Tuesday, December 31, 2013


Looking forward to 2014 as the year of the medical malady tour comes to an end … some stops along the way --
-- prostate cancer rise and fall, and I interrupt medical treatment in favor of anti-cancer diet and exercise -- treatment side effects too pronounced -- later tests indicated cancer presence undetectable. Monitoring.
-- macular degeneration, both eyes, under treatment, seems arrested
-- cataracts, both eyes, thus surgery to replace clouding lenses
-- lower back injury, physical therapy and ongoing rehab exercises
-- full body bone scan at my request (demand), negative for cancer; lower back X-ray later also indicates no cancer.
-- colonoscopy, everything’s okay
-- borderline hypertension … (no wonder)

Yep … so long 2013 …

Sunday, December 29, 2013


Draft passage from my second Elrod short story:

The next day, Elrod showered, dressed, and in the cold, clear morning, walked toward a small downtown market about a mile away. En route, he mused about his situation and what seemed to be a new stage of recovery from a severe head injury he suffered in the vehicle accident that killed his parents and left him an orphan.
Mind is clearing more and more, he thought. I no longer talk about myself in the third person, Elrod is doing this, is doing that, and I seem to be putting sequences together in a better way. I'm smart, and from reading and therapy, know I'm a global thinker. I'm not sure how far this will go, but, I've got a new sense of myself.
Elrod reaffirmed to himself that he no longer wanted to be without shelter on the streets again. He learned to be frugal, to bank money unspent from his disability checks, to use his food stamps carefully, and to be persistent in his work to reduce the disabilities he realized he suffered from his childhood head wound. The room at Motel 23 he could afford.
“A new me,” he said softly. “Seven years on the streets. Enough of that!”
Still looking like a homeless person, Elrod walked through the roads bordering a city project and added a shuffle to his stride as he neared the market. A new me putting on the old me, he mused, smiling. Off to his left, he glimpsed a young boy knocking on a door, carrying a lunch bag. The door opened, a hand reached out and took the bag. The boy then ran farther up the street and around a corner.
I heard about that, he thought, kids used as drug couriers for street dealers. Leave it be, but keep what I saw in mind.

(c) 2014 Wes Rehberg

Friday, December 27, 2013



The history. Some extremely regrettable actions. They can’t be undone. Some redeeming ones. How to regard those? I think of them as blessings maybe deserved, maybe not. I’ve no way of telling.
Spouse. Almost twenty five years together now. Many adventures and misadventures shared. Her children and mine, melding still. Uncommon indwelling and meaning between us.
More than 20 years of writing and editing for smaller newspapers. I felt linked to what happened locally, my beat, for enterprise, spot news, investigation. Turned down a few fine opportunities: working in London for Reuters; per diem news writing for CBS-TV in New York City. Others. Circumstances and my own perfidy got in the way.
About six years of filmmaking, me, camera, putting together a few documentary efforts, some experimental so-called anarchistic pieces, one particularly embarrassing collaboration. A little bit of recognition. Couldn’t keep it up; started too late; too costly to produce.
Now writing again for a couple of years - some short stories published in “literary magazines.” Self-published a trilogy then removed it, hunting traces of its existence so they could be obliterated. Self-published a Ph.D. dissertation and a small collection of short stories and poems, a few published in other venues. Reworking a novel. Submitted a novelette for young readers and another short story.
To me, my writing seems pedestrian, but I like to weave the stories. I’m not methodical, sometimes not careful, shirk from trying to compose anything longer a couple of paragraphs, hate marketing, rarely read to others in settings available, regard this latter part of my creative life as part of a semi-reclusiveness I prefer.
I won’t say it doesn’t matter if my work isn’t accepted or regarded well. It does. But there’s so much available, so many opportunities to find fine works to embrace; it’s easy to be missed in the crowd.

