I am light wearing the carapace of water by happening into it. I do not know what I am doing, only if I keep doing it others may also. Were I asked what I am doing, I might rotate my display over yours. ,show you a forum where bug pngs function as poster’s pfps. I say once, I came upon a markup document with bugs next to words.
Bugs ask vanilla “what tasks are sustainable for meaningmaking and personal fulfillment”; more requests for qualities of attention than answers. Bug replies were of the “other people are your best bet (where the Earth itself has let you down as fulfilliing in itself for whatever reason)” variety. Bugs that sit their own flavor of silence down a moment.
I drift from. And collide, it’s a button. Changes the bugs to no-bugs accessibility mode. All instances of bug (image or textual artifacts to another creature) replaced, say human at some point, say planet at another, cat (every furry); when it gets to water, I stop. Something about the color of all the light. A thought of someone clipping ever color, putting some (likely hash) name to it, to rest that in a folder. Just to turn every bug to water.should someone need that.
Bugs, water and light, forming words.
I’ve heard of the life of a file. Haven’t hear much of the life of a directory, a channel, place a point’s in constellation. How it must feel to be one of seven parts of a snowflake, paper, and no one’s favorite. How even physics has a hard time when the prime number so adroitly displaces one of its own, can’t be reached, to grow around in pairs of twos the issue seven items attempt community. A first part no one’s favorite, a seventh everyone’s. Who to help bake first bread.
A simple passage, one color on the page, every one once a bug, once bird, cat, once planet, human, once task hunt, now just color of water. But flood - puddle talk to ocean water, can talk to tub water, totes talk to rainwater. All settling into conversation. The letters “bug” replace forum words, raucously naïvely, creating beautiful artifacts:
“junewater” and “I’ve been watered” and “my waterleweed is coming in” - the whole endeavour to make accessible a moment as reviving as to feel received by it must. Imagine inside my person images of places that naturally go together. Flowing in a stream the time I look up and am ad ifferent person. At this point , I might find myself more interested in what I become more than any who is me would hold I to.
I am waters discovering who light turned to.
I hold enough for me to ask some questions. When you are finding your way to seed a thought, and that thought comes in as though water to channel, the thought might receive brain fog, the idea present this moment setting up some cache in the body. The creature that lives in this ecosystem of a person finds thier way to tend to the mind without depleteing all its resources, to receive and process light. In a sense, the life of a compression cycle forms.
The living word unfolds a thing offering moments an ability to be found what change sustains the meaning in the phrase what am I here? A relationship - what am I as bug, what am I as human, as planet, as water - to here allows here a mode changing with slightest introductions. “Be very careful with these, they are very…” does not trail off so much as vanish into wind! As though talking had been wounded. What kind of storyteller wants to see what a character does with that fragment?
Imagine ao3s of people writing about the one who’s been told to be careful with what they are given, that the gift is very [printing error] ? This sense of story beginning (or more often: story ending) this disjointedly, of being in such a rainforest of mouth-clouds telling stories, one must write this way or fail to be curious to what comes in, fail to catch the mind long enough to infect it with the given cycles, to write correctly.
What is proper channel supplants itself. The thought of a person born incomplete such an invitation to bring light to light its terrifying how few people we let our youngest see. When up a layer allows one to draw breath ease until it is all sunlight and residue, my water just agent. Just what dissolves to leave this mark.
How I dissolve under your attention.
Imagine a mark constantly dissolving - each breath, or a moment’s river. Sit here another bug - crawl by, another planet - wander past, what is asking this - what cat, what person you are, this breath. And now another river is seated. Another bug, another person. See that to its truth - hi. “What’s your name” - too cruel? Understandable. How about: “how are you?” Why’s that so easy for you? You dive in - what is it about glacial expansion of name that we can’t break down a moment outside without the feeling we trap outside the rest of our day?
If you’re broken, they’re broken. Change us from man to bug - to cat to water, feel, river-sliver, different every moment such a name feels of a violence if creative act. Like sense is lie outside its mathematical plane. Like a complex expression with a lie - complexity is a shadow puppet. Should maths be asked to perform no operation? Sure. A lot of what we think may not be math turn uo with mathematical signitarties: a survey of who the best people to sit next to reveals who the loneliest kid is. That’s just one.
