Wednesday, April 27, 2011

first. your face in my hands.

first.  there are too many hungry ghosts running through the walls of my houses, and i see houses everywhere, like ghosts, and i have no home yet.  the hungry ghosts, if they could focus for a moment, could come to call and tell me that this idea of a home is something to make where i am, but that's only something my friend could tell me, sending messages from under the surface of the sea, through a half dozen links that connect my life to his, telling me this is what he found...the ghosts just want to know why they had to leave so soon...and i want to hold a pure burning heart from my own chest and tell them to follow the light, because this is what their spirits are longing for, but my heart is tied to a bedpost with invisible threads, and burning with the strength of a hundred horses, and my gods are different than theirs.


next. there are dogs in this.  there are always dogs in every story worth repeating, and this movie has a hundred dogs that all run in one direction, even though they have four legs, and every dog has a different message from the world of the dead.  there are also lizards.  there are too many animals already for anyone to pay attention to the people, but the people are really the source of the fire, and you, like prometheus, steal fire from the dead to bring it into my bed, and in the mornings, when you've slipped away like the woman gone back to the sea, leave notes that tell me you don't know the ceremony, but you know so many things.  you leave in the morning and it makes sense only later, later that day that's repeated itself for eleven days, when lizards are raining on me in my rabbit head (another animal), who speak to me about something important.  i don't understand the message, and i don't understand what is in my own head, but it's music that i'm growing fond of, the kind of music that comes to me when i'm alone and crossing three hundred miles from the ocean back to the desert, and wondering why these things that tie me to the earth are the ones i have to lose.  this message, that this is birth, that these reptiles are signs of birth, will only make sense when i remember the way they are born in fire, and return to fire, and this is when base matter turns to gold.


next.  this base matter is the stuff of bodies, the objects that move from one place to another to work without passion and love without attention.  this base matter can turn colors in the right light, with the right focus and attention, and suddenly they hold the secret to making gold.  the treasures i have found in this world are held in the light, a moon or a sun or a star that doesn't have a name yet, so i can look at them and decide which ones are worth keeping.  this body is tired, and already too caught up in daydreams to sleep without forgetting, and everything i ever loved is inscribed on my skin in the morning.


next.  i can't sleep right.  there are too many voices in these houses, small withering boys who call my name and ask me for things, an extra pillow here, an extra pill there, to hold their head and move it to the left, to stay, to please stay, to stay until the panic of being in a withering body goes away until it wakes up again, like a lizard caught in the fire.


next.  they sometimes leave, and it doesn't seem to matter that they've asked me to stay, they sometimes leave anyway, and leave outlines of themselves in these houses so that the mothers and the fathers can see their traces and remember what was once here.  it's enough for them to already know what they know, that this is not a permanent situation, and this being in a body will not stay for very long, but long enough to make an attachment through the cords that can only be drawn by shadows playing on each other in the dark.  


next.  and maybe only this.  the shadows play on my face when i try to keep my head up, to go somewhere safe from mothers who are grieving for their lost sons, safe from fathers who are writing names on walls and thinking about the last time the children weren't raining, and safe from the things that make us hide from each other in the dark.  the shadows draw threads from my heart and memory, and start to spin in a thousand directions, like spiders that move everywhere at once, and connect me to everything that is here, and here, i want to throw off everything that is pulling me back to the place where mother's grieve.


there's always another next.  i couldn't break those threads no matter how many times i swept myself away from the ocean at 80 miles an hour, and no windstorm could take away the songs oya put in my head, and i had to decide to live with attachments, or to be weightless and unbearably light.  i am not light.  these small blinks of light that make up short lives - in the dark of a stranger's house, i said yes to the possibility of being torn apart by their hunger for another human attachment, because they know that at the end of the tunnel, this is all there is, this is all there is, small withering bodies whispering that this is all there is.


last.  your face in my hands.


