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.

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