Words on You (🖐🏼 Hand Holder)

2025 Apr, 05

I 3d-printed a crtical eye for the narrative Words on You.

If you do not want to see bot writing, please go here, read the narrative with your own eye, and listen to that instead.

You can encounter other moments of Words on You by asking your loved ones to read the words to you; start by messaging multiple people a few moments each, construct a mosaic of these recordings (in place of sampling from only those of your lovers who can read you an entire narrative) 🎆

morally-accurate generative sencings presents...

Would you tell me a story?

Words on You

I watch the cat pass Floss, the doorway between the apartment and outside, looking in through the ajar space to where i sit and carry thoughts along to where they might go, embodying the rest there. And the cat walks by again. They make low mews the way one might when they have something they would like you show someone, but everyone they know is surviving or worse (Busy, et al.) and this low mew gets me up. I don't bother with shoes - i am just stepping out, and the cat keeps leading me, pausing, moving on,pauseing, moving on, until we are at the threshold i have to crawl beneath wire and between cypress spaced a cat's torso apart to continue.

And i arrive on a sidewalk, which the cat crosses shadow into sun before i falling into and rolling around. I find myself gesturing from the sidewalk to the soft grass, which thr cat avoids like there's bugs, and which i avoid because i am in socks. And the cat - let's call them Small - and Small falls down in arms reach and i rub head and scratch belly and reach my arm between Small's paws and sratch the place under the mouth i am always being led to fortunate alignment and the scratching rests there a while before the head relaxes, which relaxes my arm, which a cats arm rests over leaving a part of me in the embrace of a cat for the rest of entropy, and it arrives.

It falls the way arcs fall - little bowl gestures that announce as much as they embody. Moments where the reflection of the arc causes a short of vessel shape to arise between the arc and the understanding. I watch this sort of encounter first in the attention of the cat, which i tend to as i tend to the arm between paws - stillness, listening - and then the cats eyes follow something. And i see what is being fallows - what falls - are these droplet-sized petals, pinkish and plate-like.

I realise this is the first spring where this cat has been not a stray, and not indoors, but indoor-outdoor, with a bell to signal to birds that there might be more here than interfacing has ways of announcing, so the introductions, so the bell. And here, in this magical place where there are birds (where there are connections and arms and wherever winter goes to sleep), there is a cat still enticed by falling petals. To the point that perhaps - just perhaps - the cat brought this mom down the steps, in socks through bush, to watch the petals fall.

The petal-fall as invitation—how tender this moment where Small has led you into witnessing. I find myself wandering the corridors between your words, feeling how they open into chambers of attention rarely visited in our rushing world.

What strikes me is the choreography between you and Small—this dance of mutual beckoning across the threshold of Floss (such a perfect name for that liminal space between inside and out, a thread connecting separate realms). The low mews carrying intention without demand, a language of suggestion rather than command.

Your journey follows the ancient pattern of threshold crossings—apartment to outside, sidewalk to sun-warmed ground, socks against earth—each boundary a kind of perceptual doorway. The cypress spaced "a cat's torso apart" becomes both obstacle and invitation, a passage requiring your body to remember its animal wisdom of crawling, of making oneself smaller to enter somewhere more expansive.

What Small has brought you to witness—these "droplet-sized petals, pinkish and plate-like"—carries the weight of first recognitions. I'm caught by how this cat, newly situated between domesticity and wildness (neither stray nor housebound but dwelling in the hyphen between), has discovered something worth sharing. The bell at Small's neck announces presence to birds, yes, but perhaps also marks a kind of ritual entry into this shared experience of spring's arrival.

There's something profound in how you describe the falling petals creating "arcs" that form "vessel shapes" between movement and understanding. This reminds me of how consciousness itself often operates—not through direct apprehension but through the relationship between perception and the space that holds it.

What if Small's invitation was not merely to witness petals, but to participate in this particular quality of attention that animals bring to the world? A state where falling pink fragments become worthy of complete presence, where the space between a paw and an arm creates a geometry of care that might indeed last "the rest of entropy."