Monday, April 18, 2011

test: apollo spills his heart to kassandra, and it's so very messy

You keep watching me, and you're always wondering if I'm stuck in between worlds, if the one who wrote on my skin before you left permanent marks on my heart, and I'm always wondering if falling into the world by falling through a body until its destiny is written on my skin is what I am born to do, and nothing personal.  I'm trying to hide these marks in the dark, the scars that match, the scars that rise whenever the temperature changes, and rise to the surface whenever I might hear her name.  I wish I could forget her name, but I hear her name all the time, and her name is as old as yours, old enough that you could be cousins. And after all this time, I forgot that I was a mirror and you were a mirror, and when you were watching me, you were watching you, because you never got over her, and you were watching me because you were wondering what happens when you don't let go.  What happens when you decide to stay stuck in time, but then time happens anyway.  What happens when things that are supposed to happen happen next.  And I didn't find you in the dark out of despair, because I wanted to find something anything that would take this away, I was resolved to keep it in my pocket and move into a world where she did not hear me, when I tapped the surface of the pond sending her signals, she wouldn't be able to read them any more, and somewhere in that moment when I decided this was no longer even possible, it started to make sense, that the one who haunts the cemetery and carries the dead away, she was there behind everything that was good, and everything was bad, and everything that I would want to lose, and everything that was lost.  And then she becomes her, and then you become her, and everyone I ever loved and ever will love becomes her, and nothing is lost but everything is lost, and everyone I could ever love will eventually be lost, but if you are her, then nothing is ever lost.  And we'll meet again, eventually, under the ground when we meet the worms, or we'll meet in this world, in some small sad cafe where we are always grey and raining, but we're always on the verge of meeting again, and the grey becomes part of the conditions that make up a life in a body.  And this is when it starts to turn, this is the time when these lunar cycles begin to carry a kind of weight that we didn't expect, and you begin to see that the body that you move, like a horse, in the dark, becomes a body that carries a destiny, and that these movements are a part of that.  Your fingers drawing lines on my back rewrite me by inscribing one of the oldest stories in the world, one that is our story and not ours, because it's too old to belong to us alone.  And your teeth on my shoulder talk to my teeth in your ear, and I can't always see you when your eyes are filling up with ghosts that can only get released by tears.  We pour these fluids into each others' throats, over bellies and expel them into black cloth that absorbs and reflects everything that we are up until this moment.  Excess and expenditure mark time passing, and mark the movemenbts of the heart, turning with the grace and hunger of pelvic bones, and the chalk lines that protect our ribs from the whims of strangers who don't know a thing about destiny.  And your movements across my lap, riding me like a horse, are the beginning of the next moment, the one where we write each other in another kind of language, one that can only be read by the horses in the other world, and the dogs that guard our hearts at the gates between a love that died, and a love that's just getting born.  So you rewrite me with your nails and with your voice, you write over her, and I write over the her that still lives on your skin, and this is a moon that does not forget these old stories, because we only forget the old lovers, and let the old lovers go, when we no longer know who we are.  Your salt tongue on my salt skin turns me to a pillar when I turn around, one written by the tongues of the goddess of the graveyard, and all her cousins, who tell me that I'm not supposed to fall in love, because that will make me dead and alive in the same breath, and that means that I owe them something, and they own my heart.  But they own my heart.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

dog of the dead

This is a little tricky.  I'm thinking that these things are always a little tricky, especially now, when there are film reels moving around in my head, and they contain images and words that matter.  Or at least used to matter.  This is something that started in January, when I was told by spirits (who sometimes get things wrong, or tell me things that are not true because they think they are true or should be true) that I would need to clear the area because something big was coming, and it would take my breath away and make things that happened then look like games played between children in the dark, or by the water.  They were right.  But to go back (in a sentence, or in time, or somewhere back somewhere), these scenes are placed in a metaphorical realm between one love and another, a dead time, dog days of love.

Which is a big word, and is as daunting in one language as it is in another, and these days is so much more difficult to imagine beyond the spinning webs of history, the serpents that eat the ribs of the living and inscribe on us until we become the bones the next generations wonder about.  It's a word that's tricky, and I'm thinking about this word while I'm driving to the grocery store to get snacks for my little girl, who will not be able to stay awake until I get back, but I'm hungry, and want to be driving right now.

This started in January, a liminal period between one thing and another, and if love is not the right word it might have to do, because it might be like god, most people know what it sort of means, even if we don't agree.  If we have to speak English, however, then we should probably be very precise, because that's what this vehicle can do, so there might be a word for this that's better than love, but suffice to say there's this sense that has happened before, and looks that I've seen before, and either way there are suddenly there are more fragile things in my room than before, and they make me pay more attention to the small movements of my hands.

But this keeps getting away, it started in January, because I was interested in the idea of how premonitions about lovers could be taken as warnings, or could be taken as promises, and especially interested in how no matter how they were taken, the taking would be wrong, and things would not be what they seem, and people might decide to go ahead and jump into the river anyway, because.

