Variations

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  • by
    Jé Maverick
    Monday, January 3, 2022
    The commentariat in every age and epoch, with their eagerness to adjudicate and their need to dictate meaning, have in their various commissions formulated countless ways to capture the essence of liberation, as though it could be tapped and extracted like a syrup, or clad about with a definition both bespoke and interminable. The impulse to frame and fetter, to bind within some concrete distinction, may occur any time a person becomes narrativised, the story etching out a permanent record within which an existential death is often guaranteed. It is said that a person is not a person without a story, but in the end a story may after all serve as executioner rather than liberator, undermining the very personhood claimed to be inhered.
  • by
    Jé Maverick
    Sunday, January 2, 2022

    This being, for whom those that tried found impossible to articulate or apprehend, was neither individual nor horde, neither avatar nor void; this icon built from negative space; this blank dream whirling like a death mask in a feverish mind; this conception wrought through with the ultimate antithesis of all conceivability – had any known from which procession of demons this impossible being had escaped, or to which procession of misfortunes it found itself destined, they may refuse to talk of it out of a fear of all disclosure – for those things set free by truth can never again be restored to silence, and truth, however one envisions its freedoms, may yet give way to the most hostile and witherward of liberations.

  • by
    Jé Maverick
    Saturday, January 1, 2022

    The saga of your brokenness remains incomprehensible to whomever it is told, fragments usually murmured from the corner of one mouth to the next, often shared hurriedly on thresholds, sometimes spat. You are only glimpsed on the periphery of life, a fog shifting under a dim and distant light, a shadow dissolving at the edges of vision.

    How it was you came to be known as Kintsu, the one who knit calamities together not with gold but sprezzatura; the one who appeared as thoughtform whenever spoken of, who would evaporate when the utterance came uncoiled and incomplete to a breath’s end in the idle air. How it was you came to be bound together by sangfroid and apocrypha – an indestructable and impossible being.

  • by
    Jé Maverick
    Friday, September 25, 2020
    I have met a lovely and shapely girl in the countryside who was accompanying her parents on a “constitutional holiday” rather than a vacation (at least, that’s how they termed it). Grete (that’s her name) told me that they had decided to get out of their hometown for a day due to the recent passing of her brother, Gregor (after a long illness, some wretched bug took him), but had decided to stay for a week longer. Her parents seemed quite a bit odd, and kept pointing out that Grete is such “a lovely and shapely girl”, and that her change from a wan, thin waif to a lovely and shapely girl had taken place while they had all been focusing on her ill brother. It seems that she underwent quite a metamorphosis in that period, and though she has odd parents (who are obviously trying to marry her off), she’s quite vivacious, is witty in conversation, and has a certain compelling joie de vivre. I kept having the thought that her name wasn’t right, and I think I may have even blurted out “Gretel” accidentally, just to hear myself account for the missing “L”. Lol. First impressions are often […]
  • by
    Jé Maverick
    Wednesday, September 23, 2020
    They will come, the sorrows with their brutalities and humiliations, their executioner’s masks; their shrill and baying mobs. They will nestle in the continuum of time, immovable, become part of the world that spins and all of the scars on all of the skins will flare with the knots of their history, with an honest and gnashing recursion. Yet the words and the time to come, the future that is roaring and the seeds and the bloomings and the orchestras of surprise and wonder and love, shall these be folded and left aside for the sheernesses and loomings that will be given to the sorrows? Can you be sure how much love is left in the calendar of days remaining? How many dawns will hold their names like blessings on your lips; how many nights will the moon bear witness to your tributes and your treasures and your ecstasies? Shall your words thread traumas through each square inch of time, a tapestry of hoaxes woven to the detriment of life, a rug of wounds for the barefoot and motionless? Or shall your words be hoisted flags that catch and sing the wind and the sun and the eternal season that […]