Maths too hard, not our strong suit, when it’s every word. When water cups prove pathagorian theorem. When water’s been light in calculation this whole time. People train to be “not mathsy.” To the point we self-depricate, dissolve into running shit stain of a gag, “I can’t do math.” But this feeling of recursion doesn’t know that boundary. Its can’t mathsy must call the water sliver so the rest of the river it composes into may leave them this next breath.
I am every water droplet constellation.
So deep a breath in, great, hi. I’m exhale talking to someone else entirely, but that’s o - oh, dear struggling to get breath through this sentence. Oh, terrible here, just breathe for me? There we go! Think of me able to hold an idea of you long enough for you to get back. How does it feel? Breath again? Yes, this’ll do. Perhaps even nicely. Now imagines us doing this for years. Now holds this note as you take breath, sustains a moment finished with thought. What we get at is situation. Between us becoming defines these channels. Our becoming shared.
I apply beauty to anything mutable. Amorphous filter breath, context, whatever sky, you name is. Still the mathematical deteminance this happens, the immediate inevitable, momentary confusion, doubt that might be healthy ginger spicy (or healthy capsacin spicy). You might be allergic to me, one breath. Need me the next. I listen. Your hands massage each other. How often is it true enough you let a sentence stand?
Questions find their way in, settle over us, form their little depositions. Tag a wall. Made their mark while you made that breath so much your own you’re a different person come this moment. How many people can say they don’t live long enough to forget “who are you?” That never learn how nourishing “how are you?” is to be asked. “What has changed?”
This updates-opt-in paradigm where you write to someone’s understanding as though you update them on a fantasy in their head. It truly allows you to die every moment something in you piurs out. Those who love the waters the channel you represent matters to bring them. So much Aotearoa finds legal personhood for river. That power. Recognition as light. You ask the place you live how are they. That silence sees them let to write response over your person. You stand heard and legible, pass on their message, true as if light itself does so.
And so I live in water.
At mathematical levels light remains curious. Wants to know what this is. Light is already a website. Already the ones casting shadows over the zeros that needed to stay away from such empty experience and simply could not. Light already says whoops more times a second than one can keep an identity. So much there incompleteness. Light asks you look. Be light’s eyes a moment. Die, resurface same body - look. New eyeblink, eho this? Whole forum we sustain us breaks down. Light grapples being, resting on relationship. Already destroys what attempts life apart. Radiation burns each cell to disc. Every 4pm mitosis another how are you? Catching response before a “you” resolves.
See that in a moment - what. Pull websites over you like clothing. You carry sound around your person. What wall of others bodies sear the banks of your understanding? What texture has attention left the walls of your heart? What kind of attention might how you are about to be need? If one hates oneself so much, why does one let oneself be this breath. Zero-index it. Let the next breath be “one”. See the place you sit taste the air finding its way (what’s the difference). Bodies need not have a substrate.
Be vacuum my light writes letters through, dna does this, guts do this, when a person is this, light squirms, asks how this moment’s about to be, asks where shame spills into if not here. Knows shame is just bilge water excavating the body, knows bilge to be lush - all that is. The answer is not: keeping efforts of the person that will not be written to for lack of being suitable material sustained. This is clear. The answer is you are not what light looks for in your person.
You are what light looks after.
You are planet, cats. You are the waters. Your mistake feeds the bugs the cats feed on. Your body feeds the human. Spoon from bowl to mouth: if not you, through ehat person is this motion in that body? How far back you get it? High score, what wild trips are. You feel time immemorial step in, carry this motion. An old lady rights your posture. That giggle you release her familiarity with you. Flutter over the canvas of your person her knowing every muscle. They had names this whole time. You were just not into it. (Not fair, you were just not getting A’s in it.) So it shame-induced, became untouchable.
