Between Radicals and Beads
Wherein condensation is all celebration needs...
Between Radicals and Beads
This morning is covered with people covered in layers. Bicyclists pedel, skin all face. Hair tucked, shawl over skin like. Perhaps my mind turns to warmth as seasons change. My wants with them.
Curious. How a holiday of wanting isn't held during spring - it's held in winter; we have wants in spring, don't we? Suppose spring wants are wants for other people. Once, it was said people get sick during the winter because, in winter, they spend more time both: indoors and together.
It was also said winter is cuffing season - people find the smallest relational dynamic possible, and tuck into that (usually resolving on a single partner). Spring, then, might not be the best season to contrast with winter. My want is to explore winter's tendency for warmth and death.
A switch from thoughts between winter and spring into conversation between winter and summer bring wanting-of to the fore. In summer (as in winter) wanting-of feels more prevalent to me than spring's wanting for. Let me celebrate distinction a time.
Wanting-for might be desire of the body to reach out into the world. Wanting-of could be the desire of the world to reach into the body. The sound of leaves swept from pavement and the sound of sniffles from the bathroom is difficult in comparable ways to distinguish.
Summers where I live in the desert and by river, travelling two hours to dawn and work in a century-old house into afternoon see breaks in river, sweat swept, downstream. Bananas pulled from dumpter by the banana box peeled and frozen over long nights and longer conversation find the blender, make smoothie, soothe.
You can always put on more layers.
Most spoken word on tempurature I encounter reads like teens talking about parents. Most written word on tempurature I encounter reads like parents talking about teens. The breath will say "it's such a nice day!" But the breath is driven to say "it's nasty out!" The text will read "air that hurts your face." But text is driven to write "Beautiful skies."
Extremes, in this way, have want-of: want of relief. Want of normalcy. Temperance, for sake of contrast, have want for: want for satisfaction. Want for spectacle. It's charming (to me). What two-ways about things, is transformation. At the extremes human experience, offered across seven thousand generations, is a cry for relief, release, calm. At these thousands generations' most temperate periods is a cry for spectacle.
Here. Place attention at solstice and equinox. Or face the sun (Or belly a rock warmed by one). The face approaches its time - feel it. The back desires its own - feel this. On rare occasions (sunny days, warm rocks, cool river) such feelings chat across the body, wild volunteers. Every cell a sanctuary. Swim? Turn over? ...Nap? Beside the self with pleasure, delight, drowning.
Reflecting on what have I done to make my eventual death easier, I note the sun has done most of the heavy lifting, and every planet after, for the sun. Jupiter and the rocky planets, in concert with the comets sweeping the surface (indistinguishable from crying), sculpt their star. Our sun is calmer than stars of its make. Less solar flares (electrical grids wiped out and rebuilt long ago on other worlds). Shorter solar cycles.
We have a weird star. We're a weird planet. Across scales: we're a weird people. Death the only normalcy we get. The rest of what we are, what it means to read these words, have this knowledge, hear me here. Like I'm not a draft on top of a draft, but actual breath in series. Like writing is it's own wild, weird echo of starlight coming home. To a place entirely their own.
We have a weird star. We're a weird planet. Across scales, we're a weird people! Death is the only thing I can do, to make things easier. The rest of what we are makes reading these words, having this knowledge, hearing me here as if I'm not a draft on top of a draft, but breath actual in series, is complication! It's weird! Writing is it's own wild, weird echo of starlight coming home to a place entirely its own.
Do I care what happens, when this goes? A bit. It became a whole thing. And then it became our whole thing. A little. What normal might look like one day - one set of laws physics takes up and floods the skies in moments of a kind along these lines.