I_Nakone
25/12/2023

The Psychotron

Isaac Nakone

Ten.
Seconds to the jump.
Checking their rifles. Wait. Chopper blades woofing above. Below, the chasm of jungle. The beepbeepbeep-ing of controls.  Scaredsoldier, parachute prepped… Two full-fingered hands at the ready.

Nine.
A...

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I_Nakone
15/11/2023

Address the green dress. Ideation.
Shine on You Crazy Diamond.
All these pairwise interactions. Ideation.
Me and my other, others, and the world and myself.
I have been leafing through the cards – Ideation.
John looms over the portal to the world,
looking,...

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I_Nakone
02/11/2023

I was summoning a mathematical formula to mind, but it slipped and the numerator became ungraspable.

Pencil, envelope, to whom?

A voice came in from preconsiousness. Something about rechargeable pencils. Wow. (Opposite of a sharpener??)

I stood in the garden and the bees...

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I_Nakone
23/08/2023

He couldn’t bear it. He smiled, with those sharp engaging teeth of his. With those devil’s eyes.

He pulled his hands into positions. He crossed through, signing, gesturing with his life scars.

He smelt vaguely adolescent, and there is a scent in there. His nose had a beery vibe....

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I_Nakone
19/08/2023

The differences between things drive the movement from form to form. I am lying awake staring at the stars.

I have seen this pencil: the lead cracks close-up. A signature, an elderly woman.

Hands collect grapes from the trees. Time is fluid.

Fire roars violently, a face...

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I_Nakone
26/06/2023

Mr. ____’s Plan to Save the World
Instalment 3

It is evident now that nothing is certain, at least to Mr. ____ anyway. He muses in his office, computing likelihoods of certain simple events like dice rolls, probabilities of two heads given three-coin tosses, multiplicative...

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I_Nakone
11/06/2023

Mr. ____ took a bus to the casino. His freelance economics work is feeling rather slim lately and his save-the-world project is stewing in the back of his mind. He recalls saying something friendly to the driver of the bus, “how are you going?” maybe. The driver looked at him warily in the rear-...

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I_Nakone
11/06/2023

A freelance environmental economist sets out today to save the world from mass-scale ecological collapse. In order to carry out his plan, he must understand Earth’s ecology and all of its complex, multiscale and interwoven processes. Understanding is madness, however. To understand the...

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I_Nakone
04/06/2023

Hesitation and Movement Entry on the 04/06/2023

Some quietude.

I whisper suddenly the word, “Hesitate.” Someone shouts back in the dark, with a raspy, crass syllable, “MOVE,” to a burst of laughter.

Our dark auditorium opens up, with a big rip, to the light, its edges held...

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I_Nakone
01/06/2023

... In anticipation for steady state ordinariness, we wait.

 

He is not normal in these young tender years.
All emotionally ruptured…
Needs integration.
They are throwing chips to the pelican and the seagulls. She and him.
Waves shoot the occasional surfer...

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I_Nakone
29/05/2023

I think his paintings are better than his films. Paint like blood, rushing.

The flights reckless, these words rearranged, these words finicky, drudged, fake. This self-analysis tired, this sentence order, trying.

These boozy nights. These myriad lies to me. This realisation that I’...

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I_Nakone
27/05/2023

Dust breathes at the window ledge. A piano key rings, holding in space. The oranges quiver on their branches, beneath their leaves. Grass edges, privy to the light, shudder without moving. Lemons sway sweetly. Piano, lumber innards exposed, plays the artist at her fingertips. Silence resumes,...

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I_Nakone
11/04/2023

They stand in the car park next to the ice-cream store. Speaking in muffled voices just audible to a boy watching from his seat near the tuckshop entrance. His ice-cream melts as he watches them. The method changes, they are saying. But it’s the same theory. What’s that? It’s balance of power,...

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I_Nakone
11/04/2023

Waking from the dream. [“The Great Writers write beyond Themselves”]

Waking from the dream was gradual and painstaking.

