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Out by gegeshandong



                               I could not help but cry out.

                               I wanted, seems I needed.

                               (They say infants cannot live more than…without…)

                               What did I want? Or possibly need?

                               What did I expect crying out would do?

                               The “I” the “cry” the “out”

                               the “need” the “want.”

                               All questions. All words.


                                A “perhaps” pre-conscious being, wee and wriggling in a tiny bed, flexing and stretching,
                stuttering jittery gestures “out” from the red oval of its thick little torso, its weight of being, center of
                gravity, almost grasping…face flushed and agitated, “cries” – wails, screes,

                               …tiny vibrating thing struggling and shaking…

                               …at nothing…at absence…

                               Does the cry begin an “I”? Introduce an inside, an outside?
freedom all                    And what was the noise like in the cranium that produced it?
 to be lords
 of our own
  tiny skull-                 Was it crashingly brash and mind-shivering after months of deeply muffled sounds
                muddled in its own enclosed sea? Or did it remain beneath and vague, dull rumblings like far sky-
alone at the    thunder?
center of all
creation” –
David Foster                   and it’s clearly a catastrophe, an apocalypse, you should hear it in here – suffocated or
                cymballically resounding – either way these are the tremors and explosions of great wars going on in
                this miniature cranial kingdom,

                              pressures and reverberations and gigantic signal and noise because “I,” yes “I” - this
                organic squealing seed of an alien, purpled red and trembling - WANT!

                                I don’t know what, but it seems readily evident that it involves a “you” already, or where
                is the point of the urge to make it known? To ex-press? And the “you” must already also be a “who” to
                have the possibility of volition to respond.

                              and what’s to prevent “you” from wailing your very own “I cry out” into your hands with
                such volume, crumpled there on your bed, that my announcements go unheard?

                Nathan Filbert                                                                                         Page 1

                            Who will help us? Isn’t everyone a victim, ultimately?
“But who is                    When my skin hammers the edge of the next concrete step, flays open and begins
   not a
              pulsing its expression down my leg, getting the inside out, some ancient Greek concept of signifier and
   Death      signified (of which these terms being written are still further removed) my lungs huff, throat tightens,
 awaits us    jaw loosens, tongue darts out of the way and vibrations burst through my teeth like a massive tree trunk
  all…” –                                                                                                                    “out of my
Rosemarie     popping, giving way,                                                                                              natural
 Waldrop                                                                                                                        default
                            Where or to whom is this invocation aimed, if not simply to “you” my imaginary ghost-             setting of
              friend from preschool dark nights and solitary playgrounds, my lack of siblingy sinew and absence of            uniquely,
              likeminded peers in the farmlands, my unreliable (or perhaps not) pet dog, or even to create an echo in       completely,
              the vacuum of my own head,                                                                                     imperially
                                                                                                                            alone day in
                                                                                                                               and day
                            “Mother - !!!”                                                                                     out…the
                              Whether or not the infant’s cry is answered, garners a response, (perhaps there is/was no        gnawing
              “mother” to perceive the demented shrieks) isn’t really the point, point being, the point of being, that “I      sense of
                                                                                                                            having had,
              (you) cry out.”                                                                                                 and lost,
                            We vomit, bleed, piss and shit.                                                                     infinite
                                                                                                                             thing…” –
                                                                                                                            David Foster
                            It gets out. We “get” out.                                                                         Wallace

                            I imagine a two-button anthropological theory where my being is some double-sided
              pressure system that when squeezed forcefully enough emits, makes us sound.

                                               Pleasure                         Pain

                            And to whom or wherefore the emission?

                             For years I practiced a quiet and concentrated, superior and servile engagement in sexual
              activity. Duly warned of orgasm’s greed with distorted names like “premature,” “slam-bam,”
              “selfishness” and “sin.” I would neither “give in” to the little deaths, nor agree to “go first,” but would
              manipulate the other body’s addiction and preferences, a kind of preemptive strike, thus pushing the
              button for sighs and moans without knowledge (understanding?)

                           for when I laid off the fear and became fully participant in these escapades – I would
              grown and huff and deeply growl as overcome

                             and the suspicion is that what might be called speaking, these signifiers, sounds, say
              language, intended more than some biologically stomped-foot-pump gush of air over variant tensings of
              wires and a rippling palate…

                            I cried out

                            Which, I’m inferring, implies direction.

              Nathan Filbert                                                                                      Page 2

        Another way of saying the skull-sized kingdom is not large enough to account for…


              I recall climbing a mountain way above treeline, rocky, windy, solitary and well, fearsome,
awe-full. I must have been around twelve years old, had encountered a grizzly bear (diverted just long
enough by a crushed can of tuna and a potently electrical thunderstorm) everything only increasing my
determination to scrape, pull, slide and scruff my way to the pointy pinnacle of this beast

               After hours of effort for a few hundred feet of thinly oxygenated ground, I laid flat at a
height I’d never risen to of my own power before. I looked out. Around. Up (only sky). Down
(everything that was). I spun as if in flight. I stripped to nakedness – the cold hard wind helped the
grandiose illusion

               Sometimes both buttons are compressed fully, at once.

               And what happened did not fit into my cranium.

               I bellowed. I yawped. I sang, giggled, cried.

               Way out.

              And here I am, cradling a tiny thing I had some magical part in creating, both buttons at
once, and again I cry, and the tears are rolling in one direction only – out.

                  And this woman that I am coming to know (who introduced me to “crying out” in orgasm)
says something to me that supports and sustains me in my forty-year-old intimate understanding of
limitations and of feeling resisted by the world, and I stare, I listen, and I gaze at her eyes, these
tumultuous blue-grey windows to something that seems for all the world infinite and incomprehensible
to me, both buttons at once, and I look and I look, and I hear whisping about the walls of the castle in
the kingdom of my skull this something she just said, and I can’t quite believe it, and sometimes as it
circles around I can’t believe it at all, it seems preposterous even, but some, some turns of the phrase
slip through really old cracks in the walls in there and slither leak down somewhere and begin settling in
in there, in a there I could not draw a map to if my life depended on it, and it does, and I keep looking
into a similar there I am thinking hoping and I’m hearing whatever it is she has said to me, and, at least
partially it is becoming a part of me, and, in spite of myself, then, there, now, I find that, in the midst of
all of this, all this here there in now…

               …I could not help but cry out…

               “Formally stated, ‘I’ am one term in the relation ‘You’ and ‘I’ which constitutes both the ‘I’ and the ‘You’”

                                                            -John MacMurray

Nathan Filbert                                                                                                                 Page 3

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