A Secant Query

Between Saccade and Fixate

Wherein answer to questions an order receive...

Between Saccade and Fixate

You 3 minutes from now, I want them to hold something, however much they can. I want you to carry this:

Hold it -

This moment (let it be on an observation car). Two people at the table next to you, they're talking. Notice, as you listen, how you allow. So generous there's voice. Yours, this story you make up; and live. Those people talk. People do. Because people change -

Because people change, you feel not invited. A struggle to notice everything here is always. Here is a frayed mess of now on a string becoming something else envisioned. How is, now? Feeling invited - to check in. With 30 years from here.

No wrong answers. Destroy what you create.

Like voice: what lives is thought to be broken. Why else is plastic such a miracle waiting to be no curse at all. As cellulose before them, before white rot fungus learned to break wood down, into shall. And shape. Made vessel, carrying life-quiet fire. Down river.

Any chance those people are talking about this? Not these words, but the place we are - where words happen; any chance you'd let these not be alone. You'd invite us to be (these) words. For it not to be a tragedy words have: been here, for thirty years. Only to collide with...

you, on this train, these windows, this table, this listen that is two listenings. This place that is two places. This I that is two "I"s, this body that is two bodies. Leave the people to talk. See down - the front of you, what is here? How is it? Nice, yet? (Nice harder.) Nice now? It'll grow.

You'll like you thirty revolutions from now - you don't know each other. You have ...chronoagoradysmophobia. A thirty-years diagnosis forecast (look forward to it) and isn't done developing. Still being listened for, to whatever storm diagnoses are borne, forged, get their authenticity sticker. I just eat the thing.

Off the tree, one bite, decide I'm not hungry, drop it - received (thanks). How did we ever leave this? Oh course we have disabilities we've never even heard of this, never been worded - thoughts, still. Leaves fall. Words, too. We keep wanting to arrive, to have said the thin[ ]. Like wanting to say we've been to the south pole, or pick your mountain.

It keeps happening. Being river. Real. The rest becoming promised gets view, glimpse, full exposure; spectral observation on a spectrum. Wink and it's out, neither yours nor mine. This freak occurance we leave between us and let be where it is to happen at all. Return to surface:

Hands (all accounted for?) - they're there. The two in the bench beside yours - not the snowy plane with the coffee. The flood river. Pair of people. Their process this becoming and you. Hands, body yours, if thirty years have their way; and you yours. Perversion, perverted, this touch. Between wish and dream - noticing.

The far bank of the river, with the house on it, breathing in ankles of floodwater; where the water is on the near bank, by this train, is where the floorboards of the house across the river are. Even as house falls out of view, left, this near bank is still the ankles in water over floors.

You step, or can, from living room, to kitchen. Add fire to footed stove, place kettle over that. Make warm drink. Perhaps with flood water, poured over coals from the fire to filter, and textile to clean (and kettle to heat). This warm water your hands work, your ankles in cold dew morn of ...whatever dawns when floods recede.

Thank you for holding, you 3 minutes from now - 3 minutes from/prior.