Tender, I–VII

TearPrimitive.
Mourning. Tears.
Flooding pigment in watercolour thins.
EnvyEnvy of the mosses. The liverworts. The lichens.
A low slung body with a million threads running wetland into cobble.
fallingI ask myself, are we not
all bodies falling?
square
In almost-squares—pure colour stays the Interlocking loops of yarn. Each stitch completed before the next one is begun. Each circle back to itself. A circumference of hollow. What is completed.
Spent
in hooks.
And half-moons.
Tick, by tick, we feel towards a cave in.
Afferent
I catch myself on more than one occasion, attempting to synchronise my heartbeat to a slice of air beyond. A leaking gutter on the north corner of the roof holds promise. Until the
tap
tap
tap
of falling liquid turns into something too easily absorbed. I feel it in my chest wall, my fingertips. The anticipation. Bio-synchronicity. I once felt it in my right shin, beneath the white cotton sheets of a Oaxacan hotel. Dull, harmonic thuds of a distant church bell fluttering my leg bone.
Only when I tried to walk did I recognise as grief, this curious sensation of church-shin-bell.

Along with loneliness. We feel towards.
A warm limb. A warm limb.
PerhapsPerhaps it would be better to run.

And yet. Somewhere in the tender outskirts of this heart, I know that moving that fast in any direction will not be enough to stop the swedge,
Will not calm the quiet violence of childhood
. Nor mend a future to this muscle that is still trying to resist exploitation, even momentarily.
 
NowNot-doing, as repairing the bones; that knit and hold it all. Seeds drift into freshly dug holes. From the window, frog spawn sticking to the bitumen
I should like to say more, I really would, but the bodies seem to be encased in some kind of hot-baked glaze. Part juvenile, part metamorphosis. One next to another, the bodies are just out there, baking black into midday sun.
SpeakingSpeaking of resistance. Soft and yielding. In the dogwood’s ever decreasing rings only frost crack and
sun
scold can be self-repaired.
towerThere is something so beautifully, so enduringly elegant in an experiment made by simply hurtling weights, maybe rocks, off a tower.
Floofiness
Floofiness, the friction that arises where filaments
touch, or
when mycelium divine what they need most to shimmer
their entire network.


Non-Embrace the art of not-doing. An alignment that resists force and coercion through gentleness.
grief re-cycles from the periphery
Dear —, oooo oooo ooo o oooo oo o. Love —

a whisper of defiance
A droplet, a flood. A substance soft and yielding.
hold lightly to the trembling ground
A relative digression: the ethics of sitting with forgetfulness.
To the root
A shifting pattern,
the pattern patterns.
A relative digression.
as if, to digress.
Sinkholes, of course, can spontaneously open ground at any time. Swallowing in one, long, granulated bite,
every ailment of morning
. A this-ness that thickens through falling?
 
longing
Longing;
to long.
Along with,
loneliness.
Remembrance
Ross Gibson writes
, is something ‘that happens to you and in you’. These prickles,
to which you motion
, just another adaptation of collapse.
To read with the whole body. It is one continuous line
protect the plant from being
eaten
from the outside in. Oh, for a shield! Milk. Sow. Golden. Globe. Canker sores and plague. Adrift.
A_A water-bearing permeable rock, a tear duct, a golden primitive in place of one’s own natural refuge. The deepest recession is already infinite, and yet we are worked, in spite. The object of our desires entangled, a signifier stuttering in reflection.
tickingtick
tick
tick
on studyAnd so we sit with disorder, in-between. In illegitimate spaces. Our study becomes erratic. To thread a learn, a debt, a hole; a reaching excess. We ingest. A machine, an artwork, to bear. Our body becomes a fold.
 
and_And we work; the words. To stretch, to breathe, and with; as if evenly countered. Our body; already a spectre, casts a shadow of ‘primitive’ accumulation.
 
The goalThe goal. Within and without.
An estrangementAn estrangement.
 
SometimesSometimes you pass yourself
a lovely saying and I love it
an idea, moments where you meet
a living fossil, and think how
these moments where you know the growing
now in this moment

Sometimes2In this moment—passing myself—all in one (many time zoned) day.
moemA moment;
To cause or give rise to. Without labour.
of labour 
Our body is an economic entity of surplus consequence.
An involuntary spasm;
the unwinding thread of a shared alienation.

 
superimposition 1Stir and double, haze and blur
double and double
; knowing and not knowing and half-knowing.
Superimposition2suggest a range of actions—to overlay or overlap, collage, and assemble, collect, arrange, place
two realities collapsed in one frame
… consider too, verbs like cover and hide, intrude, impress, conceal and obscure
like words, like hands, like voices
.
comets
I am talking about movement, like light in the sky
I am talking about what is predictable and unfamiliar at once
sometimes3One room over, a large constellation. And across the world in many directions.
I am passing myself
superimposition 3As in thought thrown back on itself
past thoughts, opinions or decisions of the mind
on the past or on the absent.
A matrixA matrix, reaching.
A warm limb,
through a context, a shadow.
A solemn sigh. The work is never
complete.