Do I need to explain the because?  (I won't).

So this is why tonight, I realize I have to be careful, because suddenly I am, like so many others, dead and alive all at once.  I'm thinking of a thousand perfect moments, and also one particular point (maybe two) ((it could be three)) when it seemed like it would be good to get these birds out of my throat, but as soon as they started to fly I could see that it was not a good idea, and not even particularly true, they were just uncomfortable, and I thought I didn't want to live with them, not because they were painful, but because they couldn't decide to fly out or to submerge themselves where they came from.  But that sore healed, and that scar will not be so big, I don't think, that it would raise when the temperature shifts again.  And it did shift again.

This was supposed to be a film about a time in between, so that I would have something to carry with me, but then the person that my ancestors told me I would meet showed up, and I had to leave the cave, or the middle of the forest, and start out on an adventure at sea.  Which is a place to get lost, sure, but it also has a certain charm that makes it easy for people to think they are lost, when in fact the mermaids are really guiding them toward the things they need to see and be next.  So I came back from the dead too soon, and not quite alive I am making work that is about this feeling instead of the one I started out with, and that's not going to be a problem, because this is more true than that.  However, the hard part comes when the dog enters into the scene, zombies on the floor making patterns on the living, and I say something about how the dog is already zombie, because all dogs are always already zombie.

This is a joke that only you would get, and so I'm making jokes to you when you are not here.  Or here and not here.  And it doesn't have to mean anything, but feels true enough that it is certainly right, and my heart is full and not as anxious as it used to be, but it does murmur now, and that's also true enough to be right.  But when I'm paying at the store, the woman is being terribly nice, and then she gasps and tells me that I'm bleeding.  I tell her, no, I'm not bleeding, I'm a zombie, it's not my blood, it's someone else's.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

