be free of my constant companion pain for the rest of my life, not even for a selfish perpetuation of WE. Whoever is not certain that Irony and Paradox are the only transcendentals, may only consider the pure fortuity of the meeting of such another being on a site to which I had added nothing in well over a year/ no clue how I happened to be here/ the added contingency of an absolute and immutable bond, beyond any spatial or temporal mandates, along with the fact that each of us had the courage to be in the presence of another human being before whom one is entirely denuded, absolutely exposed and almost literally transformed into a hostage, a willing and madly happy volunteer at that, but to whom one cannot but say, "Whereever you are, whatever you are doing, I am with you, for I have kept only enough of my soul as to be capable of appreciating the sublimity of this great paradox; the contingent necessity of, chicken/egg, the We Are We. Thus have I experienced the apotheosis of grace and beauty, and more often than not, can now fill the halls of beauty with my spontaneous exaltation of what was, is, and shall be for all of eternity. I have a tattoo underneath my left forearm, the infinity sign, as a material reminder that I am never truly alone, however lonely I may feel at a particular instant. Thankfully, I was blessed with a special ineptitude for fear, which forced me to risk everything for whatever Fortuna may present to the impoverished “me” transformed into the first person, plural, and what is more, reflexive, pronoun, serving as both subject and object as “We are We,” from which nothing more valuable may be asked of life.
    Did I make a bit of sense there? Wow, the power of “we,” doesn’t ask to employ its force, “I” am long since gone, by the time my mind catches up with the fact of its plurality in the “we.” I ought to stop so as not to turn this into a dissertation on the power of a pronoun. Thank you, Betty. Love, Rusty

    – Rusty Gentry

  • oema
    oemaalmost 4 years ago

    We will wait once again, this time in the fullness of patience
    Patience: from L. patientem, “bearing or enduring without complaint”
    To bear and endure the unbearable and unendurable; it will be done
    Thank You for this.

