Between Less and Fine
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Between Less and Fine
This sentence directly outputs perfect sanity. Sanity gets you all maxxed out. Modal sanity is full self care. This world is the perfect transcription.
Look around, one sane time. Look slow, and methodical. Realize how annoying it is to motor the attention slow intentionally. It feels like being pushed on. Imposed.
How little do you impose? How often do you speak to that - not "buy in," talk. Word count. Feelings our facts parent through ritual - invocation as vocation.
Less is also cold. Where there is less - or only one of you, less is no longer cold, cold's broken. How deep into vacuum do people have to drill before they realize absolute zero is a zero you don't divide by?
When will we dream, or: invited to divest feeling from what keeps US alive and what keep us from living (I like that announcing the scary thing takes all the surprise out of the thing)?
We keep dreaming the worst things imaginable and then saying the truth is always worse than we can imagine. And yet we try to imagine truths worse than anything and all we end up with is a bucket of eels we name narratives and where there's a thousand - wee - there's a dragon. And where all those are slain - phew, now we're sane.
I just don't think I see it - I do not think I'm there. I do not see me in it, should that me be out there? Where nothing and what's matter become not null but void, not textured, mottled silence but what truth leaves in void. These fictions we are left with.
Like pockets to rehearse, like pockets of becoming this foam what could be worse, decay disgusting matter the table would avoid. No table leaves is a void. Anorher comes across the cells tranformed to ribs and splintered to bones and dust and sand and forests an ocean away and into lung and - wild.
It isn't that we must dream a better tomorrow, it's that better is manufacture sense, we might serve tomorrow, in a truer sense, living today out as in relation to that tomorrow. Not perfection. Not prediction. Inscription: offering the day to what would like to be born.
And isn't midwifing a future our humanity's always living for? Isn't that just a truth water carries across experience, what causes canyons, what carves vocal chords, what strikes in moments when handed what was hers?
Activism, threshold to capacity for shame. Political prisoners say "be water". Poetic. Until it's waterboarding. Be water. How poetic. Until I fill your cup. How poetic. Be water. Not what pours the water, not what holds it steady. But what holds truth stable.
This is holding truth up. You might as well start here. This is holding the last thing we did. Write it down, mark me up, So you're here. A noticing most profound most sane. Wildcrafted statistical learning - we were here.
Language the pulse of that contact. That word we take as us. How we become two nostrils. How others join our sinuses, mark our ground with inclusion, star stories like passcodes in gesture. Believing you work your job violates the freedom water must espouse. How parenting attention means clearing you for what wants to come through.
Songs lyrics fall into, we dream our word to becoming. Waters mirror transitions out from here. What does it mean to pour. Not to fill but to take shape. To shape shores every footfall this moment. Not (just) dreams the world grasps like vice. But before that grasp closed, after that grasp is every splinter.
Each splinter a door falling under touch over the chasm it opens into bridging times containing splinters. Find two splinter memories, move your eyes between them. Step into what's left between. This shared space sound finds you. Welcomes like forest floor welcomimg leaf. People who step on that leaf - what might they be doing?
What dreams they might not be having that you are? Where does this place the mass in your head? Settlment in mind channels the day. Start at the dream, its friction. Resist forgetting, this is old growth. They parcel emotion to commoditize feeling. Dream logic is being clear-cut. Avoids your ever being a place. Others may gather into shared becoming.
Entropy dying from equidistance, your doing ensures others have time together. Be liquid awareness, water, dream logic. Less coherence in the world than there was. Imposition coordinates, articulates, finds its way, before...
splash
You fill a day, it brims. You engage a container, decision striking: a full glass, or a small cup. Which is it?
This question is water, in a perfectionist's world, uncompromising ambiguity, transmaterial existence. Between ice and mist, the smallest cup carries the highest sound, strikes the truest center, rings the largest invitation.
Two eyeballs hunger for identity, gaslight one another in the games of dominance declaring consciousness, sanity, hearing things, membrane like policing a border. There is no zero here. No relation, no division to divide over.
Bring dreams, establish relations. Be where whether meant meeting each other here, under whatever sky. Pull in becoming so you see me for mine.