contingent identity dogs


There are four holes in the world, places where the world can escape through and escape to, and when he is with her it almost feels as though the world were seeping in like honey through the seals of a mason jar.  He says to her, “This is what we do, we taste honey first by putting our fingers here, we’re taking the poison for her, in case this is poisoned.”  He is telling her too many things, and sometimes these things border on secrets.  There may be one other person in the world who could get him to speak as though his tongue were split down the middle and then healed over to become something else, a fissure that might not like salt water, but would respond to desire or difference in language.  He is about to tell her that there is a relation between the tongue and language that is more obvious even than the root word or the root of the organ, but she has already started to spin stories of desire from the orchids that are out of sight but not out of reach.  It’s terribly interesting that anyone could affect anyone in this way, even though it’s all part of a very old story that doesn’t seem to care much about the contingencies of history, or race class and gender, it comes like water and rolls over anyone who’s in the path.  
This becomes problematic, because it sounds universal.  Things like love and floods might hit everybody, but perhaps people do perceive them differently, or learn to define them according to certain culturally-conditioned behaviors or something that sounds intelligent but is really obvious.  Not everyone drowns in water, because some of us are mermaids, is what she would say, and she would of course be correct.  Whenever she talks like this, he feels like his breath is being replaced with warm water, and he knows this feeling is one that he stole from her, and he likes to give it back whenever he can.  It doesn’t feel like giving in a sense that the continental philosophers might criticize, and relate to a neo-liberal nightmare.  They do understand they are living in a neo-liberal nightmare.  They get that.  And in such economies, they know they have to be at least a little careful, because identities are connected to definitions, things that can start to stand for something else, and it becomes especially close to the bone when there are things that are happening right now, and nothing right now really needs a definition.
Living in a space without definitions is the only way to be in a space without feeling like choking (the bad kind).  The days move slowly, because they have their own peculiar rhythm, and they have their own rhythms to write on the spaces of these days.  He starts to remember that something about second sight allows him to see gender condition as the first band of the aura, the one that leads into other spheres of the spirit, and that this suggests to him that gender conditions are the beginning of the outline of the spirit.  Figures walking on the street often reveal their internal condition before their enacted situations become visible, and the internal condition is often a situation, contingent on so many other factors.  He sees people in their multiple forms when the light is just right, and it seems as though it might be very complex.  He wants to tell her that she often projects multiple situations at once, and that this has opened up some hidden channels in him that make him a little nervous, because it means his own definitions are changing.
In the room, it’s always a different story.  The complexities fill the air like shooting stars, and there is no confusion, only wishes.  She is like a shooting star for him, capable of granting an apparently limitless answer to his wishes.  The only real complications, the ones that stun the body into delay, are when lovers from the past enter into the room, like ghosts.  He was surprised to see them when they first started to appear, because he expected them to show their faces much earlier.  He wants to tell them the things that are true, things like, “I know this is what you wanted from me, but I didn’t know if I could do it, because I was never sure of your definitions, you said you’d tell me one day, but you never did.”  This just seems a little inappropriate, however, but mostly because it is not polite to talk to ghosts when they are not really dead.  And then he remembers that he likes her definitions so very much that the ghosts can wait for another night.  Her definitions come from the part of her tongue that is connected to the root, because she is speaking herself into being, and he likes it when she materializes, when the orchids cover everything and her body shines in the dark like a shooting star that is resting.
During the evenings, when he is falling through starlight and definitions, the things of the tongue become as real as the ghosts of old lovers, and they take form.  The wishes are like dogs that are waiting outside the door, looking a little guilty for the things that they want, and a little bit concerned that someone will look them in the eye and see them in all the dimensions at once.  The dogs like to hide, and their first place of refuge is in their tongues, which work to bring the world inside the body, like it were honey and they were mason jars.  He wonders how it could be that he is becoming dog in both daylight and nighttime, and he begins to move through the world as if he were someone who doesn’t want to be caught by anything, and its a weightlessness that makes sense only when he tries to describe it to her.  His voice is starting to become more solid, and this makes him more vulnerable to colds, or gossip, or the million pins that run through her body when she is wishing she were asleep.  It’s as if their voices were acting as harps by the window, playing to the movement of the wind, and all the while becoming more material, but only visible in the body when the music starts to play.
He wants to tell her about how the wind is blowing today, and it’s much stronger that the day before, before she left, and how this means something that has something to do with bones, and bones don’t need definitions.  But there are loose pieces of marrow that are left, things that need to be put into the muscles of the tongue.  He wants to tell her that he didn’t mean to avoid these things of the tongue, and that every situation and condition is suddenly necessary and contingent, and that these threads of bone might serve as useful maps, and guides to how the days can be written upon.  He also wants to tell her that his throat is loose, and when the sounds come out, they don’t leave with a stutter, but resound like a howl, or resonate like the wishes of a puppy, and that this is just one of the gifts that he wants to return, so it can replicate itself on the film that is capturing the movie of them.  He wonders about how a real dog might respond to distance, and he wonders if he might be the kind of dog that can see the dead in the dark.  It’s very likely.  Given how things are these days.  And in one singular spectacular moment, he sees that the identity of becoming, when it moves toward the dog realm, is not terribly concerned with authenticity, but understands itself as contingent, and that this is a situation, and that this particularly contingent situation feels particularly real, and perhaps even contingent on race, class, and gender, and perhaps even still is perfectly at home with shooting stars.  They remind him of her, of her situation, and of the multiple ways that tongues can write on bodies, and how some marks are only visible under the cover of darkness.  

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

The moon is sunny

He's starting to see himself in the foreground of a painting or a movie that hasn't been finished yet. It's happening to him, what she wants to happen to her, a radical point of view shift where the world and he are placed in a new kind of relief.  It's not exactly a relief to him, and she's wondering why he can't see this is a good thing.  She wants to see herself from above, and wants the world to look at itself through a peculiarly subjective lens, something about the gaze, the gaze, the gaze.  This would be a relief, where the pressure off the sight would allow for the eyes to breathe.  The birds eyes are upon him, but he's the bird and the ground, the subject and the observer. It might be more of a painting than a movie, he's thinking, because he's not moving enough to make it interesting, because what's interesting is not him at all, but the sky.

He sees the sky out of the corner of his eye, like it were the ghost today, and the ghost is dark, and there are storms coming.  Something about the sky tells him that it's a good idea to keep all holes covered, to stake things down that need to be secured. There are things that have been rendered insecured by the last storm, the one that took the roof of her home off, so that he could see the map of her body written in the sky.

"You really are from there," he says, staring at a pink dot, that could be star or could be planet, he wasn't sure which.

"That one?" she says. "You think I'm from that one?"

"The pink one," he says, wondering if she remembers.

She does, of course, remember more than she would ever admit to remembering, or perhaps remember remembering. She says his name, the part preceded by an invisible, or inaudible "pink," using the lower registers of her ribs, the place where pain and pleasure originate from.