Friday, December 20, 2013


I completed editing the text of “Uprooted,” the final draft (I hope).
I’m unsure yet whether to try to find an agent or publisher for it, or to self-publish the novel myself. For now, I’ll fix the formatting to set it up as an ePub book to see what it looks like that way. Eileen (my spouse) wants to give it a run-through, and maybe I’ll ask others. Uncertainties …
I wrote and edited most of it on Scrivener editing software, starting on my old refurbished Macbook Pro laptop and completing on my used refurbished Lenovo Thinkpad laptop -- I’ll probably ePub format it on Pages, the Mac word processing software that has that capability -- back and forth.

Thursday, December 19, 2013


A retired and semi-reclusive former journalist who strings for a local weekly newspaper is urged by a woman activist who brings meals to rural homebound elderly to help her expose degrading conditions some live in. Inspired, he also helps spawn a probe into mental patient treatment when a psychiatric center is downsized.
The activist's request involves him and his sculptor wife in investigations that lead to threats, injury, local political corruption, personal conflict, international travel, a reunion with a painful past and a choice about his future.

In addition to the novel “Uprooted,” I’m going to compile a collection of short stories, four which I’ve had the good fortune to publish in literary magazines, a couple of others in process. A few poems, too, two published in literary magazines. Tentative title: “Gateways” -- Getting some mojo back.

Sunday, November 03, 2013


Research, analysis, experience, intentionality, commitment, images, senses, atmospheres, into the words, sketches, outlines, structures, editing, doubting, revising, agonizing, into the words still … into the story ...

Sunday, October 27, 2013


Re a discussion in a writer’s group around the notion that one must be suspicious of those who claim to be “writers” but read little of others’ works.

For me, a writer simply bears witness.

To say this, I draw from these experiences, (1) human rights work in Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador, Palestine-Israel, Mexico, Cuba, and in Indian mission churches,  (2) a Ph.D. in philosophy, interpretation and culture.

To me, the notion of “writer” is culturally broad, from scribes who sit on narrow urban streets to write letters (stories) and fill out documents for others, to people who can’t read or write but can tell riveting informal anecdotes when stories are swapped among gathered people.

Do all of these “read others” literary works?

Thursday, October 17, 2013


Night scene from the third draft of my novel-in-progress "Uprooted" -- In the scene is Mike Hancock, a mental patient now on the streets as officials downsize a large psychiatric institution. Across the street is the storefront office of The Courier, a weekly newspaper:

Mike Hancock stood across the street from the Courier storefront, staring in the dark through its window at the small lamp illuminating a part of Todd Redding’s desk. His head felt clear. It was a hallucination, he thought to himself. The whole episode about 2C. I must have looked like a fool if anyone saw me. I wonder if I didn’t hallucinate that too. Where’s the line of separation? Am I here, too, on the street?
A police car neared him, the orange streetlights reflecting off its black and white body. A window rolled down.
“What’s up, friend?” the policeman asked.
“I’m having a smoke. It’s prohibited inside. The landlady.”
The policeman nodded. “Okay. Goodnight.”
Hancock stepped into the shadow of the old building’s hallway, cupped his cigarette in his palm so its glow wasn’t visible, and watched a bus stop on the corner. Joanne Chapworth and Leonard Lions stepped out.
“Hurry,” he heard Lions say. “It’s almost past curfew,” as they passed, hastening to the group home. Hancock smiled. I know them, he thought. We’re on the streets. That’s certain.
A short time later, a black pickup truck stopped in front of the luncheonette next door to the Courier, a man who appeared to Hancock to be taller than him stepped out, removed a ladder, placed it against the wall on the right side of the Courier window, attached something to the corner out of view of the security camera inside, replaced the ladder on the truck, backed up, made a U-turn, and drove off. The truck had a wood frame in the bed used to hold quarried bluestone shale.
Shit, that looks like a spy cam. Wireless, Hancock thought. I wonder where the connection is. I’ve got to write this down so I’ll remember to check tomorrow. He flicked his cigarette into the gutter.
As he crossed the roof to his tiny apartment, he looked at the window into 2C’s kitchen. The woman, what was her name, Mandy? Melinda? appeared to be looking out in silhouette, wearing a slip. I’m not falling for this, Hancock thought. He watched her turn to the table and pick up a smartphone. The cell phone in his pocket rang. It startled him. He put it to his ear and clicked answer, said nothing.
“Come on over, Mike. I’m alone.”
He hung up and entered his apartment, turned on the floor lamp and wrote his observations on a pad. The phone rang again. He looked out the window. She was still there. He put the phone on silent, disabled the apartment button that connects to the building’s front door lock, turned off the light and went to bed.
Limbo, Purgatory, he thought. A world of illusions that feels so real, full of pain. Plato’s cave. Shadows. Maya. Imagination gone haywire. The trace of the lost trace. Delusory. Where does the real begin and the illusion end? He lay back on the mattress dressed in his street clothes. Good night, he thought. Sleep itself has to be real. I’m exhausted.