  • My friend, non merci nécessaires, for I did no more than my beautifully emotional muse required of me. Pan reads my soul, and he dictates what I take are its portents, as well as its contents to me, in the hope of creating something beautiful and apposite to the expression of a given ineffable. Is patience not a brilliant word? I recall the circumstances of my procrastination over the dictionary, which led to my etymological Eureka!, very vividly. It was snowing out, suffusing my office with that ethereal brightness, which is one of snow’s calling cards. Actually, it was a Wed afternoon, easy enough to express with an unusually strong inductive certainty/ not just unusually strong, but lexically self-contradictory, as “inductive certainty” would be akin to something like an egg bearing mammal. Yet there is the one as there is the other, and I am thankful to the platypus and it’s ridiculous look of defiance in the presence of normative categories, for serving as a steadfast counter-intuitive exception. Of course, I could have simply employed another phrase, but am not quite smart enough to take the easy route./that it was a Wed afternoon. This is a fact attested to by such evidence as that I had my Lacan seminar that evening, and Don taught his seminars on Wed nights and only Wed nights, and I was at the American dictionary seeking for a suitable translation to a French word, which has no Eng. equivalent. I was reading the assignment in the original French so as to facilitate my translation skills, which is not to say that I hadn’t already consumed the English version. Thus rather than “a phallic-like projection extending from just below the eyes all the way to the ground,” for example, an elephant has a “trunk.” Such issues are not always so clear in instances when one is creating a translation for a language that is not one’s mother, or even mother’s, aunt’s, cousin’s brother, through the marriage to his obsequious and easily taken for granted 4th nephew’s little girl. Yet another form of procrastination, I am known to employ, the Where the F*&K did he cook this up, stream-of-consciousness digression. Nevertheless, upon coming to appreciate the significance of what I had just learned, what had formerly been a word with more or less quotidian connotations and with which I had often been taunted until I reached the age at which I liberated my bird/someone was forever beseeching me to be patient, not knowing the beauty towards which I rushed. Moreover, patience is not a virtue, but a plural possessive noun referring to the group of people one with a medical degree is preparing to divest of their savings, so as to assure that the dog is properly groomed for a mere $100, my ineptitude at spelling notwithstanding, I happen to be a medical ethicist, which qualifies me specially to judge the meaning and context of situation both medical and those putatively involving virtue, which is actually no more than an elaborate ruse constructed by Plato and fully-elaborated by Aristotle in The Nicomachean Ethics, so named after his son, Nico. Or, to be succinct as possible: it is a philosophical construct, just like most of that which you both hold dear and take for granted. Ignoring the monstrosity of the logical fallacies upon which that entire discussion was based, aka, argumentum verbosium (proof by verbosity) and argumentum ad verecundiam, (appeal to authority, or, further and fittingly in the context of this dog’s breakfast of a reply, the fallacy of defective induction). Having allowed my non sequiters spin out of control, I will simply note that I got goose bumps, at the realization of the true power of this word, and it subsequently became an essential concept for my work on both death and on chronic pain and suffering. Indeed, it allowed for the construction of a revolutionary and much needed re-evaluation of the notion of the “addicted person” and what “recovery” entailed in a psychologically and philosophically nuanced sense, thus attempting to avoid the near automatic objectification of the subject of an addictive substance. See, I could continue with my perverse induction, literally and much to your chagrin, for days on end. I would love to have some software that could map the subtle logic, no claim to soundness, of any person’s “unconscious” conscious elaborations, aka, stream of consciousness. I trust that most of us would be shocked at the strength of connection between both thought “A” and “Z,” not to mention the subtle flow of those thoughts and the path from “pure need” to the “fear of castration,” first charted by Freud, as an elaborate metaphor, only to be formalized and made literal by sycophants and intellectual dilettantes in the disservice of the most imaginative mythographer perhaps in the history of mankind; Freud as the centuries long accumulation of Homeric myths compacted beyond conceptual grasp (i.e., into the realm of “idea”) into a single person and 44 volumes of collected works. Freud demands something of one’s patience, as well, in spite of his entertaining style, if one is to be a responsible reader, and not leave with the notion that your little brother is hitting on your mom, that is called eating, or, more properly, “feeding.” Presumably daddy had no such pip squeak rivals for Mommy’s carnal attentions, whatever drag you may have tried to impose upon their application, by shattering the relative silence of foreplay with an ear-spitting shreek, thus unnaturally transferring Mom’s attentions from her legitimate Desires to your impetuous Needs. Oh, the harm children inflict upon the psyche off their parents. Thank you for your patient and kind attention to what may be a pathological affinity for digression. You see, upon allowing myself that initial leap from one more or less coherent set of ideas, to another, related, but only through a certain imaginative leap of faith, I receive an infusion of certain chemicals, the result of which may be called “verbal foreplay.” I nominate it for such a name, for I nearly end such an excursion in to the depths of my cranial space with the demand that I pay attention to Pan. Thus I leave you to elaborate a Geography of Desire. Damn, I love to write. And, I am thrilled that you had the reaction you did to such an important term, which natural diachronic linguistic development, somehow entirely stripped of its most natural aspects. Does the term not entirely transform itself, upon learning of it’s history? Digressing to infinity and beyond, love, Rusty

    – Rusty Gentry

  • Dab, to save time and perhaps your sanity, all that is necessary to understand what I really want to say above are the comprehension of the first two sentences and the final three or so. The rest is so much torture, which you happened to be positioned perfectly to receive, and which resulted in freeing my gray matter enough to have it prepared to be sufficiently disciplined to elaborate a “geography of desire,” very near an ars erotica ammended by various social niceties, the final clause there is a flat out fucking lie, but I understand that it sells to put a chaste cover upon a steamy piece of linguistic abuse, aka, Barbra Cartland. Now, that was an entirely gratuitous instance of digressive over indulgence, for which I will say three go to hell rusty’s and have 4 of our cold beers. But, only upon completing my topography of desire, which I hope will repay you the pain I have inflicted.

    – Rusty Gentry

  • Tony Ryan
    Tony Ryanalmost 4 years ago

    Think patience and acceptance can be great pathways to creating individual existence that is truly fulfilling.

  • I take it that you are asking, right? I’m not sure that acceptance is or ever will be an option. Patience, yes! That much is necessary in the absolute sense. Otherwise, one would go insane with longing.

    This is a once in a life time occurrence, if one is lucky as hell. Tony, I’m 40; it’s not like I’m some young pup in love with his first lay, right? I’ve been married, had a kid, and married relatively late, because I wasn’t satisfied that I had tasted all the flavors my palette desired. Well, I have nothing more to sample. There is no one else to desire. I KNOW WE. Perhaps I’m not making a whole lot of sense.

    I found someone who loves ME, that’s right, the entire package pathologies and all. What’s more, she is all I ever needed. Fortuna, isn’t much help, bitch of contingency and necessity. She’d do best to avoid me, unless I can charm her into being my hand maiden.
    What do you think? Cheers, and thanks for the comment. Rusty

    – Rusty Gentry

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