The attic never gets fuller, brighter nor darker.
The dead keep coming, the star keeps burning.
But I feel that this request, to stay with us, is in no way malevolent.
The request confuses me; from what I recall the dead should always move towards the light.
We ask the dead not to go towards it.
Star-like, with a cold burning centre that radiates outward.
There's a light in the South-West corner,
Not only ours, but those of others.
The dream is an attic in the desert, where we keep our dead.
belonging.
Where "re-" signifies back to original place and "member" signals organs, body parts and a sense of
But still re-members,
Remembers differently than it would have the first or second time,
But something still remembers.
Last night's dream was erased three times in a row.
***
Yes, portals are built, they don't just appear.
Human-made portal to the inside,
le chaos après un tornade, mais esthétique.
volcanic sleep
orchestral tuning
taste that doubles as texture, erotic roughness
wet abyss, eau noir
endlessness
black feathers
To imagine the fall inside I craft visions of :
And the cycle continues.
To find out she must fall in.
Confusing the caller into question whether it is their voice they hear, or the girl in the well
And can only speak as an echo does
But then we are in, no longer out
So to get it we go in
From within, which is always a speculation because we don't have access to within from without.
From outside the darkness, they envision broken bones, suffering, fallen angels.
At the moment of tipping.
Even if she's a womxn, she becomes a girl upon descent.
This story listens to itself as though inscribed within an echo.
Always the story of the girl falling into the well.
It knows without me.
Even if I don't know how.
The flesh opens and closes without scabbing, it sweats the way it knows how.
Droplets pool in the humid crease between wing and lung.
Darkness home, beckon, pulling from the well.
And then when the rest is sleeping.
Rapid reiteration, vibrating voice, bones untied.
Tremolo.
visible through trembles upon the flesh.
The wishing well is
***
Kasia Urbaniak said it.
was heard as much, if not more, than its counterpart.
What if the portal of creation and beginnings, an orifice stained in red,
What if we saw birth as much as we saw death.
Similar blood, similar sounds, different feeling, different direction, different beginning.
An explicit birth.
She says, now count how many times you've seen birth, a life coming into the world.
An explicit death, in cinema, on tv.
Count all the times you've seen someone die onscreen.
Of feeling it to be other.
their transformation and their uncompromising axis of feeling.
Centering love and birth: their messiness, their power, their resilience,
"but because I love the idea of justice. So it’s where you begin your conversation.
"I became involved in the Southern freedom movement not merely because I was angry about injustice,
Shifting from
against to
towards.
She spoke of shifting the direction from which we work.
I heard Ruby Nell Sales describe transformational love in a video portrait by Adam Pendleton.
The sense of belonging this engenders is trans-formational.
Revealing cornucopic expressions within what seemed firm, solid, whole.
There's always many others within others and the potential of them.
Otherness is diffractive, prismatic.
I see that as becoming portal.
Centering that break is the becoming other.
That's the feeling it : to be other
It's more of a listening to what's happening out-of-frame and framing it.
It's not something done or produced;
Otherness begins with a break; it's always an opening.
She said it and I heard it different than I'm used to hearing it.
What we can feel to be other.
that they make us override what we can feel to be other."
"It astounds me that the ways that we are socialized are so powerful
***
existing only when the object of desire is gone
so language is eros
they say that languages are only needed in the absence of the object they refer to
from language to interpretation
from alphabet to language
from rhythm to alphabet
that must occur -- so it dies twice:
but with morse there's an extra step of transformation
to convey the rhythm
nothing is lost, each carrier is perfect
the carrier for its communication is manifold: sound, touch, light.
morse code is a rhythm
A question about language came up
the one where morse code bellies our family's creation myth
When I told that story
with dimensions and edges and volume
the way imaginal figures are precise
Now you materialized in my mind
wet first and material second; you were gone before materialized.
loving wetness
wet of love
wet with love
puddle in the darkness well
darkness puddle
liquid idea
Duncan
Dear brother