from Last december twenty FIFth

Rorschach cedars. Shuffle of corduroy. Mining the stormies. Mining the fields. What kind of bird? A familial bird. Hilarious. Bill Drummond yes please. Oh, sure. Max martin me- a drink name, or a dance move. // the importance of a conversation over breakfast. Of a lady on the couch. How to get fiction to be morally (tricky tricky.. 19^th century!) as well as imaginatively instructive- how to get at humans. How not to stew in absurdity and concrete. Somethings that make me uneasy and shuttered-down: “healing”, deconstructionism, swears, words, any manner of “releasing the goddess within”, Freud-on-religion, a lack of eye-contact, plastic-surgery, gems, much television, the internet, the lack of the internet, charging for services, paying for goods, not know the words to my questions, processed food, cheap alcohol, bad teaching, chakras, utopian community plans, tourism, exhaling, cherry tomatoes from the store, hearing other people have sex. What a rubber-band ball I’ve got my memories encased in.. I’m the smells and spiky one, the one that’s softless, nurch and hagalow. Strongly believe that what Actually is Happening has much more to do with how we hold our woven into the fascia, but that shit’s hard to sell and should be. People won’t respond to ‘gentleness, gentleness’ and they shouldn’t because it’s stupid. Wonder about Wilbur’s idea of clenching the tightened part before release- to take responsibility for it, to embody the abstract held and own it. Quien eh oh gray and helmUT, flags and post-men. Kathy Chekovitch an everday magical future of woman and Farnaz Anita Jessica(?) Wife. Wife, do I mean it? Tantra-burnsing and exorcism of ignorance, of heldness, of sorrow to come back to, to come back to… to have a little healthy shame. Neither asthetic nor ascetic nor tired. Nope bored nope yes. Will it be a long time yet until I plant my own tomatoes? Im burnt so fulp. Cats and turtles. Children. Old age. The way the ice looks when the puddle isn’t frozen all the way through. Shock at the continued working of the world. I’ve been insatiable for days now. Food, need more foods. Collecting wooden crates from the Arab markets that still have bits of rotten turnips and bok choy in ‘em. Collecting abide-ment. Unbearable and perfect. Unassertive. I paralyzeabllllllle woman. A Woman! Some slowness. Won’t lean but questions yes. And cleannesses. Carelessness is my big One. New York Times on lack of academic positions and funds. A pull towards nowhere in particular. A mind like a sieve. A habit of leaving the flowers to die. Hallelujah. Fuck it! The day that I realized I must submit to all urges was a Tuesday. I know it was a Tuesday because. Whoa whoa whoa. about how manifestation and working with subtle and gross energies is how the tantricas appeal to the Tibetans and how they both keep them both all alive. Everyone’s welcome, it’s all graded meditation. All these hierarchies of spirits. All this esoteric initiation and confusing demands of a harsh climate and land…. It’s all bullshit and lore and good and fine stories around SOUP. Agency detection and attribution, psychological and cognitive projection, there are lots of theories that can overlay on this shit. But clarity? What am I clarity clearly? The Buddhists stress their roots as coming from India NO SHITS- what do the commoners think? Is this a point of pride? Inherited from a military people? Oh I love him- oh but he is so little and large. Agency. Children. The Germans. Tamil. Purge purge purge and fuck me creation only confusion calm. I’m staying afloat. There’s so much going on and I check out so fast. every question in the air along with every dankness and strangle. and animals and collections and I wonder if ill float forever. Well. Wellness. The word question ‘flourishing’ comes to mind. David Foster Wallace and purge redemption through construction, through illumination, through meditations on att(/in)tention. On needing to tell a particular story. On needing to show a particular way of being in the world- are there possibilities? Are there ways not to disengage? Can we stay here? Vibrating? Into the light? Non-fiction? I am scared and suspect I want to be more of a woman. That maybe I want less to create than to share. That way of drowning that is just bending over farther and farther into the well even though there may be a toe always on the ground outside so your head is still upsidedown-under. Endnotes. Empafiction. You know how after when you’re lying all still and the blood’s metronoming through your hips so hard you really in three dimensions? I mean, like, how your thighs and calves and cheeks are really Round? I wanna say something about that too. About those kites whipping fast in the wind out from my pelvis and about that one freckle and about, yeah, about terror but about the place that we come back to. That Hall of Artifacts- our own (bodies) as well as what we find on the street and in rubbish bins rolled out to the street on nights and rummaged through by raccoons and bums and characters in my father’s novel and imagination and past.