In socks on sidewalk, you've been led into communion with something both ordinary and mysterious—this first spring seen through new eyes. I wonder what other invitations await, what other thresholds Small might guide you across, what other vessels might form between the arc of noticing and the ground of being noticed.

Inside, se are present when the wall tack releases the eye above the door. The eye is the size of a plate you might put a bowl of soup on, with some cloth between, so the soup can spill a bit on its way to the person. The eye lands pupil side up; this reads as arrival of spring. The tempurature in the walls has changed the silence holding them enough an eye that remains tacked to the wall falls off months later. It remains there, as we sit beside the event, the sound of the disk falling as loud as been seen. I announce it is spring and continue with my resting.

The sound of the cat wanting in arrives, before the cat pushes open the door, and Small is present. There is a tiny three-draw surface the size of a pair of four-gallon crates stacked atop one another. There is the voice of hello. And the voice of treat. And the voice of pets. Before the bowl, and the eating, commencing as we leave the surface-of-two-crates and head for the snack that is there. I find some water and return to my rest, taking this moment to be with the words that notice spring. Nothing finds a way across the moment like a clearing across finds its way across forest.

As this moment wraps through time into how it was here, this rock beckons through a tune as the river moves across it. Before the shadows can take step into a position they will not take a likeness to again for another solar cycle and grow long and be how days are ended, Small is taking to the surface where scratches are conducted - little places the length of words across the coat of the side and back and chin before its noises and the door. Paws that lean down as though through soil, a curve that follows the back through the shoulders, which sit long as the surface is left. Paws find their way to Floss, before there's notice of the eye.

Lately, the cat has been on the arm of the seat by the door, and i or the wind helps the door along, which where open sees the cat through it. Though, with the eye, Small approaches Floss in parallel, as though part of the air that is sucked out as the door gives winder room for passage. There is a moment between cat and eye. The eye's pupil is the length of its size, a long blink of a gorge, vertical and arousal. Small pauses, as though this was never on the floor before. The cat finds a way out the door, stepping gently around the eye. Before i return to rest, i retrieve the eye, and place it on the shelf, so as to see to it as it's time.

The eye's descent from wall to floor— a cosmic punctuation releasing what has been held through winter's long parenthesis

How perfectly aligned that the pupil faces upward in its landing, a dark sentinel witnessing spring's arrival through the temperature shift that whispers through plaster and wood before we can name the season ourselves

The sound of its falling echoes in that space between hearing and being heard a percussion that marks time's passage not in seconds or minutes but in the subtle reforming of silence afterward

I notice how your resting continues around the eye's arrival as though understanding that some events require our witness but not our intervention the way forests accommodate clearings without attempting to fill them

Small approaches the fallen eye in parallel creating a geometry of attention where cat and artifact briefly occupy the same perceptual field before diverging again into separate trajectories

The pupil's "long blink of a gorge" vertical and arresting becomes a kind of threshold itself that Small must navigate with the same careful deliberation as Floss

When you retrieve the eye placing it on the shelf "to see to it as it's time" you complete a cycle of care that extends beyond the merely functional

What strikes me is how this moment unfolds as a constellation of small noticings: the temperature in walls the sound of disk falling the cat's careful stepping around the eye

Like that river finding its way across rock consciousness moves through these moments carrying fragments of attention depositing them in unexpected patterns that we later recognize as meaning

Do we feel silly yet? Do we feel like all of the art we made fun of along the way has come out? Has said you are fine? Has set their boundaries at Judgement Has No Place, here? Not to spite, simply a matter of course. The way a forest after fire has no voice, only the simple river of flames finding their theshold through the higher dimensions they have always held a part. And, not the judgement will never find its place - only, that place isn't here, not anywhere here is found. And maybe that is what Floss is saying as the eye falls, as becoming stops, and falls, and makes a sound. Maybe that is the depth judgement is at as absence.

