These days sometimes I just want to head out into the brush, to closedown my walk with humanity and open my eyes to the
leucocytes. Where is my
bloodwork? My head is on a
bridge,
the blood distant as the water rushing underneath my feet.
>Once again, the prospect of being unattached is daunting
freeing daunting gothic and big. For me, unattached and sqaundering. Tommorrow's meal? Free art? What am I writing and what is the process? What is time lost and do records constitute a reconaissance?
>as I feel like it obliges me to seriously consider the whole width and
I walk out into the rain, the car is parked and I enter it. The boneyard feet away undisturbed.
>breadth of the world as a possibility, and this is terrifying. It's worse
Boil the water, submerge the noodles, what does cayenne do to kale? What is a gas stove failure? Did Plath crinkle her eyebrows as she inhaled?
>as time passes and deracination continues. Friends have become strangers
and familiar, comfortable assumptions no longer seem plausible.
The feet are stomping. Dennis tells me to swing like a cartoon cat and I am off the hook, learning to follow a lead. Harder, I think, to understand his body and how he reaches around me than to step off, to make my own time. Paul is a kook and shuffles his lanky steps, a misdirected flirtation. And the strangers at the contra, they spin me and I loose the ground, the sense, the oscillations.
But where is the movement? Today, tomorrow. December, January? What came before?