There was no moment when the dream was over and reality had started again.

I got attached to the fantasy. I clung like a drug addict inside the dark pores...

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I_Nakone
07/04/2023

The opaque screen confronts him.

“What do you see?” inquires the invigilator.

A pause.

SUBJECT: I see my own process as a watching of my own psyche. I see blackness as my potential. Nothingness is everything and a singularity.

The unactualized potential. Spontaneity...

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I_Nakone
27/03/2023

Limerence: Part 2

They were playing nineties electronica at the discotheque.

They got addicted to the noise and its popping. Soul starlets winding through pathways in the brain.

We believe there’s some effect from a great distance off. Yeas! Entanglement. Truly? Yeas.

... Read on...
I_Nakone
26/03/2023

Limerence: Part 1

Going to war. Never a greater test of theory. They are heading South a long way.

Limmeranda shrinks to a point on the horizon then disappears. A sea between him and home…

Kirkedax is his name. Used to be a member of the primary core of Limmeranda.

...

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I_Nakone
23/02/2023
Musings from the writer at –

In the transition from nothingness to the first word, something is gained, but possibilities not chosen are lost.

First words are the most important. The first sentence is the key to the rest, it is the key to the audience’s attention. What is the difference...

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I_Nakone
21/02/2023

Zero - Her eyes were gritty and smoke-thank. Ya saw ‘er on the black-sand. Disband.

One - With myself, I felt flippant. Tendrils of self crawled into the causeway air, like a caucus sways with indecision before a certified slobbster. Themselves. Class.

Two - Clack. Clack. Clack. (...

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I_Nakone
20/02/2023

I have seen his eyes brilliant and beautiful. Once.

I have seen those bright green eyes. Excited, scared, optimistic. For a moment, engaging, emptied of their former smugness.

As soon as I created something, I wanted to include it in a rhythm. I wanted to have repetition, cloning,...

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I_Nakone
06/02/2023

The Slavs are sitting in the room near the end, hunched about, smoking, shaving, playing with envelopes, burning stuff. They are close together, shoulders rubbing against the walls, boots touching, guns jostling next to each other.

The fire is a spiritual effigy. Blue, yellow and red...

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I_Nakone
29/01/2023

The cameras came in from an interesting angle, from off-screen and so did the sound-recorders and mics.

“I would say my style of dance is a wave, it’s a motion. It’s been release for me; you know…”

“And how much do you get paid for these “motions”?”

“You see, that’s the...

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I_Nakone
28/01/2023

There was something slowing down, space-filling, gooey, just so deeply passionate and melodic.
Then quick – veracious – requiring – can’t stop – rex – hopping geometrically.
The sound system ran in, dripping, slipping, skating lines, timing the times, psychedelic.
    ‘Are you...

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I_Nakone
26/01/2023

The door frame was square, tall and starkly cream against the greenery on the outside. I grimaced as I ran the fingers of my left hand against the tall thin frame, and I took a boat shaped box into the space before the door and stood sentinel and silent against the wall so that whoever might...

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I_Nakone
18/01/2023

Story for My Friend John:

What is writing in the mode of pure expression?

It is to be found in the writings of those unsystematic users of the language, that is, those writers who forbid rule following in prose.

Even the grass is somewhere between chaos and order: Walt...

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Why
I_Nakone
15/01/2023

I knew that half of them would ridicule me, and then most of what remained of them would be indifferent. Yet, my art was for one percent that would feel something: that small proportion of people who would understand that a man lives only once and dies so many times.

Every failure is a...

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I_Nakone
07/01/2023
Flow or Structure? Why can’t we have both?

Flow, I suspect, is a product of the unconscious mind. There’s no use trying to understand the processes of the unconscious for it is enormously complicated and many intelligent practitioners have tried and failed as documented in the history of...

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I_Nakone
06/01/2023

Inspired by Johnny Cash’s I Hung My Head.

Squelching moonshine quietly through his teeth, he washed out his mouth with a last swig.

