Begin again,
when I enter the womb of the ocean the ocean of time begins again
Called, each moment there promises to be a renewal. To see the world in this way is to be los t to its potential, an arc infinite and vast, I don,t see it this way all the time but I am trying — Time’s aperture opens, maybe it is widened all the time, I don,t see it this way all the time but I am trying
Seven o clock but it looks to be midnight, someone tells me never eat sugar again, it is inflammatory and the panes of light are unreachable, warmth within, here the world is quiet
Each passing moment every moment past, I am an archive, we all are, I can’t walk in the hills after dark without every time before long ago now extending before me, the darkness absolute, a candle in the window, the window fogged,
The veil remains thin
I am in a house made of stained glass and there is a cup, also made of glass, next to me : a dark liquid, and a mural, painted over, three green shoots at the ceiling fold, and a birthday party, they are playing a game of disguises, trying on faces new and strange, everyone laughs at once
The fern has been knocked over, perhaps the gift of the invisible week is its imperative to turn inwards, this darkest time of year, to engage in memory alive of year past, the world a closed fist, the tension releases as light returns, but for now we remain in the dark. How many new years have we, I, seen this year?
My favorite most of all, you will know for you were there, beneath an afternoon moon on the hottest day of the year, the ocean was warm because the world was and is ending, a bathtub current on the tarred beaches. To get there on three, buses and maybe three back, too, the sand cliffs are collapsing inward and that is what this feels like,now
Another, the gates open wide and I a hollow, I have been told there is holiness in absence, emptiness, is it a conversion:transformation:metamorphosis:translation:computation of the self:container:vessel:
Someone,s just screamed out side the window and the nasturtiums on the corner have been pulled and the roots are in the daylight, moon white and almost ugly, for how close they look to maggots, knells of death
I’m writing quickly, forgive me
Even the dreams, my dreams I mean, are so gendered, maybe committing this to paper will excise it from me, a sharp scalpel, let something be birthed in its place
New york again, I re watch a film that once meant the world to me, filled me with an understanding of the beauty found in the tragedy of bearing witness, and there’s something heartbreaking about being able only to see its true tragedy, that being the tragedy of masculinity, why are the women always mirror-preening and vain, white femininity; is the complexity that exists in a woman always circumscribed by the violence she has experienced by men (True, this does generate complexity, And — how interesting it is when men use it in this way for their Art), I say all this with the question:can all of it be true at once — this dialectical understanding of how womanhood;gender has, is constructed on a societal scale, how that is upheld by beneficiaries of gender oppression, the particularities of violence and how they shape lived experience , how perception generates reality, and so on
and, and! how without diligence these narratives can quickly operate reductively, bringing us closer ever to this need to reach for something more, towards complexity, towards understanding always, the window, the mirror :: there is understanding in the shared wound,
What am I trying to say? Up wells the meta-tension about normative feminist analysis and how it has failed us so greatly, for it has been wielded in such a narrow way, and operates as though gender exists outside of white supremacy culture, when gender is white supremacy culture, so I suppose I’m just expressing most of all a continued disappointment in the flattening, the severance that this flattening brings, to offer but one voice of critique, how awful it is, feels, to critique, how necessary it is, how much else there is to dream in the world to come beyond just this, one grain in the hourglass
And still,,
It’s a horrible, horrible thing. I won’t let you
When Adonis dies venus
Boxes :: built environment, conditions, rooms, doors
Vessels, containers :: invisible,
To only think of the spiritual is to only think of the material, the mirroring that exists in each singular moment, nothing in between, a pulsing divine
A spell for the year born again, make the wish all of us at the same time,
you know already what it is we must ask for:: action is a prayer, love is a prayer,, presence too just the same, may we live to see it in our lifetimes, begin we must again
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