Between Craption and Gullyhole
Wherein stars are big metal fans...
Between Craption and Gullyhole
π The Future Is Disabled - Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha
βοΈ
A six-word phrase from this year's writing delighting me to no local end is: "birdsong the craptions of river sounds." Any time it's come up in my thoughts, its made it into word; anytime an editing pass may remove it (for clarity or some other lie), it's made it through to publishing.
This post won't be a five-minute deconstruction of that, more weaving the phrase across scales, exploring what robustness its underlying algorithm might exhibit:
x the craptions of y.
As an activist's term, "craptions" fall pre-loaded with negative connotation. In disturbed ground (a roadside-like condition of language I like to work), this grimy patina is kind of perfect. The way passing cars are kind of perfect for corvids to crack nut shells.
Calling an otherwise pleasant thing as birdsong "craptions" immediately defamiliarizes it from irrevocable pleasantness to ask questions impossible for sincerity to access in settings outside its moment:
"is birdsong shit?"
π
(the phrase lets) To rivers: yes! Birdsong is absolutely garbage river sound. For a regional example, have another perfect suspension translated by animal into garbage silence: frogs and crickets (cicadas, in a seasonal sense). These craptions of still ponds pollute serene areas with a sonic tragedy of the common quiet. Serene, still pond is rendered cess pool sound generator. It's a complete disaster, Big Bang in single chirp.
A roadside vantage as this grants stillness scale-agnostic "kill your darlings" edgewise look. Stillness doesn't look like stillness any more than drowning looks like drowning. Drowning actually looks like stillness; stillness actually looks like a vibe. And river actually sounds like a flit, a spark - a birdsong. We just hear one tone: wirr-whish-wiizh-wifh
Birds fish out a fraction of that tone, and speak it: thΝ‘weγ Ν‘thwe! It's absolutely absymal! That is not what the river said. At all! What underdeveloped, underserved community offering was that, bird; Do better!
It would be like leaf blowers coming by not just as I type this, and not just as you read this, but as the end of the universe herself files noise complaint against the big bang. Leafblowers are part of the transcription, sure. But perhaps picking a fraction of the whole out is where movement's at?
We want reality, πΆ we want reality, πΆ we want reality, π let's π go π there! πΆ
π§Ί
Where I was hoping to go with this grass basket (((((((the one which is not) lapping grass with touches from a grass sprig on a walk) as I usually do) so the root system can walk alongside me in signal) as though grass sprig were fairy wings) and I a sleepy fairy) pushing off various leaves) is "river sounds the craptions of comet's melt."
Maybe that was sparkles for you. Maybe "...solar winds" lands less like an uncased tuba down cabin stairs than comet's melt; Maybe you are water-ignited vacuum, story in pocket starting to run, inkshine, you star, say something. Maybe it was the way I wasn't looking to go, and you scoop up these years ago at time of writing, neither before words nor after them. In world darlings killed were the jails dears built to cup so[ ]l along the way,
Let Me Ask
Has a fundamental belief ever failed you hard?
Do you ever pick up any of the pieces?
Were you looking for a moment to?
Is now a good time (to be photosynthetic)?
Not to attain all the pieces; just one birdsong?
One cricket chirp, frog roakribbit, faucet drip?
No shame in "no," "no" is perfect transcription.
Would you like to sit here, in this "no" with me?