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Here, a touch, a feel. I woke up with a phrase in my head and the thought of exceeding the bounds of our prescribed reason. It is a kind of constant running away that we’re doing. It is a running at a very slow pace, and it is in that slow escape that we met. Our place we make in the passage of just passing through, a conversation about what is inscribed on the body at birth, histories of accumulation and violence, not exactly disavowed, but rather, held close in a means destruction. To speak of a kind of sabotage, to plan from one’s own position. To make uninvisible an obscurity while at the same time seeking a kind of imperceptibleness. The task is an impossible undoing. It is a question in the shape of a hand. It is our walking past the edge of usefulness through the darkened underbrush.

What kind of passage must we make to write our own inscription against and among each other? Touch of pen to page, of hand to arm, subtle embrace in our just passing through. Our passage by the ocean is a short series of evenings and the possibility of continuing to begin. Last night we walked to the park at the top of the hill, up the small set of steps and to a table that overlooked the valley. All those small lights I’ve dismissed as lives which can never be known. Is beauty the recognition of a certain unspeakable possibility? And if so, a possibility of what? And if not, is it that beauty rests on the sense of an otherwise? There, different feel, a touch, a sense we get when walking in suburbia’s eucalyptus cavern. Could be mistaking abandon for refuge. Could be, but is there not a certain refuge here, in breath and wind and shimmering?