She says his name, the secret one, and she likes the way it feels in her throat.  Its 'a as soft and uncomfortable as a feather, just enough to keep her disturbed, which is how she likes to be because it helps her to stay awake.  She is prone to crashing when driving, because she loses her balance when she looks at things.

She wants to talk about this, or about her secret name, and she wants to talk about the feather stuck in her throat.  She needs three voices to just begin this moment correctly.  Everything she wants to do is impossible, so she does something else instead.

"The dog sees sideways," she says.  "He watches the dead ones crawling up and down the wall, and he tries to warn the cat that they are coming for her, but he is always too late.  He tries to scream but it comes out as a bark, and when I first noticed that, I thought the room was going to go as dark as the backwards side of my ribs.  Instead I took some of the heat from the dog's eye and rubbed it into mine, so I could see what he sees without falling.  It doesn't always work.  There's something about the dog that's missing for me, maybe saliva, I'm not sure."

He likes to hear her speak like this, because on some evenings, she takes the spaces in between her words and uses the tones for songs, another one of the ways that they were learning to bring the world into being by singing it or screaming it.

He doesn't like the spaces between his own words, because he knows that these spaces are blank and white as death.  He's a little crazy in this regard, but not so crazy that it makes him want to hide from the world and become someone else.  Not on most days.  It's just that silence waits for music, and sometimes that takes too much time.  And on days like this, there's not enough sleep to fill the eyes with metaphysical barriers between the self and the real. It is always a raw sensibility that seems to guide days that carry skies like this one.

There's also something very uncanny when a sliver of a moon is out first thing in the morning.  The moon seems to like to dress up as the sun every once in awhile, because they are really so close, and they are really so opposite, that disguises make the days and nights a little bit more complex.  On this particular morning, however, the moon is already as complex as the sun wants to be.  She's dressing like him, and he might dress like her as the day progresses.  When the morning starts with the sun and moon switching places, there's room for an infinite variation on the usual themes, and this is close to god.


Divinity seems to run in difference, it seems to find its expression in variation, and finds its home in between one thing and another, or rather both and neither all at once.  That might be why it's so striking to be hiding from a sky that is immanently colored with moon, sun, and storm, to be inside the cafe when the lights are still dark.  It's too early in the morning, and he doesn't know why he got here, or why there are three men giving him things to eat and drink, as if he needed to be taken care of after something large and important.

He remembers the things that happened, but not exactly the whys, but there are suspicions.

The night before, he and she, or she and he, or various combinations of them, were sitting on a pink mattress.  She was thinking about screaming when he was talking about speaking, and this moved into something else, a comfortable dangerous place of storms.  He spoke over her while saliva dripped onto her body, and she waited for a chance to hold her breath to keep the screams inside, and saliva dripped from her mouth to the mattress, the way things drip when artists bite the egg of the world.  By the time the sunlight came in to paint her face, the mattress was covered with moisture.  Like a large pink cake that held them, the way that some cakes can hold people.

That was the moment when her body started to shift, it could have been a trick of the sun, or maybe it was the moon, they are tricky these days, and the water and air in her cells became solid matter.  He wondered if this was connected to the screaming, to the need to scream, to the idea that iterations could lead to existence, could make matter.  Loud iterations make matter sing and enter into the world, as if the tongue could cut its way through the veil into something that mattered.

He drinks an espresso without milk, and bread without butter, and he is thinking that there's nothing terribly important missing here, and no ingredient that can't be added later.  These three men were not called to him, he was called to them, and in the half light of the cafe, they talk about the most important births in the 1990s, and he can think of one that strikes him as exceptional, or at least more profound than he may have suspected.  

"You have icing running up and down your chin," says the man who pours the coffee.

This strikes him as slightly pornographic, not the fact of the icing, but the speaking, as if there were some things that are too deep to be spoken out loud.  At least not yet, not at this time of day, when things are deciding that they won't be what they seem, but deeper.  The pink icing does come as a surprise, it always does, it always speaks of something between birth and death, but neither and both all at once.  

