THE DELENDA

THE DELENDA
A Requiem for My Wanton Words

The Purpose of this Delenda: A Limbo Between Digression and Deletion

During my last college semester I studied under a brilliant professor; he taught me to quiet my inner censor and to just write as I wish--despite my post-traumatic-professor-disorder which paralyzes me with self-doubt, these the war-wounds worn by so many students after years of terrible teachers, each either entirely apathetic or deeply entrenched within the utterly rote—their lectures just jaded regurgitations in Power Point, those slides cycling while the students fitfully sleep in-seat.I began writing a memoir for his class and I have yet to finish it; my writing has not been as clear and precise as it was while under my professor’s mentorship and I have more than doubled my original page length, though very little has actually been said therein. I am increasingly lent to my own obsessive compulsive writing tendencies. My prose has of-late been lost in loops and tangles of meaningless tangents—self-indulgent insertions of the beautiful words I love to taste in text.This blog is a collection of passages deleted from my memoir—an attempt to preserve wasted words, which are intrinsically sacred in spite of me. May they have their heaven here; may this final resting place, this Delenda, be better than nothing at all—better than true deletion.

If this unjust medium--this blog--be not the cure for my wild-fire writing, then surely The New School will be.

I was recently accepted to The New School in New York City for their MFA Creative Nonfiction Writing program for Fall 2010. Being accepted into such an esteemed university, being awarded such a coveted spot in their writing MFA program -- it's like winning the academic lottery. I have never been happier than I am in my dreams of a true academic setting. I know this will be the solace I have sought since being under the mentorship of my undergraduate writing professor.

This is me...

This is me...

This is me as well...

This is me as well...
In Death Valley, the Sand Dunes and Solitude Suited me Well.
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June 26, 2012

There is Still Time

ALL HE WHO IS KITH TO ME,
RELATIONS SEWN FROM LIKE ANXIETIES,
I HAVE COME TO REMIND
THAT THERE IS STILL TIME
(but it shall never be enough for us)


Erin wheeler
3/23/2012 ~ Free-writing
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Quiet those taciturn, internal taunters when they take residence in the mind, whispering from within in, rebuking all your endeavored engagments, exposing the grand futility inherent in your attempts to participate in life. Hush that ever-echoing mental chorus, which plagues the heart of all who understand how fleeting and Sisyphean our lot in life ultimately is. These fears are not unfounded, rather unproductive. What time you waste withdrawn, granting audience to those oppressive solicitors, seducing the insecure mind to succumb to the frenzy of hindsight, which blinds you to all ways but the way from which you already came. Knowing that scarcely there exists a pursuit so perfect, that it is equal to the value of time you have spent doing it, as time is of infinite, instinsic value, and thus nothing but that task of equally infinite value can ever be deemed a good use of it. But this is not to say you are squandering it; you only waste the time when it passes in the lapse of your noticing it. You offend the nature of time only when it progresses in the absence of your awareness, and in any lost hour wherein you do not ugently pursue some action--be it any task at all, rote and riveting alike--any motion is more meritorious than joining humanity's wealth of the unmoved soul...and you haven"t done yourself any grave injustice, so long as you stay sentient in the locus of this moment most presently; this alone assures you shall never fall in step with the rest of man, most of whom live and die unbeknowst to themselves, just sleep-walking through the gift of existence, their soul in locked in some willful comatose. Only somnolence and apathy truly wastes our one most precious serendipity --that rather than nothing ever existing at all, there is Something -- messy, disordered, spooky at a distance, but Something, all the still. If this is the only bit of Being we're allotted before we cease to Be entirely, in the moment post-death when we return to the earth and the soil that gave us rise eons prior reclaims us and disembodies us, bit by ever smaller bit, until soil is all that is left, dirt where once was man and his unique propensity for intellect and sentience. True -- I should say, yes most probably. I hope otherwise but I dio not expect that to ever be the case. This is it -- if you come to find postmortum that I was wrong about this, I doubt you'll regret that you held that beneign assumption, for who could in earnest say they resent the false maxim they held to when that very notion of our one-time temporary mortality that gave us motive for actively living it?
Do notbe taken under by that depraved second-cousin of Truth -- which is, namely, Panic, wherein you find yourself knowing What, but never What to Do. The truth may set you free, but Panic has you in a holding tank. Your adaptability to undersible truths .is paramount; otherwise the fear of the truth -- though less or none the truth itself-- shall become so encumbering, your entire world will appeaer plagued by it, and it becomes a harrowing blight upon within every lucid man. soul with the profound anxieties over our own tenuous mortality. And if that calamitous self-depreciation cannot be subdued, allow yourself at least this meager solace:
There is still time, if too little of it;
there is still restitution to come, if too late
to spare yourself the worry over it.
Afford your soul such requisite reprieve,
simply in remembering these two things.