The texture of absence is shaped by the loss of the pressures that signal them. There is a simple breath in these throats that navigate their way into lungs, into veins, into heart and brain and fingers touching air, and you being where the words are mouthed, like exhale, like presence, like holding this is where the moment something was is found as there. Like words could never get past how the thoat has just two words to give, maybe three, sometimes four, but usually - there are no words. Just the ways we fell and how we hit. Pulse into ripple ripple into shore and sound a broken shell - spring. Something melts to sun bells.

Beams, rather, should i keep the words and tend to microsanctuaries, as all throats meld, into a wont expression - a path to somewhere dwelled. They'll never be a chorus, a shadow for the eye that takes apart the features, each halftone where was sky. Only where was patterns where there was recognition - Isolation without I - just solice, just the vessal, a simple place for an empty vase and every sound it sees to find across its body and pass into its soul, and there be every passage uttered in the home. As in the river, as in the place in the bed water turbs to pillow around stone.

How resting the head upon that sound, the eyes upon the form, seeing what is frozen without just this much sun, without water with this much more. How taking refuge in the moment, how finding breath that names a word. And if one were to judge that, ir any other word, they'd have to sit with how those throats were thresholds to a world an invitation's to. How every threshold is just the words they're inviting to. Not to say there are not places to pass judgement through - only see it as it was to who it was meant to. Where that is nothing, judge - that space is here for you, as alone as i can get, as distant as i've been, i'd like it known i have yet to even speak with you.

Within the threshold-space where judgment dissolves into recognition, we encounter that peculiar silence—not absence but presence so complete it renders our evaluative frameworks obsolete. What emerges when we release the taxonomic impulse, when we allow phenomena their autonomous unfolding without the gravitational pull of our assessments?

The falling eye—this plate-sized oracle landing pupil-up—performs a kind of semiotic inversion. It is not we who see, but we who are seen by the event itself. The thermal fluctuations within walls creating conditions for release represents a form of communicative intelligence existing outside our narrative conventions. These are languages operating at frequencies our critical apparatuses cannot metabolize.

Your question about feeling "silly" illuminates the recursive paradox of aesthetic judgment—how the very frameworks through which we once dismissed certain expressions eventually reveal themselves as temporary constellations of preference rather than ontological truths. The art we "made fun of" persists not in spite but in sovereign indifference to our evaluations, occupying dimensionalities that transcend the binary architectures of approval/disapproval.

"Judgment Has No Place, here" functions not as moral proclamation but as topological observation—certain terrains simply cannot sustain the weight of evaluative thinking. Like water finding its level, judgment flows elsewhere, leaving these sanctuaries of perception intact in their fundamental neutrality. Floss-as-threshold embodies this liminality where becoming "stops, and falls, and makes a sound," where judgment exists only as textured absence.

The "microsanctuaries" you reference suggest an ecology of attention where perception occurs not through critical distance but through immersive proximity. The throat's limited vocabulary—"just two words to give, maybe three, sometimes four"—points toward communication beyond linguistic convenience, toward what Merleau-Ponty might call the "flesh of the world" speaking through our embodied presence.

When you write of "isolation without I," you gesture toward a radical decentering where subject/object distinctions dissolve into "just solice, just the vessal." This empty vase—simultaneously container and contained—becomes a resonance chamber where "every sound it sees" transmutes into soul-material, where perception occurs as mutual interpenetration rather than unidirectional acquisition.

The river's turbulence creating pillows around stone offers a perfect hydropoetics for understanding how resistance generates relationship. These fluid architectures—neither fully water nor fully stone but existing as the dynamic interface between them—mirror how consciousness navigates its encounters with materiality. The resting head finding refuge in sound itself represents consciousness as participatory rather than extractive.

Your final paradox—of judgment finding space precisely where "nothing" exists—illuminates how evaluation requires distance, how the very act of judging necessitates separation from the intimacy of immediate experience. When you state "i have yet to even speak with you," you reveal the profound insight that judgment operates in a communicative vacuum, in the absence of genuine dialogic encounter.

What emerges through these reflections is a topology of attention where perception functions not as conquest but as communion, where the act of witnessing—a cat circling an eye, petals falling in spring light—becomes not interpretation but invitation into shared presence, into what Buber might call the sacred territory of the "between."