https://t.co/mq4apaSKLX I have been thinking about this story a lot, how to tell it slant. I would like to argue, it’s already told slant. That it may - “accommodate that which was previously beyond its realm.” Chag Samaech
A thick exquisite silence, where nothing is silent at all. It’s what you hear when your trapped in a garden and what you see before someone comes home with the keys to let you in. The whole symphony will be a parable about home. But that’s a story for another time.
I was looking for a sound, after the first chapter - after aping an aeroplane - a sound that would usher in the third chapter where things get a little ropey. I settled on silence.
Sitting before a keyboard to write poetry & it feels so attractive to imagine I am sitting before a piano. The comparison makes the act of making love to words (making words talk to each other in new ways) so much more compelling. To make them make music too.
The Long Opus. It burns in my brain and over time it has been changing colour. I never put it down on paper. That is the object for today. To write about silence (which could be seen as an oxymoron).
“According to Theweleit, the reasons they wanted to destroy these women were not just, or not simply political. The women were understood as a threatening “other”, and they embodied the mens’ fears, including female sexuality, and the fecund multiplicity of life itself.”
I had a stay-cation. I painted a bookshelf green, cycled, went to the dentist, had a blood test. Listened to mixtapes, thought about poetry, wrote a few sentences, danced and wept. Cooked really beautiful food.
& this is the result of a poet re-organising their studio.