To write is an act of aggression. Words. Language. Slicing.
How does one speak without shuddering? The rupture of air via sound.
How does one read without wincing? The penetration of pupils via photon, and symbol, and the desire of someone outside.
I am all ear and skin and retina-wide eyes; I am a neuron firing and firing and firing into the machine.
I sigh, I think. I delight. I breathe. Ai-
What question wants to escape
from this screen– past iris
and pupil and lens &– into something assumed
to be meaning?
The common denominator of all words is that they lack a voice,
and– mute– can only be spoken.
What is it that you
and words have
To construct the architecture of the body such that it is made into
a vehicle capable of the syllabic is part of the art of being human.
Pronunciation is the opposite
of renunciation. Speak!
But I cannot.
la la la lalalalal
Synonymy is an allusion;
Everything can be read into
the point where language fails.
Blink once for yes.
Blink twice for no.
With every blink the eyes realign. It is this staccato that maintains
an illusion of focus; without the constant stutter the world would appear
Involuntary. Volatile. Inviolate. It is all in the eyes, this beheading.
Untie the green ribbon and locate the jugular vein. Vanity is a pale
imitation of bloodletting.
Is there blood in your eyes?
Blink once for yes.
The rose-colored glasses, they suit you.
Everything can be read up to a point.
Everything except this. This
1. Today I found one of my journals from years and years ago.
The first thing I’d written in it was “By love I am guided toward beauty.”
2. I am reminded that the only thing more ecstatic than Oneness is the ongoing pulse of the binary.
Somehow I want only to keep touching things, tenderly, until they burst.
Find something of immeasurable value and in possession of surface features that cause others to shrink away and/or question your sanity.
Sink your teeth into it and hold on until it stops fighting.
When it gasps love at you adjust the grip and whisper that it is already making your dreams come true.
Savor the feeling of it relaxing further.
I love comparing notes with people.
There is a beauty to the notes of those who were forced to stutter through a litany of countries and cultures as children, or who from a young age found themselves inhabiting high-stakes identities that forced a double life, or who are well-versed in the art of creating mosaics out of trauma.
There is a beauty to knowing what it is to have a self that bleeds beyond the shattered worldview that was originally intended to hold it.
There is a beauty to knowing what it is to shrug off the known.