(c) Wes Rehberg 2013

Thursday, October 10, 2013


Third draft of novel "Uprooted," now at about 112,000 words -- opening of Chapter 7 of 77 short chapters (for now) -- 

Next morning, Stephens drove his truck to the village square, parked it near the Roosevelt Courier, opened the weekly newspaper’s door, strode past the piles of editions stacked on whatever available space would hold them, and stood in front of the worn oak desk where Todd Redding sat, flushed and surprised to see him.
“What’s up, old friend,” Redding asked, turning back to his computer.
“Nice try,” Stephens said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Rodney Sharpe. You tipped him off.”
Redding swiveled back to face Stephens directly.
“It was just a professional courtesy,” he said.
“Sharpe shoved me and threatened me,” Stephens replied. “You could extend a little of that courtesy to me as well.”
“You always have that,” Redding said, his composure regained.
“Here’s mine to you,” Stephens said. “I’m done stringing here.”
“Suit yourself,” Redding said. “By the way, here’s a little more courtesy. I asked Sarah Nelson at the aging office who Alicia Stewart contacted in her little campaign. She told me, so I’ve done a little preemptive work. You could have figured I wouldn’t print this. We don’t need this kind of crap spread around.”
“I thought you had a shred of integrity left,” Stephens said. “Preemptive? Does Alicia know?”
“She will now. You’ll tell her,” Redding said, turning back to his computer. “Have a nice day, Gil.”
Stephens shivered in anger as he left the office. Redding watched him walk to his truck through the window, sighed, and mused on the notion of integrity.
“It’s situational, isn’t it?” he asked himself. “Just like everything?”

"Uprooted" is a novel that journeys with its principal character, an aged and injured former journalist, who is uprooted from a semi-reclusive state into new investigations, altered associations and dangerous encounters among those close to him, in the U.S., Spain, The Netherlands, Mexico and Morocco…

Monday, October 07, 2013


These days I write, research, study other writers and film storytellers ... for me, characters lead the way through atmospheres, forms, tones, story lines, the ecology and economy of the written work … they confront me, elusively.
A Monday thought ...

Friday, August 23, 2013


“And a new day will dawn for those who stand long,
And the forests will echo with laughter…” - Led Zeppelin ...
Done with self-publishing books -- since I’ve had a four short stories published in literary journals this past year, i have more confidence in writing this way.
Agonizing and chancy as it is, then, submitting to publishers is the route for my young reader’s novelette “Windows in a Vacant Building,” the in-process novel “Uprooted” (based on my self-published trilogy), another one taking shape in my imagination, and a collection of short stories on the drawing board that includes those in the journals.
An overwhelming ambition … for a person who started out this way in the beginning of 2012 (at age 75). And why not? ... !
When I’ve completed “Uprooted” I’ll pull the trilogy off the market (“Stringer,” Turned Loose,” “Tilt”) to give this improved version a chance.

Friday, August 16, 2013


Excerpt from "Elrod and Raphool" - draft in progress ...

