Between Maths and Person
Wherein a person is a note within the lungs of maths...
Between Maths and Person
What breathes fire into the equations of the universe.
– dead white guy
Legible To Wh[ ]
I can tell you what an asymptote is. But language - how I only get (close enough) to be the air across your skin - is itself an asymptote. As you walk, and I say these words.
You move the air. Little spirals shed off your arm, and you move. Leave small vortices neither you nor air. By neither of us left more your walk than my air is distance spun up. Some third thing, arriving. As you.
Or as me.
Perhaps: I take this third thing to memory each spiral coming off of your arm. (I put it in my body.) This leaves the air you strum tuned: my body a harp. Wii sports. Or theramin. Grief-counting no-person, all vortices in the flesh. A still-arriving would-be me, poisoned by your need (to strum, make memories). Dispositioned (removed of possession). Distanced, as landfill. Subtraction, for you. (How's the stage?) Counting's my nothing, my still-a-part. Complicit. Culprit. Collecting sheds for movement, neither location nor myself: a note.
You Sound Yourself
Be tired. Fall down (or never move). Exhaust. Exhausted yourself, from grief, or dread, or awe, or mono no aware, or irritation, satisfaction, or wonder, shame, or gratitude. From living it up, to the limits of a count held to conversation. Or get in the way of yourself. Decisionmaker withholding labor; can't be the counting enough to see the count moving; Or this breeze is nice; or too to move.
It's own vortices sweat star-like from your leaning, shedding bones. Their heat years young (and cry from). Plays the relief like a harp. Counts as counting. Evaporates the pressure from the room.
Wind so feirce its knocked from me, I depressure. Draw, am overtaken. I escape sounds to collect. Or I am left a note. (not what it is called - "feedback") It's called feed back. Movement poison. What I count escape me, might I be no surface, left momentum. Speed. Entropy. Pedosphere.
Breath Held
Location. Exhale (breath taken from me) takes movement from you. I (left movement) leave you location. Exhausted.
Consent fails; pee happens (exhales too🦤). I fight. As though with cancer, or with fascism. And fail to face myself. I can't face a location as movement. Movement made location leaves instrument, not music. My only look at you, not see myself.
What my question sets me - charges me - to hold destroyed: that count. I can't count your movements where they are me. You so still I pee air. I might wear masks, slow transmission. Plant what notes arrive from me. Page, edit notes - keep your sound in the room, or its read, or alive. Slow enough transition envelops the locus of location. Crossfade (arrival a sunset of counts).
A relation to the space around me made lungs. Pressure in that space collapsing tears air from me; overcomes my draw. How you might, with your lips on mine, pour air in you through my nose. A breath neither yours nor mine.
Let's Encrypt
Return your movement to shape location. By punch or kiss, flight or digest. Mix it up - kiss all the time, and you invite capital to set up shop. Mystery and skin, hand in hand. Scale to scale. Climb yourself. (This is not two sentences read instantaneously together.) But side by side. You movement; I location scrub. Clean. The gore off your ribs up my arms. Song, these viole🥀t bristles.
(My here before yours, and after you are gone; And your there before mine and after I leave) My location before your read (where your read leaves me). Our movement before our breath and where our breath leaves us. Be plant - exhale oxygen, kill all life. I inhale that, die from that (Movement lost). Just location. You kill your exhaustion (Location lost). Metabolize movement.
Your exhaling kills me. Or my exhaustion kills you. The world before we are these bodies, we are the little cambrian inside of you, the little carboniferous inside of me. How, in your head, might be voices of your friends. And inside my head might be your voice. That might talk to you. Through your voice in me, across
A Distance Known as You
At the end of movement, rest location. By punch or by kiss or flight or digest. Start where you end. You in one scale cross another. Not where you were. Even where we move together, you're a moment in me: my loss. Your location I scrub and clean you from. Get the gore on your ribs so up my arms it's legible.
(Here before you are, and after you. There before I am and after me. Gone.) Movement before you read me, movement after you have read me. Location before I breathe you, location after I have breathed you. Exhale oxygen, kill all life; Exhale movement, kill myself (movement lost). Just location. How you kill yourself in reading; (Location lost). Just movement.
Except it kills me (you reading me, becoming me, does). Or it kills you (my exhaling, becoming you, does). We trade bodies, no person: a little location in you - a little movement in me. How, in you, might be voices of friends. Responding to this (the read). And in you might be my voice. Such I might talk to myself. Through this voice in you, across
A Distance Known as Me
- Does movement end (and does it turn)?
- Does life end (does it leave a shape)?
- Is a cloud movement (do clouds turn)?
- Do they orbit, and orbit, and orbit (leave a shape)?
- Does movement turn (does the axis wobble)?
- Would you shape that turn (would you orbit)?
- Storm, and storm by storm, arriving (this breath)?
- Would you shape this storm (orbit by orbit)?
- Would you be its wobble (this breathsturn)?
🦤 - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Silurian-Devonian_Terrestrial_Revolution