n. infantile pattern of suckle-swallow movement in which the tongue is placed between incisor teeth or between alveolar ridges during initial stage of swallowing (if persistent can lead to various dental abnormalities) v. [content removed due to Bush campaign to clean up the internet] n. act of nyah-nyah v. pursuing with relentless abandon the need to masticate and thrust the world into every bodily incarnation in order to transform it, via the act of salivation, into nutritive agency

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

out of reach

to dance without need for redemption, one toe, pointed and pushing against all that is solid, the other toe sweeping around to take it out of place, the swivel of body, the torque of my waist, darkness and yet the outline of vision.

in 1938, an exhibition in dark, surrealist we walked on fingertips with teddy bareness for our companions, an arm to grasp as mannequin after mannequin with wires or beetles covering their mouths, or perhaps gagged and gashed with goldfish swimming through the cages surrounding their heads. looming fall from the ensquared dark into the circle. of our breath, of our light, of the ring we walk through in front of us. viewing the uterine interior like we were inside, but it had been made onto the outside and we are all men, not buildings. inverted red satchels fleshed full with leaves and soil packed by our soggy trodding feet, bags of emptied coal filled lit and ballooned at the underbelly of a skylight, so all we have are the red red walls, the coals that glow in the center, wrapped circular and symbolical in metal.

i read: chronological story is told by those with no memory.

or something like that.

painchronology is constructed by those with no memorystory. chronology comes out of constructions with no memory or story. no memory can construct chronology for a story. we construct our chronological memory as a story to be told. memory cannot chronologize story to be told constructed. a story constructed without memory has no chronology.

what i am remembering as lie, softly so quietly like maybe if i breathe wrong everything will disappear. maybe if i hold an inhalation too long, like was pure selfishness jealous that caused me to hold it;

(acts of pause, the inbetween of exhalation and inhalation, the jiffy of immobility, just for these few flickflickflicks - a rifeness for interpretation. i constantly question stillness, for example. am i being greedy by holding on to that one changing moment? is the fact that i want a sign of my degenerate soul? the soul of a fool; the moment when innocence and selfishness bend across into the other.)

will i turn around and find… nothing?

these last few times of notasking. these last few times of breath, some nervousness, the idea of disappear knowledge – that all will be there 1 and then not be there at 0 or 2, but a life without chronology, a life without memory, a life without story, a life with… (this is not cause for fear or despair, right? but is it cause for distance, turn tao?)

down below, really i’m sure it’s down below where i was reading about when i came before, splashed up against a 1938 exhibition with flashlights and nolights, with mannequins. i can’t help but ask: is this the type of play? the the. the the. the type of play that reaches cataclysmic, like that night when she threw shoes and chairs and books of the weddingfield into the fire piece by piece, and piece by piece i pulled them back and swiveled, drunk and accepting, plastiburning on my hand. back when i was the one to rescue. rescue and swivel, hand in air, hand on soil, ready to sweep another out of flame if that’s where it was going to end up. that type of game. one that speaks to words i cannot find, the lead(led)ing of time-chronology-memory. the type of game where nobody knew where we were, but all the rules were to be figured.

go ahead, walk into that exhibition with just a flashlight. move past the car with the snails released intointerior, the wetness and plants growing along the lines of our mannequins in repose: the sharkheaded driver, the plastibodied passenger. nextweek, see what you’ll find nextdoor: a cattle whip and 2,000 sadists chanting redemption, redemption, redemption. and you’ll know, i’ll know. no dance should be in need of redemption.

click. let's turn on. someone else can pick the music, and i'll just find myself inside it.

click. everyone lines up, everyone on the lines, the here, the people who are upset when i need a place to crash, the splintered timbers of the room that I want… it’s bunkiness, bunkity, and all the spiders that crawl between the wall and the mattress, the mattress and i, but that is the room I want, is that the room I want? And how everything falls away, and how the boat goes to the barn, where i am setting the type, soliciting words and language, asking it gently to come to me.

click. i was once there. i still think about her every day in unbearable knowledge that we are pieces of each other, but it’s sometimes necessary to say fuck off to a part of yourself. maybe that part of yourself that wants to go to a party and never dance, the part without a single word left, the part with too many words, none of them wisdom.

click. i feel so gentle, so close to tears without being crying, without having a tear in my eye, a tender want to, a want to, i want to.

click. if one ever shows up, an exhibition. isn't the if a key? where there will be corridors of pause, of pause and looksee. sometimes sadness rests on us like a blanket, drapes us warm, a laugh choking in on itself, something so huge, it’s funny. but then there are the smallnesses, the little whats, the whatifs, the potential for awkward to exist as an inability to escape the inner linings, their concrete echoes swathed in fabrics: conceal or reveal, reveal or conceal. because disappearance is a harder sort of word than appear.

maybe there is something to be afraid of. a face becomes easy to read, and then it finds itself more apt and skilled to conceal, because that’s what it comes down to, all the ways in which we misread, all the ways that i simply don’t know. a face so hard to read, maybe it’s the truthful face, the one that doesn’t don the easy like it were something to saddle, bridle, and ride along off into a hotspot sinking down.

interesting exhibitions of questions, words, temporary revelations, absence of redemptions (dancing), the sound of a softvoice rising above mushrooms that roam around a redsour soup, desire, desire to find what’s already there, what’s not there, what’s hidden there, what might become there, not to mention what’s also here, and what makes time both sad and perfect both sad and perfect, both.

happy Tuesday, this day.
your coocoo
what about him?
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