to sit for one more day,
and this is an endless wonder"
"where I am allowed to sit for one more day, and this is an endless wonder"
As I read it, the words in this book are overlapping in instances with strength of feeling, marking questions and answers, all just divergences from the wider noise of reflection. It makes me want to submit to cognitive hum.
As stated by J in an interview within the book: “The words might displace me, but then language also places one in this world.”
Thank you J @Daisart for inviting me into this ephemeral publication. All of these writings invite a type of erosion, it comes as quite a relief. It’s helpful to notice the looseness and permeability of thoughts in this book, a distraction from the tracing of strings and things that promise surety.
The book is full of contributions from other writers, you can find it and the record that it accompanies here.
Below I’ll paste my contribution to the book as an excerpt/record:
A crack in the glass that you pick at with your thumbs, finding gaps to seep through
The tiktok compilation has me feeling like every bedroom mirror in the states. I’m watching face filter summer glow teens, camera posed and - so in love - posturing lust like catholic statues posture ‘pieta’ (they cry glue). Lips and dewey cheeks the same.
You begin to leak. Though cracks in the room, gaps in your attention, things appear at your edges. Time alone (when used as a mallet) drives a crack in the glass that you pick at with your thumbs, finding gaps to seep through, liquid chemical display.
Standing having thrown my iPod Touch down the gutter I wished that I could squeeze in to take it back. I dropped my cheek against the concrete to try to understand if I (as my iPod) would erode after the battery died, or after stormwater trickled inside the charging port? Later laying in bed I felt I’d broken a bone, the way you feel when you become much smaller, partly accidentally, and your will is quietly relieved.
Me, a surface like fault lines, cooling as I move while I hold us and pick privately at the healing crust.
Years looking ladder back at
Red staffy denim jacket, Girl stuff boy stuff
Karaoke (did I embarrass you?)
Critical theory and shy
High performance
Hazy sun, The sound of cars in the wind
Looking for Wurundjeri country
Wheels and wheels
You’re not becoming as much as you think. Time alone (you’ve no choice but to use it as a brush) clears a surface you can lay yourself down on for shallow breathing and lint picking.
I catch myself someone around you
Making the choice to speak,
I didn’t catch the feedback in my words
I’m so sorry I
I’m not sorry I’m still so relieved
Here I am, thank you, I’m here, I’m sorry
