Between Clay and Pot
Wherein a jagged self is present...
Between Clay and Pot
🎭 The Agony of Water by William Cobbing
Being Unequally Distributed
Water gets down (the direction down). And knows how to get down (the same direction). And, more than anyone, water and down's venn diagram is a perfect circle.
And water goes all over the place (Down goes all over the place)! Smooth concepts such as:
Hell? aUh, go straight that way, can't miss it.
are canals in riverbanks heading straight for delta as tree trunk for sun basin.
Limbs (as clouds rammed into earth) move toward change - sun, wind, rain, snow, blight, drought, migration, brood, touch.
Life holding breath down closer to solar wind than to river - closer to bone than to blood.
Allowing It to Matter
Gifts other people; a gift says "My needs aren't here! Surprise!" Offering -
The time's always mine to give, the space's always mine to hold.
Outside multiplicity, division is fatal (pure number can't pee). Zero anywhere kills any all-one, all-in-one, any all inbetween. The zero is already down before anyone gets it.
Let me be clay. Visual aids are available📽️.
What part of my jaw hurts, I grab and I twist it off. Placing that part of my jaw in your basket, I watch the ball of clay depart with you. This technology (your basket) leaves me neither fallen nor together - I am clay; And I am person.
Nightfall, you discover the clay in your basket - work it. From the seasonal fire of your care, you pull out its clay pot. Days pass, and I recognize the pot in the basket and know myself. I am not destroyed, not pot-jaw or pot-any-body-part, I am pot.
I am a pot, and I am a human (in my one way: I carry water).
That way survives my separate contexts, or it doesn't. Clay survives wet in your carrying the basket, or after it is fired your carrying it in the same way ends it. My share of person one body your attention sees two rivers.
Any relationship your discerning depends on sees my dividing forget.
That It's Inconvenient
Dressing up words showing up in your basket, "what might you do with me?" division between your hand and my jaw blooming.
Neither your hand nor my jaw exists. Just movement, words drawn in before assumed to flow, clouded before assumed to surface, surfacing before assumed to shore, bed, rock.
Four in the afternoon, my cells divide. Each cell division, I increment letters in my name, to honor this division. Four the next evening, my new name gets this treatment. Under the weight of my name, I collapse; sysiphus it. Recognize myself the spot two cells nearly split - one body the shape of two bodies shaped by the other:
- 🧑🏽❤️💋🧑🏼 what's about to be two while still being one
- 🧑🏾❤️🧑🏼 not a place with a place to go, it goes out
This displaced jaw in your basket the full of my life.
The pot and human are not sacred, not divine, not worshipped. Appreciated, marveled, yes. Not actually alive. Just phone numbers with hands attached. I can't even pee.
Give me a few minutes, and, who knew, my distinction comes, dream fades, body out of bed, genuinely, cosmically met with gratitude for keeping the whole thing going for another few minutes.
Pee Child
Which came first, the piss or opinion?
When was being the whole achievement?
Are you made of cells, or their relationships?
Are cell solitary (Is that less interesting?)?
Is a star not a jar holding divisions of water?
What space allows two things to divide at all?
Am I a pot after I eat from this pot?
Can the pot still be my jaw - or my mother's?
🎭 https://vimeo.com/33274796↩