He pressed the .22 Calibre round into his rifle. The underbrush rustled around him. Wedding carriage in tow, the horses went over on the road past the...

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I_Nakone
06/01/2023

She is laying down on the varnished boards. Her toes point away, and her hands are pressed downwards beside her. Her eyes are closed. She lifts her right hand upwards rolling her wrists in the air. At the same time, she opens her eyes and watches her hand rolling gently as if it were a dove...

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I_Nakone
04/01/2023

I usually don’t give titles to sections of my writing before writing them, but in this case, I thought it may make for some good direction.

Who is Mick Barkly? Mick Barkly is a homeless man. What is a homeless man? A homeless man is usually a man who cannot find the money to pay to rent...

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I_Nakone
04/01/2023

Who is this man? He comes from our time, namely 2023, the writer’s time, a time when so much technological change has already happened and will continue to happen. Who is he? He is like the writer who writes the story himself. He is imbued with the ideals of the writer himself. He is both...

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I_Nakone
04/01/2023
I_Nakone
21/12/2022

On the lawn outside the parish office, the Bulgarian monks hum. These Twelve monks are facing away from me, standing erect in their brown robes. The monks are standing in three rows, four men each. Their voices suddenly halt as I come nearer.

“Why are you outside the chapel?” I enquire...

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I_Nakone
20/12/2022

“Hello world,” I said looking at the T-junction and the gums shuffling in the wind. But it was not a merry day. As a child I would play that game with the ‘t’ configuration of squares, I can’t remember what it was called, but now it seems as if my mind is skipping across squares, at some point...

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I_Nakone
20/12/2022
I_Nakone
20/12/2022

The voice of the monastic choir is deep and moving. I worry that I will get carried away and will be led off the path of sober thinking, because the sound of the Bulgarian choir is brandy for my ears.

The elegance and beauty of mathematics. Need any more be said?

The beauty and...

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I_Nakone
16/12/2022
Review of The Twelve Tribes of Millennia

John Saward has invited us to look at a possible future which is both fascinating and, despite its consideration of mind connectivity and control, surprisingly upbeat. In my opinion, Mr Saward has brought the poetic energy and humour of Joyce into...

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I_Nakone
05/12/2022

There was a parade with flying balloons and joyous celebration on the same day as a philosophy discussion held in the city.

Though one might have expected a quirky scene of cross-attendance, interestingly enough, none of the philosophers came from or left towards the parade. They all...

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I_Nakone
02/12/2022

King Bartholomew, you introspective transposer of the transcendent self Onto The Leaf (Do Da Do Do). One messenger arrives through the prop door, passing into your hand a note: ‘tension building and release, (K9, K9) this is the only key to jazz proper (K22),’ but you are weary of pristine ideas...

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I_Nakone
29/11/2022

It is old. Fades out – now.

He is wrinkling, a brow, a watchful eye, a tear, a tie.

‘Mr Turing?’ It is cold now.

‘Mr Gordan? Are you seeing this? I think your master – the guy who writes you on the paper – has finally learnt to accept.’

‘What? Must be a mistake?’ My...

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I_Nakone
26/11/2022

The concrete things human beings need to survive can be listed out. The list, which may include water, food and shelter, does indeed terminate. One presumes that the needs of the soul are somewhat more elaborate so that it is never sufficient to provide a person with their mere existence; a...

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I_Nakone
22/11/2022

I have checked my meter against the rhythms and the rhymes.
You have checked my expletives against the schisms of the times.
They made decisions political, derisions farcical, permissions tyrannical.
Take me on, ye world.  Take me up to the infinite. Take me beyond.

Cut...

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I_Nakone
22/11/2022

I feel as if rapids of fresh sun-water and wars of commission needn’t be worried about when I click my fingers in disco ball summer lights and have sucking thumb thunder bites – on my heart – because my heart is dark attrition...

I saw them beat like a striking light. The ball of the...

