She dreamed and the dream was of language. She dreamt
words had yellow wings, had a thousand delicate fingers,
had big tusks, had balls - that their mutable voices rose
from some distance and carried to her on a blue wind. No.
She dreamed of water. She dreamed of a single bright leaf
tangled in a dark stream. She did. But you can't take
her literally, and the story changes all the time.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
to resume. a space for critical thinking // cracked glass
glueing the city back together
i have decided to forsake, momentarily, capitalization here.
something meaningful, and full of meaning, from someone not me:
Any form of thought whatever requires a preparation by emptying one’s mind. You have to lance the cumulative abscess, since we know too much about everything. And there is nothing better than mindless diversions to rid us of that deadweight that crushes thought. Nothing like a good bout of obsessive gymnastics to dispel received ideas. The preparatives for thought are as mysterious as the preparatives for anger. - Jean Baudrillard
writing = thought // -distraction +mental stretching // incomplete equation
resuming a space for this preparative
hopefully you'll do some somersaults too
there are also older poems in past issues of online journals that i never posted about. read them:
Spiral Orb One - Window Conversation
Tattoo Highway 20 - I wanted to Write a Short Story
to be continued...