"A Stone's Life" {More Unconscious Prose}


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THIS IS MORE FREE WRITING (UNCONCIOUS WRITING)

THIS PIECE IS RAW, ORIGINAL AND UNEDITED. IT WAS NOT MEANT TO STAND AS QUALITY PROSE; IT WAS A CATHARTIC, CREATIVE RELEASE. Sorry.
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"A STONE'S LIFE"
________________________________

-Or-

A Boulder at the Basen of a Gully:
Alas for me...it shall be a long stone's-life, indeed.



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{FREE WRITING}
{SPONTANEOUS PROSE}
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March 22nd, 2012 ~ Erin Wheeler
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Afford me a book, through which I might live and be in the world, for I cannot seem to fathom the resolve of will to lift my head from this permanent skull-sized depression which for two a twelve-month in time my head hath contented itself, as if it were a stone having been kicked down a butte's slighter side....having tumbled itself to a flatbed below.

My head seeks nothing but the familiar concavity in fluff and feathers, nothing doth it will but to be left upon the pillow which deforms beneath it's will-bereft state...its all encumbering -- and alas, incapacitating -- clobbersome new weight. I neary find the strength to implore the service of my neck, to beseech its assistnace in moving this mass of mind and gray matter, which is as motionless as ever a bolder has been. As though rather than bone it is granite or marble my mental-mash is contained within, and it has contented itself in this mess of linnen and the molasses downy. There To bedside I am confined, bound, shakled, suspended in void....there I lie, bedside, always....come shine or thunder, there upon -- nay, there asunder -- atop a matress in a body-carved gutter, there....there....there is where I suffer. There with my bedfellows apathy and illness, there I lie and waste in unwilling unwillingness.

There, the whole of me lies in catatose, corpse-like save for a sigh of capitulation...all of this mass of me, stalled and stagnate! atrophied and apathetic, there I lie, in my untimely boxspring coffin. In my grave dug six feet far into some asphixiating tangle of sheets and stuffery, there I am as impossibly immovable as a steeled bolder having been lodged in the soft earth at the bottom of a gully. I can do nothing but remain in this anually-unchanged repose, and it is but a meager and blessed provision that I have not been struck too slothful to read, as these books have become -- for me -- the apex of all humanity....right here....in my dirty little hovel where for years I have been robbed of any life beyond, and I shaln't twist the dagger that stabs me by making sysphean promises to myself internally...promises that promise to disappoint me...promise that things will become somehow...somehow otherly. I havent the strength to lie to myself, promising sweet reprieves that I know these eyes shall never see, promises that shaln't scarcely be true to the future course of my life's unfict transpirings.

I shall slumber sadly here, in this sick bed...though I be well... Though I am well, in fact! Oh the curse of Roderick!! The house falls while I study quantum mechanics. Though well I am and have been for more than two Soltice passings, I am still left an abled body in a leper's wrappings. And my mind, it is quick and unfettered, but my head cannot leave the bed that once cradled my body in illness. Where have I come to rest, really...for not a bed but an abysmall gully....why did I stop here in this place without means to leave...why did I take to mend in bed, when anyone who has been befallen by Iyovs way knows a bed taken to in illness becomes as intertwined with a mans existence as would any weighted thing lost in a vaccum, a void, the saltless dead sea of space.

Of all where I might have taken a mend, why did I chose this hovel, this yellowed room, this ensnaring bed? Oh of all the places to rest a while, of all the holes to crawl into when death comes by and by, of the places where once save for night I was anywhere anigh....oh of all the stops...why oh why this mollasess swamp? It is a fact that I am today enslaved as I will I thus and thereby remain; for it is elemntary physics. My dogma --science! It laughs at me in tacit cackles, in its own internals, oh my beloved tools and tests of science....how it mocks me in its viciously vague diagnoses, its clinical nomenclature worth as much as Iago's alliance... But without science....darkness. Only the plentitude of nonsense, ever strange and exstraneous, like epicycles for Copernicus. In darkness the world boasts a sad side show of oddities...step right up ad see the wonders...such wonderful ways to say nothing in darkness, in myth and madness and followers of a fabled ancient baptist. I want none of that, spare me the opiate of the masses...the enormity of knowledge is favorable to ingnorance...the weight is bad but I can bear it. Forsaking the uselessness of proverbs and fiefdom to some ancient gods dubious existence, I wallow in filth and science. I bed amid the numbers and rote data...I find solace enough to sleep a spell, in the safe embrace of method and math and godless evolution of all the worlds wonders.

