To whisper in music of this abiding sorrow, to braid longing
with abundance, a near-ecstatic mourning
into unborn tomorrows.
Hope at Midnight
A song for dark times.
Category: earthling
Art Walk
And historical research.
The artist told us how he carried questions as he traveled. He had worked with sound before this, but now he was into light. He was documenting dances and the history of time and space––and color, and the thing he was noticing about color is that it has a lot to say. Some called him a walking antenna. He showed us a work he had just finished. He called it Life in Rainbow. “I thought it would stop talking when I was done,” he said, “but it’s still going.” We listened. “I’m an explorer,” he explained. That sounded good to us, so we followed. Even though we had the wrong shoes and forgot to pack any food, it was a great trip.
***
Inspired by Alteronce Gumby.
Fictions of Kind
Study of the world: views from below.
Amidst an immensity too vast for containment, one vessel’s first heresy was division. The sorting into kinds: an exhilarating project for its heroes who were––(un)naturally self-proclaimed. From their abdomens they emitted the substance of webs of significance, and from these spun stories to support conclusions about which were to be marked for life and which for death.
So here we are. And now.
But who, we? And when.
If what is to be done is freedom for all, we move to unwind the choking snake of this original heresy from its tail/tale, to return to the beginning of the Word.
Perpetual Presence
And time in pieces.
The woman we called Space because she held us was talking about how she managed to survive. “Performance, mostly,” she said. We were waiting for Time to get ready, but he was arguing with himself again under his breaths. “I’m no monolith!” he was saying, and then, “Hah! Whatever you say!” Watching himself through splayed fingers: now a bright hope, now gone; now horizon, now barrier, now blank. And what of tomorrow? And tomorrows.
Why Attentions
Philosophy of leaning ear.
Because she may speak in wind one day,
water in another, and in stone the next.
And when she sings through all in chorus,
I want to hear.
O Valiant Now
Remember the ancient tragedies.
Careful, hero. You are sometimes too sure. It may be said that your ancient predecessors, the ones you often mock for their backwardness, were in fact possessed of virtues you have yet to learn to recognize, glutted as you are on delusions of progress. These knew at least––or learned to see (sometimes after the eyes were gone) in the (tragic) end––the danger of confusing what would save with what would destroy. They understood that they were understudies to passions, the lead actors preceding their entrances and following their exits––and how none of the worst crimes could have happened unless they were believed to be good. To go on acting anyway, without becoming paralyzed, in full knowledge of blindness, leaning into doubt well enough to hold loves close. For protection, and to protect.
Tracing Against the Grain
Re-visioning histories.
We returned to touch, to reading texture to see what we could learn about thinking well and by well we meant in a different direction from the killing machines. To the speech of our bodies, to save them––ours, and any others still here.
The Hearing Shell
Leaning in.
Sheltering at the end of the last song, fingers splayed as weather comes but I want to remember radiance and rescue and first this question: what city is this and if I reach for her hand will she know me? If my mind would return to the gapped flesh of my flesh to mend itself, how far until the next note and will there be room enough? Inside us, to hold it.
Progress in Pipeline
Flow without ebb.
How to stop the rush of current pushing toward––? What is assumed to be an exit from which we can finally fall from this concrete pipe into fresh water, into sunshine, to stretch beneath the dappled light filtered through dripping trees. There is no entrance, only more volume to increase our velocity. How far until light, until water, until air? Our breath, too, is caught in the current so we hold it like our questions, like our limbs to keep from breaking.
Bird Signs
And what resists containment.
Careful to note the care of the thrush at her nest, and her attendant song, we were determined to find joy in witness. Its light would not shine except in grief, and a long record of bird notes reveals that we could scarcely see their winged grace without noting everywhere the flights and visitations of our dead friends. The substance of our trembling was never so vivid as when it flowed from us.