A Secant Query

Between Layers and Lairs

Wherein I step through listening...

Between Layers and Lairs

📓 Descent of Alette - Alice Notley

Dance Until Noon

You have a long spine. You move through density like you're made of it. It's only three words and you trust yourself to live your life until noon off three words - one word, if you don't include that parenthetical, understood death spiral "until noon".

It's not irresponsible. It's respectful. How many clarifying questions are you going to ask - a bajillion. How many do you get through until you hear shut up and dance - like eleven. Thirteen, tops. Questions fourteen through eighty-four pull you aside.

Say you're an adult now, that you have to be strong. Remain available. Have hormones now, don't put off the dance with selfish indeciding. Having people fund your trip out to where postponing hormonal release is accepted by community is egocentric. Who's asking that question - no one.

Have your hormones now, like everyone else. Be human, not eel𓆙. You are not a threshold. You are values in systemic relation. Phone number with a human heart. You have your thirteen questions. Be happy with set instructions: Dance until noon.

Dance is divinity. You are divine. You dance, whether you consent to dance or not. You swim, in constant motion. No matter how fast you negate the charge, you can't stand - it collects. You carry charge. When I touch you, you ground. Over my knee, you fall.

dancing

Land is dance, even where it forgets, beneath it is metal ocean. The Moon is... don't look at the Moon. We all dance. The Moon... you are land, you are ocean. You are rain! You can't be the Moon. Ask not to be the Moon, dance. Dance, no more questions. My knee can't stand your transformation's throat much longer.

Your voice quivers, the quiver writes, the word dances - light must breathe. Shift, and I'm displaced. Equidistance kills. To all just stand here, to stand here, unmoving shared medium, calcifies. Sing, dance, create. This is how it's always been, since basalt and ocean, this is how it's always been.

And Moon

Forget the Moon! The Moon happened. we can't be done with the Moon Can't we be done with the Moon! Moon is leaving; At 3 centimeters a year, it takes time - healing. So we dance. Play our part, give body to generation, call together, bring whole. Learn the system, the grammar; this pattern, accepted as its ours, not our own.

Tongue learned in the womb, comes with propensity for that language heard in development. As vessel we look to be. This syntax of silence, your standing here. It's not listening - the Moon is no mother. Your question, pause - it's violent. It brings shame. In you, the word lands differently. Read up, open that dictionary. Know your terms. Your place is here.

Bring clarity, bring harmony - and dance. Bring longing for the lost thing, and you serve pain, broken sentence, overlap, ghost, your distinction. Questioning, claiming unfamiliarity, borrowing forgetting, deriving your own tongue. Yours is this. Don't displace it. Move as language moves. Serve the word. The word is love.

To speak Moon - scar, open, revisit tidepool in every wave, suffer pointlessly - it's harm seduction, not harm reduction. Answer yourself - it's silence, not language.

Recognize Me

Sight, presence - I recognize you! In dance. Distinction's in dance. See here. Deny the offering, the lungs fail. Breath reclaimed alone is never claimed. Take what is yours, what's here, what now is. These feelings, how hormones come, and need through us. Accept the dance. Worship. Make the sacred what is whole, and take part.

He braids nothing, swims nowhere, your Moon. She breaks no line; But leaves this one ((((hearing this one) move through here with me) your dance[ ]this line), where you are). Your shaping grief opening one way, this weapon claiming language growing still. This shape, death, translation, this attempt to put dance in syntax. It's pointless. Syntax - sense - is in the dance.

[ ]ance, your mouth, your hormones borrow no time, no dance, no syntax from the still.

Be a good host. This is your house. You dance, serve threshold, architecture. Might you stop mid-word, apologize. Might sentence die, resussitate, heal. Is that a gap - close it. Head down, greet yourself - no goodbye, no hello. Oversteeping tea, bringing one into the joke (when it's either funny or not) is lazy. There is no tongue but yours, and mine is its person.

My Own Person

You forget yourself. Senseless. That's anytax, not syntax: typo. Half-form, lifeless; garbled text, unintellegible, leyless keyless, answerless. You're no good burned, and the wrinkle's not ironing out. It's not what your person wants, it's not fair. It's imperfect, it's uneven, inaccessible. Placeless, surfaceless, uninformed.

Speak nothing of stillness. Flow, dance, be movement. Your standing here, directionless, I can't consent. River asks for no path, translates nothing into stillness. Listen, swampass, move.

Generate. Make again. Translate. This isn't a discussion. Voice was never a language. Get it straight. Violence was never an option. The Moon's voiceless. Stillness is no healing process. Improper spelling chokes my perfect breath. Make sense.

If you've any.

If you're sensible.

Wondering

📓 https://florencecheval.net/site/assets/files/1015/alice-notley-the-descent-of-alette.pdf↩

𓆙 https://theiratlas.itch.io/a-monster-of-love-n-squish ↩