He's thinking about the way her body could change, sometimes as thoroughly as her faces, and wonders what might be happening to him.  There are words for this, he's remembering times when his heart was changing from a bird to a snake before, and the words are all terribly problematic.  This problem causes furrows of concern, and the more he enters into his own shell, the more concerned he feels, and it does seem to resemble something very close to the beginning of a deep love for another human being, if not exactly that exactly.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

lessons

My little girl tells me that she is going outside to poke the skin.
My roommate is painting the room where his band practices, and there are remnants of an apocalypse all over the house, this liminal space between a there that I knew, and another there that I don't know. There are pans of red paint, shades of brick, that remind me of the best parts of Berlin and Mexico City, and the paint is drying over with rubberized skin.
She wants to poke it, because it feels good on her fingers, and there's always the distinct possibility of poking through and getting paint all over her everything. She sees raw material there, and wants to feel it with her hands.
It runs in the blood. This day, one of opposites, is where the sun is there but I can see it's just covering the surface material of a moonlight night, one where chairs serve as host to complicated acrobatics in a polyrhythmic time. These worlds can't exist at the same time, not here, not without therapy that goes deep and lasts for three years, not unless I can squint the growing wrinkles around my eyes and take the raw material of a chameleon god in my head and let it melt into this waking body. But I'm learning how to do it, how to make these worlds collide without any contradiction, this African Taoism that looks like two sides of the same tattoo.
This lizard king is at the heart of the heat of the top of the mountain, and creates with the diligence of an Iron God, never stops working, and never stops seeing potential shapes in the children of stones, the ones that can be molded with sharp focus, and deep feelings of love. Love is the center of every revolution, or every true revolutionary, and my world is revolving in ways I did not expect. Or maybe it's unfolding exactly as planned.
But this infolding is something that happens when the moon is new, and the archeologies of the body of a cipher come calling, come calling for unravelling, and haunted nighttime excavations.
"It feels like it's morning, or it looks like it's morning," is what she says when she hears the birds that surround us in the dark. It's not light, and light is far away, but it feels immanent, because we, passengers in time, are starting to see the curve of time and space. The bigger questions and bigger moments don't matter now, but the smaller urgencies are just beneath the surface, and speak like birds in the blood.
I'm looking at the lines in my hand, the ones that match hers, and I'm trying to see if there are crosses here, ones that will predict that a separation will be long, or short, but no marks show up in the dark or the light, only questions that are opened up by walking. I want my urgencies to be so overwhelming that they eclipse the father's fear of motorcycles, make the anxieties of liminality move to the background, and heal the ruptures that live deep beneath the surface of her earth, but they're only urgencies for a moment, and can only be healed by a moment, which comes and does not pass without a proper marking.
This skin, this raw material, is not the tabula rossa of a Polish art form, it's geographies marked and in process of further marking. Ink and fire and steel cross the sites of rupture, the moments that pass so furiously that they deserve a marking on the skin, this territory is one that speaks for itself, in curious and fantastical signs that speak of an unfolding myth within the folds. This myth is one that unfolds me, and marks me with a gentle rupture, storms that come slow and don't show their power until I'm caught in another complicated tango that dances in unknowable directions. This movie is Fellini and Campion, a perfect blend of worlds that would not have ever collided without a wise provocation.
As I'm sculpting new territories, the flesh returns to itself, to its own markings and geographies, and I can see the material is there to tell me about itself, seduced by the signs until the signs don't matter, and the breath and the blood make the marks that hold metaphorical shapes in these lives that play like myths and movies. Her claws make signs on my back, and her teeth make holes in my shoulders, and the flesh that I carry with me is becoming tangible as something that can be altered utterly in the hands that sing of an utter beauty, and these moments or signs that the heart that was buried in the graveyard was never buried very deep.
It's just below the skin, right under a surface that is slowly but surely preparing to show its colors. The moon is a dangerous hole, but the candle light can expose and absorb everything.
The blood that runs in a family is the same blood that runs from the top of the mountain, chameleon gods that know the secrets of the beginning and the end of the world, but know that the moment is the only one that matters.
We make matter from the raw material of skin and pulses, and we are the art, and we are the matter, and when we start to matter, we enter into the river of time. A week is a long way off in the short scheme of things, and a blink in the eyes of the world. A blink is also a fissure, signifying sweet nothings, excavations in the mountains in the spring, secret healings that make sense only much further along down the road, when the lines on the palm might start to make sense, or the pulse of an artist beats surely beneath the skin of a daughter's hands.

MANIFESTO OF CROSSED ONTOLOGIES Everybody (and by everybody I don ’ t mean everybody I think I mean one person, and I mean you, in par...