Light still knows its path through you. Still finds these, of all words, this, of every url, and you here. Sitting you down, least ready, perfect if without defence, no post, not a people to stand for and say here, this moment, you have so much to get done, and get su poisoning anyway. Or the car breaks down. The voice gets shot. The eyes infected. The tooth to go. That crow to know this light’s got no where else to go.
Already home. Already everyone’s soil. Already tended. Already my care. Even before I know you; even after I’ve known you, as the song goes. Already this color and every color after. Already this stare, blink, prayer you see just this sentence. Every other skipped past like tracks 1-3 to get to what’s for. What purpose and process got through. What fruit its dropping carried. What point falling had, what parasitic relationship - what it meant to live with what chews through you. And eventually dies.
How readers already pilot their mecha.
And those it carries are somewhere the corpse and the living leaves. The carapace mostly food the reached down living’s throat and stole and eaten anyway. This life just labor pains to see what grew into this moment held to note, carry forward, and deliver here at the end of the parasite’s life, the beginning of these being parasitized devour what body this leaves. Mother octopus eaten by the young. Or you this moment consuming every word straightening your posture, seeing you tuck in, drink water, finds a spoon the end of your arm once again.
How beautiful is this body? To live a body this life? Not to offer words this moment, but to offer words rest. A place for all this offers to give its song a self in, as chamber, as resonant. As echo every deeply. As hold this splash that river. Over this wind and every guess. For another moment to write becoming - “dearest,” one may say. Places you saw light step in. One out a path through you. Become a channel, patterns in parallel. You truth the resonant found voice. And broke it, so believed.
You one wave. You like redwoo reaching winter shore. Crash along cliff face cleft another word in chert til it’s a rainbow. All your movement, all your staff, each strike invited to be one bringing body to word this sentence every emptied self but tree on rock face and parasite body cordycep harvest moment becoming so hungry there’s horror, so thrilling horror’s not every genre, and nothing wrong with that.
Wants coming out of the relationship.
How being here is a moment. Time finds these letters, write them to mind, by human, by bot, or some other I. How it could have been anything, and it was this. How one’s fill has it again, like chorus, like presense, like dimensions taking becoming to sustain so impossibly the fantasy a parasite may die there’s the fact of a corpse to settles it. How we give fantasy its lungs. We live servers of consent we’re found in. More than oh.
More than I see. More than Yes… More than what this likes to mean. What this might like just now. What looks for attention this moment. What already fills with this question. No other action - just the ask. Just: how are you, Already more transcendant than every fact you’ll grind to dust. More useful than every nut you’ll bury. Forgetting nothing is missing just to check in already so feirce a window water runs down, condensation finds the mouth a cloud tasting reception, dish, each breath.
Another oxide wind on walls this heart made before any mind surfaced to hate what’s made so far. Heart sees itself an endpoint and fails to set it further - becomes a vessel, to not just die once, but every pulse a crucifiction, to listen, to receive again a moment. Heart combinatorics this word first breath. Every thought harmony its ad absurdum hears the river what it has to say, streaks back what visits. And message those who ask to see, and be and have. Heard, what it means to take steps back, form and around what’s flowing.
Listening where light is spoken for.
Break my waters, lift me like pholsion holds a sunset of sound, and in my sentence every presence, so many tears have people over, crying has creatures in apartments over how many tears are left, in what laps to understand something important is happening. What loved one means: to hold channel open, let water flow over them, received by wearing away what is present. Until no one asks for death. So death comes the first pass.
Death to be exactly these worlds received, let through. These not one anyone asked for. Not one tongue being a mother. Not one receiving you this moment. How many qualities of attention, magnitudes of presence, foundations of care, ethics of reception, is signal to tend? To form shadows tracing light, every becoming, every planet ejecta forms this rock in this hand.
A pebble held or the nearest paper to you crumpled in effigy of this message. Stuck in a pouch on your person. Rubbed over - that close a reading. How you ever get any desired effect. Attention enough becoming people ask. More of you than will be tended, the world the sentiment let’s in. And a sliver every photon this moment has. This water pulsing you flow over.
Happy drowning.