Sunday, February 5, 2023


The slow outside, the slough, useless wanting and the undoing of spring. Not yet. What I wanted to give you was a giving if such a thing could exist, all movement in along the river, belonging to no one, being to no one, undertone implying a worn out flannel, a fray. Nothing of the capacity to own or ownership, or the capacity to contain oneself or speak of or as oneself. Back then it was none of that, but then broke, articulation in the shattering of an evening into cool air, the sweetness and rippled clouds.

«a note on method: to break apart, to be partial, to be impatient to the text, to the breaking, suggested formations form corrections, to suggest that as we explained, to the left, to spill, spilling an a blackened page»

The swamp so low that we walked along it’s edges as birds dipped their heads. There was a time when I believed in the depth of intuition, autocorrected passages in the book someone else would write if they didn’t know you, imagined outside where judgement hangs around, lurking next corner, next block between the curb and the door. Low flying without speed, with no use for that, slow process of partiality becoming its own whole. We skip around the concerns and try our hands at something else, plexiglass of the same kind of thing and thing and thing.

It was with you that I felt beautiful, felt unseen, the total capacity to never see myself in the right way, out with vision, a photo of myself that made me give up on understanding. I was beautiful then. It was what you gave, the beauty I gave you to give back, small golden hoops and not seeing, forgot the whole thing on the walk home, no photograph ever, no capacity, the walk back along a suggested route which bypassed the traffic in a rambling.

It’s not that brokenness is embarrassing, it’s that encountering the edge of capacity makes the horizon so visible, so obvious, that I realized exactly that I’ve been pushing away from a kind of impossible center of bounding, it is not bounding, it is desire, it is not desire, it is desire wrapped in the possibility of being bound. It is that very outside.

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