Science joins the crowded bed. It does little good but further weigh upon my head...and I love to bear the yoke it demands. But still I am wed to but a lesser evil, the close cousin of hysterical prostelitizers and their absurd doctrines for sale -- in short, pure nonsense...it's cousin to whom is but of course, it antithesis...the good and sound rigors of science. Nothing is closer to nonsense than the most profound truths, though both are as useless as a houseless roof. Science is the only choice for man of sound mind, but just as usless to a sickness of time as is mythos and religious usless to all of mankind. We come all this way as a race, drop our dogmas and stand among the awake, all to trade our nonsense in all its uselessness, its disregard of data and proof, and we have won for ourselves, only the similar uselessness of truth... Oh bitter science....such a songbook of notes from which to sing the scales in silence. It is but a matter of physics, why I cannot move from this repose. It cannot be blamed on some convienient fiend from ancient mytos. It is science, alas. We have found light, someone turn it off before our bill runs sky high.

I cannot help but curse you, my beloved truth, as you have curse me to be a prisoner of this room. Though i curse with slur and you with sloth, we are veiled behind the same cloth.
Physics! If only it were false. Less true. Or fickle. Alas -- where math is made of rule -- so too physics, though be they in physics too, the same mathematical rules and proofs, to the same degree of right and rigor....indeed there are, in physics those same rules-- the same, but all the stricter.

I am caught hoplessly in this web, quantum entangled to this bed, the unknowable nature of these strings, where within i have slowly wound myself unfreeable, in this cosmic cobweb we cannot see...of quarks and super strings...this grotesque reality, daily manicured so lovingly, ever-always spun and spun again, wickedly by the greatest of our blind spiders, the indubitabal laws of Physics. For if not by those shifty blinks of frequency on some quantum scale reality....if not by some weirdness known to science, by what force am I so tethered here, and what impossible god is it that wills us to somnolence, sophistry and silence? Save me the hysterics, all can be known by the great light of science, but not all can be seen thereby....for some particals act upon us invisible to our instruments and eyes, for they are cloaked by their size....some of the strangest things that seek to bind us are in fact, smaller than light. I hope this is the fiend that keeps me from the day, the world, and all of life's little raptures...I hope I am a prisoner of something knowable, even if I never know; but were I to be harbored by some tangible calamity, I would be saved the more for my wavering grip on sanity. To give some name to the affliction...is as much a cure as any treaMirit from esteemed physcian, or mirical pharmacy-peddled perscription. Just to know holds me here. I would not run or attempt to free myself from her shackles...I seek only to know the name and nature of my captor.

But it is a matter of physics! of this I am as certain as I was when first I was taken with this sickness.
Here I will remain because here I am unmoving in a void of infinite absence. It is of the laws of thermodynamics. Of energy and the universes deplorable ability to conserve it. Physics.
A body at rest can never move itself again. Not unless some outside object interacts with it, so as to lend the rest-locked body some of the momenter's potential energy, thereby inciting it to erupt in sudden freedom from the quicksand that would've for the eternity and there all more, held the stillbody in the molasses swamps as a petrified corpse, not even granted the meager motion of organic rotting. What stillness has cursed this hovel! And this soul, your's most dispassionatly...I am a body at rest in a vaccum of unmoved emptiness across a horizen of all time, as visible as is the surface of a placid pond, where neary a ripple can be spotted, for the winds are neglecting their duties that day, and the creatures in the bog are as motionless as I.