Old Ironworks. Raphool could be in danger. I need to check this out, Elrod thought as he left the homeless center, walked across a large asphalt space, past a produce market and to the railroad tracks that led to the location of what had been a large industrial zone, now long dormant and in decay.
Elrod strode slowly and entered the grounds of an abandoned old ironworks and passed through long shadows from its skeletal structure, now silhouetted in the waning daylight. He hoisted his backpack and decided to park himself high within the structure, climbing along a low angled outdoor conveyor until he reached a spot beneath the lip of a metal roof where he believed he’d be undetected, where the floor leveled out.
Safer here, he assured himself. Private eye Elrod needs to collect his thoughts. Maybe I can spot Raphool from here.
A noise behind him interrupted his thoughts.
“Hey!” a voice called. Elrod jumped up, startled, his head hitting the low roof. He kneeled and reached inside his backpack for his box cutter.
“Hey, who?” he replied.
“It’s Raphool.”
“I’m no fool. Show your face.”
Raphool, even shorter than Elrod, stood his full height under the low roof as he walked across the grated floor, creaking metal marking each step.
“What are you doing here?” Raphool asked.
“What I’m doing has already happened. Trying to find you. Folks at the shelter have opened it up for the night while murder lurks about. I thought I might see you from up here.”
“We’ll settle here for now, then,” Raphool said. “I want to see if anyone might come into this area tonight who normally doesn’t hang out here.”
“Why you so interested?”
“Like you, I like to investigate.”
“You’re a cop. Undercover.”
“Raphool is no fool.”
“Neither is Elrod.”
“We’ll leave it at that. I brought sandwiches and water. I’ll share it with you. You won’t have to go back to eat. Besides, it’s almost dark.”
After nightfall, Elrod and Raphool heard a vehicle ride into the abandoned area, pull up next to a rusted crane, and stop. Two truck doors slammed.
“We can’t see from here,” Raphool said softly
“It’s a diesel pickup,” Elrod whispered. “Old, from the way it sounds.”
“Good observation. We don’t dare move, they’ll probably hear us.”
Voices murmured from below, the pickup doors opened and closed again and the vehicle turned and drove around the skeletal structure, headlights scanning the littered asphalt and broken concrete below. Elrod and Raphool could see them from above through the girders and conveyer rig. The two quietly lay flat on the floor grating as a flashlight beam scanned the structure, the truck’s lights now out, the motor running.
“See anything?” one of the men said.
“I can’t believe there’s none of those creeps hanging out here.”
“They ain’t under the overpass and they ain’t in here, and the floor’s all wet in the old warehouse, so they ain’t in there.” ...

Thursday, August 15, 2013


My short flash fiction story "PICKPOCKET" is now published in Sugar Mule Literary Magazine The story begins like this (click on link below for the rest:

..."The treasure easily slides out of the pocket into my hands.
Maybe the pocket of that person hanging onto a subway strap, his eyes meeting his own in his reflection in the train window, tunnel lights flashing by, stroboscopic. Or the three others crowded together near the pole by the train door, all four wearing coats. All I know is the pocket I reached into, jostling as if to move people aside so I could pass through, the pocket my prey..."


Sunday, August 11, 2013


Chrome Drive Limitation for Long Documents?
Compiled novels “Stringer,” “Turned” Loose,” “Tilt” and the incomplete “Displaced” into a Google docs file in the Chromebook - working title “Trio” - 135,000 words, itself a longer novel length -- Question is whether all this will be worth revising and reworking into one new, more compressed book. Don’t know, I’ll need to go through it. Surprised, though, that I could copy and paste all this copy together in Chrome Drive, though I won’t know how successfully until I start testing it. Chrome doesn’t have a merge application this way for documents, so it’s copy and paste.
So, the test …
Nope, not so successfully, it appears - bottom end won’t edit properly, cursor appears a line below the line I wish to edit for a reason I’m not going to take the time to explore and worry about. 
Will have to do this work on my old MacBook Pro, in Scrivener software, where the compilation was simply a smooth merge into workable parts and the entire document edits smoothly too.
Okay, new observation:

Looks like cursor drift downward toward the end of a file is a Google Docs problem in Chrome Drive with big files. I wrote “Windows in a Vacant Building” on Google Docs, 10,000 words, in separate parts, then compiled those. The cursor drifts in this, too, no matter the font size or line spacing..

