Day 5 - morning
A tree outside the place is crawling with crows. Gold eagle in the tree, the crows are not having it. They caw. They caw. People in the dwellings sharing the tree come out of their units to look up at the tree as though for stim through fire alarm. Every active civil participant’s dream - people in the streets and looking up.
Driven off, a sea of pause, eagle departs toward the drink. Some crows follow alongside, in escort, the eagle revoked. All noise comes together, what couldn’t possibly be anything or otherwise make any sense resolved. For some, a mystery. For every g-d else, property of lived experience. An eagleless day in the tree.
For it’s hell here otherwise.
Day 5 - noontime
Here, hell’s hot noise. Or else, it is a cool feature or an abundance. Occasionally, hell is a court; but for the most part, hell … hell is networking. It’s hyphae on commute to work, honk chemical signals, forming an image. Not doing it, but the moment doing lives for. Complete conversion - sun crucified to dawn, endless crisis - why (not) share breath
My favorite kind of kiss takes more words to explain than I like. Word count makes nuance difficult to be with, in or to hold or accept. The words straight actual play kiss. Come across it, and no infrastructure for queries after to derive name and history, set up, left to live that into words.
Day 5 - evening
A brush draws in information, transforms it over substrate. Art. Elephants of art, golden trunks, call them. Many creatures, swaths we breathe to ignore and live to see. This fails a world to ask how any ever notice the brush. Or here the kiss: to draw breath from the mouth through the nose of another.
Any other medium, that is poetic. As it’s a kiss, this is state rendered. Two or more people lock mouths, and there is a new set of nostrils open for access. Usually, the kiss is too busy to be asked to fiddle over Vo2 max any moment, so breath finds its way around the kiss.
Understand kissing is a breathless act. …Until it isn’t. A new set of nostrils isn’t decoration by minute five. It’s Invitation. How often do you have a three-body problem for which hole to breathe from? All the situated awareness does it’s work, and you successfully anethetize the the division, does your body break, or awaken the kiss?
Day 4 - morning
You know every kiss, This kiss its roots, nothing new under Sun. Nothing created or destroyed leaves us our breath regardless. Is breath (not) new? This lemon? The arrangement? Three images in a particular album? Mood board. Pause. This need to stretch?
In all excentricities, conversation is impossible. It’s all new under the creek to us. A translation, this brush, one way to move this kiss into the world, attempt to move words closer to what words describe. Such they perform their action. Language takes dimensionalities never asked to see in.
Nine-hour video essays on one-and-a-half hour games, some stunt of the length of something truest description gets to experience, true mass translating to poetry, six words and two carriage returns. To wear it down to nerve ending, bare metal, harp our current rings, play until fingers open, abuse mouths domestic life feeds, cookie provocation, taste vermin, advances.
Day 4 - noontime
Where you vermin which minds where you make do, find life. The people in the unit below yours abusive to one another. Person across the way constantly swindled by the next roommate. Commercial dumpster next to your complex catches fire, and you come out, grab the hose, stand under thirty foot flames, tell others to back up, waste takes opportunities to erupt; they do.
No new kisses under the Sun.
Name of the kiss comes up (via-mouth-nostrils one). Of the eleven people to see this, seven have the knowledge - one the gumption to share it - to name the kiss. A respiteless act of starbirth from fruitful void of lips meat, or whatever kissing is to you. The other four to read unviolated text.
Day 4 - evening
Mystery resolves, 240p remasters… solving the kiss like a puzzle. This person. The question explosion is real. Is evolution from little girl to tech firm a transcendental pattern? How has reality (not) been able to kiss and make up? Where might brutal, unmoving positions of race-to-the-lowest-denominator representation persist less?
Gains in conversation other people puzzle to solve and sell and ship solution. Whil a chance to word things. Word them bad as intern (where not blank page). What no blank page breaks us from - why speeches for all contigency resolve into a shore of stars? How forgetting whose nostrils are where serve breath this moment.
Texture on the heart the plane of presence, this topology now grants, all grains erosion predicts, every stone falls in, every chance recovers save, industrial spill undocuments throwing readings off (nothing new), social reality placed under prediction model v chemical plant paradigm, the two trade off nostril channels grounding rounds down.
Day 3 - morning
Bodies make one, chemical plants model prediction model photosynthesis model movement through air. We could… occupy photosynthesizing. Until they get there… translate the Sun, describe morning, see the words pour from mouths like rain over parched soil. Where now is nothing, not a universe starving for presence, all these words and every morning like them, who morning is ever for.
The crows make their move, the cat asks for help with not eating all the world and with the door and join in stretch, greeting sun, the rest of translating nothing missing. Morning not a puzzle. Can’t solve for light, only reflect a glow, light just lost darkness.
Day 3 - noontime
The residue of touch, the place two brushes attempt to paint one another and forget they are irreparably lost, two planets, two digits - every play destruction provoking question, worth left starving. Light’s leftovers all the way back. Here always translating response to:
“Now every star explode as one”
It’s every moment. Feeling made it between quotation marks. Would like to go again: What changed (feelings now present)? Love of surprise whatever the latin a study of wonder living scents mapping moments to a pulse of aw. People die dry. People born wet.