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I_Nakone
19/11/2022

Story notes:

a. It is a response to John's Return of the Muse
b. It is intentionally written in a deadpan style like Cormac McCarthy

 

He drove up the causeway with a red tulip on his ear. He left the car in the parking lot. Coming up the stairs, he burnt his finger on...

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I_Nakone
15/11/2022

Sheila’s carrying a scar, an old wound. Sheila’s her name because I don’t know her name. There’s a lot of people in here carrying old scars. They drink to remember a moment that never happened before all the bad stuff happened, and they get to a point in the night when the cigarette haze looks...

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I_Nakone
01/11/2022

  Response to John’s “Imagine if you Will”

Everything fades. Marcus Aurelius says, “the only lasting fame is oblivion.” The generalist and the specialist fail to live up to the ideal in equal measure. Hegel was a melancholic individual who was conscious that everything, including the...

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I_Nakone
30/10/2022

The three pathological responses to the problem of human existence are bargaining, anger and muteness.

What is the essence of humanity? We cannot meaningfully answer that question, because we would inevitably answer from within a mode of human being. To answer “objectively” is nonsensical...

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I_Nakone
30/09/2022

Entry 5: Hesitancy and Movement

Through the veritable Holy Lord she stoops, pre-flight crouch, shell worn, cracking her shoulder joints, Penrite Oil imbued, sudd-soaped, clash-born, seldom shellshocked… Wasn’t looking for an appraisal! Glass popper, pill gleamer – Symmetry so warm and...

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I_Nakone
29/09/2022

My hopes of yesterday, my rhythms of today. Secular but infinite. The man walked the night’s streets, lamplight beaming, shaking metal sounds emanating from all around. He is the steel string that we’ve come to seed our dreams from… Seed our hopes and dreams from.

Only he knows that words...

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I_Nakone
29/09/2022

They broke the tree, wood and wisdom. Fission. Again, and fire. I saw them nail together the church, young. A chimney, champagne shaped, gleaming sun. Metal girders, world determiners, placers of fiction now real. Women built men; men destroyed each other. Fused skin, emulsifying cells sunlit,...

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I_Nakone
18/09/2022

Hesitancy and Movement
Instalment 4

I am dreaming of the core, bright and bark. What sludge reverie tracks through the mud? That galah over there is the most existential of all Avarians. The rain’s symbols are entered in Morse code from a skyward locale. And nearby, puddles of sky...

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I_Nakone
18/09/2022

Instalment 3

“…No continuum. No continuum in mathematics and therefore no continuum in physics. A half-century of development in the sphere of mathematical logic has made it clear that there is no evidence supporting the belief in the existential character of the number continuum…”...

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I_Nakone
18/09/2022

The grass is rendered black and navy blue in the night. A pearl of a waterdrop falls from the nodding grass. The sound of the creek rushing is the backing track for the noises of tonight’s dinner at the Sampson’s. Dishes being washed after the clang of spoons on bowls sound out. Something grand...

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I_Nakone
18/09/2022

Little pieces of bark, little triumphs of mine and man. I have felt the rhythms of my folly and because I have felt the sun’s warmth, I have felt the quench of so many distant stars dying. These ripples and creaking valleys embark from underneath me, all materials alike in their ghostly waving,...

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I_Nakone

Even at the outset of writing this short bio, I hesitate.

Everything I do is a fearful stop-start. Starting my authorial adventure roughly five years ago was like turning a sphere inside out.

An escape room of sorts, the “starting point” of every writer’s journey is a place where only the echoes of other writers can be heard. A long trek through the sludgy muck of replicant writing leads secondly to the confusion of maximalism and thirdly to the quiet clarity of minimalism.

The fourth stage, a purely unique voice begins to sound across a once silent desert.

It is a lifetime of work to truly define one’s instrument, to carve it, to mould it, then to get sustenance from it. Like stages of grief, the writer is always cycling through them, and never really gets over it all.

As an inconsistent idealist, I hope to create reveries, stop-start-poetry and expressive movements with my words that harness the full potential latent in the world.