Saturday, August 10, 2013


My nonfiction story -- "Tina's Story of Death and Survival in Nicaragua" -- is now published in the Black Earth Institute's "About Place Journal" ...
Link to the story: http://aboutplacejournal.org/earth-spirit-society/wes-rehberg-ii-i/

Wednesday, August 07, 2013


I imported the scattered episodes of "Windows in a Vacant Building" into Scrivener authoring software to compile them and go through the combined texts with a hard edit. This is my novelette for young people and adults. Some previews of first draft texts are in posts below.
Beautiful thing about the software is the ease with which it lets one merge doc files simply by importing a whole written sequence into an embracing new file without copying and pasting. It just stacks them up in the order one designates. Love it, because usually I write texts in different files and even on different platforms. One can rearrange sequences simply but clicking and dragging along a time line.
Now the revisions and reworkings ...
On another note, my flash fiction piece "Pickpocket" will appear in an online version of the literary magazine Sugar Mule on August 14. My nonfiction short story "Tina's Story of Life and Death in Nicaragua" will appear in Black Earth Institute's About Place Journal this fall, with photos.

Thursday, July 18, 2013


The writer of investigative nonfiction, or fiction based on factual occurrences, relies on truth - burdensome because in reality the truth does not set us free.
Two problems:
One, error: What is understood as truth is a result of processing information through perceptions colored by biases and categories, including those one is unaware of (one’s “gaze”).
Two, danger: Even if facts may be as near an approximation as is possible with verifications that support it, their revelation could be so dangerous as to imperil one’s life or freedom, as the global assassination and imprisonment of multitudes of journalists and judicial activists indicates.
What one faces with some “truths” then are the potential perils to one’s freedom and life, and the need to critically examine how one’s gaze possibly distorts the information one considers truth, definite burdens, No?...

Sunday, July 14, 2013


I write because I am totally puzzled about human existence. Philosophize, we imagine answers or speculations and give them categories that are deemed significant. Scientificize, we use observations, measurements and instruments that depend on the senses that came with our births, and the computer that came with the package, the brain.
I had nothing to do with how this thing called “me” became fashioned and have had a little bit to do with how it developed -- lucky “me” and the 18 billion year old molecules that move in an out of the ensemble I am.
Intriguing in the midst of this: We create stories and muse this way. And others of our kind read, listen to, or watch them. Imagine that.

