I'm thinking today about puddles and the capacity to be moved—the capacity to be puddled—in the muddying sense—might also be the capacity to be out of sense, out of step with the pace of things, something not quite right—a puddle-break with the sense-making—puddle the morning by reading the invitations we keep sending to each other—puddle the sky with the sky—puddle the capacity with its own reflection, streetlights and passing cars, wavering droplets and set of bicycle wheels—puddle the movement we call puddling—puddle writing without waiting, without promise—without saying we know what we’re are talking about—puddle in what we know—that we're asking for more puddles
Friday, December 2, 2022
I said we but mean I. I said you but mean me. I was tired and something slipped. Some apologies are merely ways of repositioning power, default of the default of some forgotten memory of being pushed in the mud. Polka dotted umbrella opened into the escape I don’t want anymore. It wasn’t the plan to bring you into this, but it was already a mess—already entangled or drenched or whatever metaphor someone else will come up with to name the thing we are for each other. The rain collects itself on anything it can, and we keep each other without asking. Some things are not about the asking. The exhaustion of gender is the question blown into noise, noised into color, pattered into screens which say something about what was once called representation, when I still thought I could talk about that without lying. But there is no lie here. When I said you, I meant you. I meant we and the apathy of puddles.
Wednesday, November 30, 2022
Linger on the lingering, unwrap in the citrus air and fog.
Barthes says that interdisciplinarity is about making something that belongs to no one.
Which means not even us. Which means what we are after is a giving away.
Less a honing, a sureness or even a losing. Less writing without writing to you,
and less a response than a call—a continual shifting, a listening, a pause.
Tuesday, November 15, 2022
In a moment of pause, we talked about the inability to articulate what it was that we were trying to study, and how actually that was a place to come together under—the umbrella of the as-yet-unexplainable, the repeated failure to name a destination other than the refusal of what has been assigned, or the desire to get through with it so we can go eat dinner together. My own interest is in articulation and its failure, writing about writing or whatever we call it when we sit down to talk together after class. Even if it’s not a real thing of study in the way they want it to be, I don’t care. I love the thing we make in the continual renewal to find each other.
Then there was talk of studying puddles, and I speculated on how to write in puddle form. A puddle takes the shape of its shallow container, is temporary, and reflects the world in its immediate proximity. Is the puddle an excess or everything but? And fragility, is the puddle fragile? How to write like the liquid stumbled across when the clouds clear, the torn-up asphalt edges of the sky, leftovers of tire treads and the residual softness, all that blue pouring back toward sky. A body takes shape around the possibility of a new form, and we take in so much without ever realizing. “I want to poke a hole in my words so that people notice you are not here,” writes T. Fleischmann. “Comfortable divots you could fill some day, if you wanted to.” Doesn’t that sound like a puddle?
Tuesday, November 8, 2022
The question is broached: who are the entries addressed to? Who inhabits the “you” which ripples through this series of rubble, successive reaches toward what is without use, small piles of picking up the day and trying to explain it to someone. Articulation is not what I am after, even though it is my material and form. Rather than fixity, I’m interested in direction: the opening in language which moves out toward you and you and you—and still somehow misses. I’m interested in that redoubled missing. What I am after is the excess of the afterward, the walk home, the dinner on a whim, what might be possible over coffee or sandwiches or in our shared frustration in a lack of instruction. I’m interested in the way that in my loneliness, writing to you makes something possible, even if it is an impossible destination and in truth isn’t even you. This is a kind of sensemaking that remakes writing toward a distance which calls itself missing.
T. Fleischmann: “Let’s go to where the mail goes when it’s in the mail, waiting to get to your house.”
Roger Reeves: “What war / keeps me from saying Please, please / do not wash your hair tonight. / We are still trying to find each other.”
Saturday, November 5, 2022
How can we talk about the reach (the gesture: I am writing to you) without talking about hands? And how to think about hands without thinking about you, without hands holding hands, or the descriptive act that hands make possible? My writing is a trying, the attempt to call something into being through a reach, through description which breaks open when the project reaches its limit, its own edge as hands. The project falls before itself, fails in the act of describing anything other than writing or blogging or speaking into the void of a small rectangle. Hands on cold plastic keys. Hands on pages of ink. Hands scrolling through the numbers, the dumb analytics of hands. The problem with blogging is both that no one reads any of it and that someone might be. Someone’s hands navigating the a different kind of same. Plexiglass and plastic and rubber and self-grime. We like that kind of thing. We keep walking toward each other even as distance accumulates. This project is an accumulation of attempts to make description itself a kind of devotional object. This project is something my hands do.
When the poem says: "nothing can go wrong, do you understand / nothing can ever go wrong," is this an affirmation or a threat? These days I notice the small circle that follows me across town, minor weight of an attempt at trusting the body in its own way beyond grasp or understanding. It’s not that I’m trying to stay confused, it’s that I’m trying to hold some other space for what is not yet here. Or, to come at it from another angle: I’m trying to chart some small history of the desire to annihilate the self in the name of Objectivity, the overdetermined turn to remake the world as image, to look out there. Within this anxious checking every desk drawer, anxious searching as many carpet fibers as can fit in a hand, anxious car keys, anxious meanings of unread messages, I am trying to write toward the leaky problem that spills into every day when the door inside a word opens up and meaning evacuates. Do you understand what could go wrong? Nothing can ever go wrong.
I'm thinking today about puddles and the capacity to be moved—the capacity to be puddled—in the muddying sense—might also be the capacit...