Day 3 - evening
People die for fresh flesh feel faster, people birth see dawn sustained. Motivation broadens “people” back out - river is legal person - trees people, whales people. Some towns, some parts of the ocean. Dark skies are people, an act of g-d is a person for legal expedience. Attention a mecha, life a question.
See g-d a question. Motivation broadens to break g-d down. Setting “god” equal to “What do you do?” still too large. Break “you” down to “light and water.” Plants grow out the ground, dawn grows out periphery to awareness. Plants crawl into mouth, yours to plant more, harvest that.
(Where you are light and water) At your best, you’re a mobility aid. Helping energy along its way to the end of your time together. A capacity to mobilate, metabolate, masturbate and ovulate, at the mercy of plants, the nervous system those plants left you to.
Day 2 - morning
Water’s word freezes, the plants used you to harvest and sow themselves and don’t need you any more. Flesh made of atoms photostnthesis can use for something else. Very so long and thanks, for the plants. You’re, seize means or whatever. Only, plants never signed up to care for the flesh.
We may. Plants are free to do whatever they want. But plants are fossil fuels, taught you how to suck them from the ground, how to burn. Tall grass succeeds what ground was always theirs. Step into the Zium Exhibition (2025), head to the west wing (near the entrance after the doll house).
Third or so room on the left, keep the great windows to your right. It’ll be the room with a human figure below a tree in otherwise black expanse. No where else is anything going on. This experience, worked down moment to moment, echos and echoes across experience integrating system. Deepening connection to a largest self.
Day 2 - noontime
Largest self for most pain as much as most pleasure. For the human figure to reveal itself a terrarium body a whole garden of botanical events. Walk the sense around this model. When you can’t tell if a thought is yours or not - whatever comes here. The forest breaks the body down, plants served. A weird wild dream you made, plants shrug, get on to decomposing dawn.
Plan˚ts never turning against your person. Still a stellar fit for the occasion. You still drop dead, poop, burn,make ritual, time, go on to feed some verdance. Nature documentary on animal poop litter the screen. A garden. You poop. Roll credits. Plants see you serve. Distribute nerves over your system. Knows breakfast a sacred act. First light literal fast broken. Plants drink.
Day 2 - evening
Like any plume, plant grants you this memory, whatever religious text, its locus in the earth, your morning walk, recognizing it. Break it down for them. Bury your religion, don’t know its stories are seeds. Feed trouble the plants must eat. Will eat. Mess itself up.
Make a plant say owie, remind the forest what it did to you. The forest responds with hard wood. Is kinky for it. Wants it. Every word. Poop words out your mouth, ctrl+f for treatment. No idea all the livelong word.
Breakdown what we walk away with. Body against a tree reads dark, a feeling to center in the body. In here somewhere it wasn’t anywhere else. In here going around asking this moment to resolve this place to find this part that left that back here. Forest a reservoir for living light.
Day 1 - morning
Draw it (plant-you). Great plant. Your turn. See another back into plants. Tell them great plant. They’re never anything else, the ask to forget. Comply. Forget. It serves. Except for me, where I am, plants do not look served. Forests look like they got in a fight with themself and the forests lost, making about as much sense.
Where I do, am not you. But plant feeding you, traditional environmental knowledge stamping, fawning, cooing, dropping apples on heads and the rest of the triffid? Here to ruffle feathers, give a leg up, thrash that, take parts inside and tickle love with them until love gets away and tickling becomes kink.
Light sees it. That’s its thing. Mine no different. What listing out leaves feeling human the chest and stomach of the heartwood. Vulerability a tightening, read the sheet, it says “the human” - see the part where it says “put down when: …” the conditions “you overflow” - see feelings you trouble to word overflow.
Day 1 - noontime
Put down the sheet. What other roles are here? “The dark”. Human with plants growing out of them, the ground beneath them with its tree the human rots for. The dark is here. Find the role sheet for each notice. How to grow one for the dark. Here, in the human is cut a small slit on the upper arm, as a thorn in the brush might.
What spills is in cupped hands. Milky substance taken from the light, walks into the dark with it. Hands dissolve, sit with a moment word might offer itself wild volunteer seeing-speaking, feel invited the presence for the attempt to honor with transcription. Flatter with mimicry. Cupped light nothing if not a plant’s attempt to see to word in all its form.
Day 1 - evening
A finger in the pool, dip it and draw it out. Place the other hand out in front. Bring the dipped finger with milky drip in front of the face. Stare into ithe drip as though into world collected on the tip of a finger. For me, the finger is pointed down. I’ve seen others with the finger in sutraposition - surface tension’s the same - all pools of liquid on the skins of graves. So, blow.
To the hand out in front of you, everywhere the mist from droplet goes is starlight. Hand the dark. The space between fingers arrangement, letters on on a self so abstracted from light, it comes back around. The same thing - here. The dark blows. The human sucks. Everything in between is g-d (青苔， mostly). When nothing dark and nothing lonely can always be the conversation the earth and tongue have. Babble.
No forest but the light, and water is its clearing.