Tuesday, July 09, 2013


Mother Catherine smiled in amusement when John, Jennelle, Jessie and Jillie showed up outside the homeless shelter’s doorway where she sat in her wheelchair.
“I understand you’re a carpenter, Mr. Jones,” she said. “We just took delivery of a big TV set that was donated. I wonder if you wouldn’t mind putting it up on the wall for us so our older clients can watch programs in the lounge.”
Jillie began tugging at the leash Jennelle held, in the direction of the vacant building.
“I don’t have any tools with me,” John said.
“We have some. It came with a mounting frame that it slips onto. I think it just needs to be screwed into the wall. I’m afraid to ask any of our elderly gents to do it.”
Jillie pulled hard on the leash, drawing Jennelle away from the door.
“It’ll have to be attached to the studs,” John said.
“No doubt,” Mother Catherine replied.
“Probably a drill and screwdriver will do it,” John said. “You have those?”
“Sure do. It looks like Jillie wants to walk a little more.”
John looked over to Jennelle who had her hands full with Jillie’s tugging. Jillie turned and looked at him.
Mr. jones, go inside with Mother Catherine, she transmitted. John shook his head as if he had an impulse he couldn’t fathom..
“You’re right, Mother Catherine,” he replied. “You kids walk with Jillie a little. I’ll install the TV, it won’t take long, and when you come back, we can ask Mother Catherine about the photo album and the house.”
Come on, come on, Jillie signaled to Jennelle. We have to go down to the fourth window. It’s showtime.
“We’ll be right back, Dad,” Jennelle said. “Come on, Jess.”
I’m worried, Jillie, Jennelle thought. I have an odd feeling about this trip.
No fear, Jillie replied.
Inside the shelter, John mounted the flat-screen television near the cable outlet used for the older small set that sat on a table, attached it to the cable outlet, plugged it in, and turned on the set with the remote to check it out. On the screen he could see images of Jennelle, Jesse and Jillie outside a window of the vacant building. The image disappeared then scrambled.
“What on earth!” he said. He turned to look at Mother Catherine. She nodded her head toward the TV screen.
On the screen, the image changed from a view outside the vacant building to a night scene in an urban area where buildings looked partially destroyed. John could see Jennelle, Jesse and Jillie walking toward a group of three children huddled around a small fire close to one building, Jesse looking in all directions, sometimes walking backward, stopping, then catching up with his companions. Jillie appeared to be leading the way.
“What is this?” John demanded. “Where is this view coming from?”
“It’s ‘Pirates of the Caribbean!” an elderly man explained, who seated himself to view the new set. “Ain’t you ever seen that one?”
“Yeah,” said another. “Get out of the way, you’re blocking the view.”

(c) 2013 Wes Rehberg

Wednesday, June 26, 2013


MIMICKING A DAY’S MEMORY: So, today we delighted in the last couple of breakfast hours with the Grafton, Massachusetts clan, drove back to our cabin wishing we could have stayed longer. I took a ride into Binghamton (NY) to pick up the last section of our kitchen sink’s base cabinets and completed piecing it together, mended the leaks, sealed the countertop, we ate, weary from all that has passed thus far, I washed the dishes in the now installed sink, big single bowl, unfinished oak base front with particle board sides, Lowe’s specials, and we were glad this new convenience finally came into place in our modest cabin and of this day of our days here and the sweet memories of this latest visit.
I write tired yet astonished at the experience we shared these almost two weeks - no time to link up with friends this visit, the work and family kept us traveling and laboring and joining with the extended clans. I miss that important connection.
On our return from Grafton, I read aloud to Eileen from Annie Dillard’s “Teaching a Stone to Talk,” the opening chapter, one I consider a friend to visit with now and then also, “Total Eclipse,” of the sun that is, in Washington state’s Yakima valley, Dillard’s cadences, musings, bold phrasings, stark observations, her lexicons and grammars now part of my physical sensibility. Like typing how news writers write to learn the style, as I did when I first tried to convince a newspaper to hire me and succeeded - learning the phrasings with my fingers.
A mimic seeking a little bit of originality. Thoughts that end without a formal ending. Selah.

Sunday, June 23, 2013


EACH LITTLE STEP in our marriage-long Tuscarora Mountain saga on this patch of upstate New York land has been treated like a milestone, beginning with a ride here almost 24 years ago on a motorcycle to camp out a few often rainy days in a small tent.
Our current visit adds a few more little milestones - precious to us as this land is, a land we respect not because we have “title” to it, but because it is part of earth’s formation, and humankind’s history, whose inhabitants, including the Tuscarora Indians, etched it in their own ways.
We know it was logged. We know rural folks cut slabs of bluestone shale from it to eke out a living. The scars and mining formations are evident, even if covered with new growth. There are mounds too that will not be disturbed; let our imaginations play with the mystery they represent.
Even today, when I started to piece together a kitchen sink and countertop from scratch, marked a milestone, the first real kitchen sink for us here in all these years. And Eileen’s painting a new shade of color on our old 24’ x 12’ cabin fashioned from an Amish shed we bought 11 years ago after dwelling on our visits in old basically immobile campers in middle stages of dilapidation, that eventually had to be towed away as junk.
And then the 16’ x 16’ cabin extension with a sleeping loft that we had a contractor build two years ago that provided us with bathroom and kitchen space and - behold - indoor plumbing, with an indoor shower, and the commode and bathroom sink I installed last year, more little milestones.
History with family and friends too and their milestones, some passing from life itself, like we will eventually.
All of this is temporal, which makes it even more precious, as we fashion our story and this part of our lives here, and as it sustains ours and our four rescued pets’ during our time here, as well as our continuing dreams as a creative, mindful, socially and eco-conscious couple.