That placid pond unpreturbed you may see from the banks, and be fortunate yet to walk away. But I saw not of this fate. I saw life, possibly...were I to recover. And I saw death, most probably...slow and painful and devoid of all feminie dignities. I did not see that in the blessed dawn of health, I should be oppressed with a new assailant, one twice the mass and ten times the fast and growing faster...till it came to its unsanctimonious halt, a plod and thud as it rolled once and again across the unsmooth angles of its rock haunches, and then settled into a sinkplace that would cradle that stone for the rest of its days. For who should care to dislodge a stone that has found a steady place and come to lie? Who should even notice such a thing? I dare say even a geologist would put the stone in the same gully-foot pocket of earth he found it in, were it not of any interest to him. Such is the delicate respect of scientist for their specimens, even be they stones. I have no hope. I shall lie sedintary for all eternal days, and my youth shall slip first away, and once it has made haste and bid adiue, what pray thee shall be the sake for which I rise from this mess of sweat and down to rise again in the ember-flicker days I should have left to be in the world by-to then...by-and-by I thwart the lies I wish to tell myself so as to more wittfully survive. I will not here this internal sylolquy droning on about there's some hope for me. I know the better of it...it's not fair, trust assure, tho' tis not a god we organic clocks were first wound under. No god in heaven, only but the strings and spooky things that are only thus if you're not watching, and all this...at a distance. I know the rules, like the true godly commandmants.

First law is that energy may be neither brought into being nor thus might it be permitted to cease. It can chnage states, but that's hardly the most diverting parlor tricks the entangled things have shown this warey soul in bedtime mind's meanderings. The second is that nothing may go from disorder to a state of sudden restitute, the arrows of time demand no real resolution be in hand for broken dishes and milk presently spilled. But tis the third that confounds me to bed, and thus it is the sensible pillar of all existance that i daily curse while marveling inwardly, unhelpedly, at its wonder. Oh if only the monkey's were not so busy on their typewriters, with their game of random keys, they'd see something kindred in the notion, I think. To be or not to be, that is the slslslajfhaljeifnal. Well, keep at it. They at least are doing something, idle and indolent though it may be. I am doing little but move a few fingers, which all the while I feel the little flesh swaddled dendrites protesting in livid alarm, and thus I feel a small shock like a touch of lightening going up the ulna route of my arm when I am given to type.

But at least it is some change in things, though painful it is to some degree. I know I will never again be active and engaged in the world I love and who does but love me in return. I know because it's physics. A body at rest will never again move even on a quantum level, until by chance and grace and fate of the infinite vaccum so cold and devoid of any form sensate, that lest it fall into that unmoved ball of infinitly dense singularity once more, it presses outward as though it were being chased by some predator. And given that the nothing into which it expands is hardly a substrate that we can resasonably imagine should come to an end, this might continute on without cessastation, despite poor Nietszche and his hopeful notion known as the eternal recurrence of the same. As though such serendipitous fate would chose this day! Why break the pattern it has unyeildingly obsessed itself to order into? It shall never be the god you hope lives and has mercy on you. No one has mercy on the soul of man, save for man himself, and even by that it is of a rare and tenuous case. But when you feel alone and remember it is truly if not for joy than indeed for naught and for naught besides...remember that anything you do is better than the alternate state where you find this humble writer, for I shall never be again, so much is my sloth it shall be as though I never was it'all. A state so devoid and bereft of motion, I will be more mass than any partical dares to descend, and like a granite bolder beveled in the sholders of soft earth buttes, I have come to rest where my head shall lay ever eternal, for all of man hath witnessed the most of motion I can ever henceforth syphon from this mollassess coma.

I shall be still for the world's premire, and I am devestated, and tho it be strong and so inside me, I cannot rally it as some purchase on a movement. I am gridlocked, and so...world that I love and long for, carry on, and don't squander the moment needed to think upon me any longer, for there is nothing that could ever be that should best the premium value ... of every instant, delight and despair most equally ... it is the greatest gift .... that no one ever gave you. Save for the cyano bacteria, let us not forget to mention them in our prayers when we feel grateful that we exist. But I feel joyous imagining others happy at their own being, for so easily we forget to live until just the shy of when we die...and it is just life's favorite game that way, oh us silly fools, and all our beautiful exercise in monotonous, grueling futility. It is only without purpose if you forget you simply happened upon sentience, the luck that gave the singularity permission to break the third law of thermo dynamics...alas, she was alone in the theatre, and the only ones around were only around when she was aware they could see her. It was futile even then. But she broke through that quicksand...thermodynamics be damned. And perhaps so too will I be granted some respite.... no no, I shalnt allow the offense against my soul to lie to my self and then stew in the inevitable disappoint. I will be here for all eternal, and that is physics... plain and simple.

Go and live today, for you are among the lucky, counted among those whom I shall bitterly envy, for the rest of my stone's-life in a gully....a body at rest for all eternity.