Milestones, to us, of deepest value.

23 June 2013

Thursday, June 13, 2013


From The Faircloth Review and The Rusty Nail

Amazed at this:
I’ve published two poems, and four short stories have been accepted for publication since I started writing fiction and poetry in March last year.
The short stories:
“Scooter” in eFiction Magazine’s issue July 2012
“Halloween Eve 1945” in the Faircloth Review in October 2012
“Pickpocket” upcoming in the Sugar Mule Literary Magazine
“Tina’s Story of Death and Survival in Nicaragua,” upcoming in Black Earth Institute’s About Place Journal. (nonfiction)
The two poems - “Alien Bones” and “Tick Tock” -- appeared in July 2012 issue of The Rusty Nail.
There were rejections, too, especially with poetry.
Issues of eFiction Magazine and The Rusty Nail are available at Amazon.com

Tuesday, June 11, 2013


An honor! … My non-fiction short story “Tina's Story of Death and Survival in Nicaragua” has been accepted for publication in the “Earth, Spirit and Society” issue of the About Place Journal published quarterly by the Black Earth Institute.


Versatility + ADD + ENFP + curiosity + rebelliousness = unruly discipline.

So that’s it …
Tested in the context of experience and reality ...

Sunday, June 09, 2013


I as other and the novelty of deriving concepts

Recouped Gilles Deleuze’s slim but packed “Kant’s Critical Philosophy” from an unruly bookshelf amid basement clutter - and then Eileen found her copy of his and FĂ©lix Guattari’s “Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia.” Between Deleuze, Whitehead, metaphysics and writing, I’m lost in Rimbaud’s: “I is another” - (cited by Deleuze in “Kant”) - wondering which Other the Other is.
Other hand, it doesn’t matter.

“Each reading of a philosopher, an artist, a writer should be undertaken, [Gilles] Deleuze tells us, in order to provide an impetus for creating new concepts that do not pre-exist (DR vii).... new concepts are derived from others’ works, or old ones are recreated or ‘awakened’, and put to a new service”
“...from Difference and Repetition (1968 DR) trans. Paul Patton (1994: Colombia University Press, New York)”
-- On Gilles Deleuze, in the International Encyclopedia of Philosophy
In Brain Pickings Weekly, Annie Dillard is quoted in “The Writing Life” as supporting and adhering to a regular routine for writing, as are others …
I don’t have that discipline neither for reading nor writing -- I’m all over the place, writing bits here, reading snatches there … her book a favorite ...

Friday, June 07, 2013


Thinking about surveying the difference between Whitehead’s and Deleuze’s metaphysics, but I should probably re-read “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” first …
… and replay “Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” ...

So ...

"Cheshire Puss,' ... 'Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'
'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat. 'I don't much care where—' said Alice.
'Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.
'—so long as I get SOMEWHERE,' Alice added as an explanation. 'Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat, 'if you only walk long enough.' Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question. 'What sort of people live about here?'
'In THAT direction,' the Cat said, waving its right paw round, 'lives a Hatter: and in THAT direction,' waving the other paw, 'lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: they're both mad.'
'But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
'Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: 'we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.'
'How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.
'You must be,' said the Cat, 'or you wouldn't have come here.'

And ..
'Take some more tea,' the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly.
'I've had nothing yet,' Alice replied in an offended tone, 'so I can't take more.'
'You mean you can't take LESS,' said the Hatter: 'it's very easy to take MORE than nothing.'