A gift of Remembrance

Oh! Enchaunting 🌕

My voiceless:

Flipping through the zine. Collage of faceshields neatly stowing organs, two scissor snips moves light from the beginning of the creator over to the middle of the reactor. Gardens from homemaking catalogs toys, prices removed, populating. Bust of horse, in brush not to scale.

Each spoonful of oats an entire stalk of blades and grassy life I’ve yet to thank. Recursing, each bite compounds, relief not here, requests to acknowledge. Debt, to recognize my oat-life, grows, ferments, cultures, comes to a fore. Oats take small sips of my attention.

In whispers to one another, the oats want to know more about me, how our lives are intertwined, how our becoming is not possible without the oats’ life and mine meeting one another, discussing terms. We work these snippets of mutual acknowledgement into a day and sleep.

We come together, places in dreams, arriving in pools neither of us would say is our place, and in that way place becomes negotiation. I live a world where friends ask me for my thoughts on depths we took to be together, our shared days in the sun, on the same sunlight navigated.

Streams of reciprocity meeting one another, we break into breath, one of countless many we take in sleep. How this might be the first time calculating how many breaths body takes in sleep, how each spoonful of oats lives its life a part of me here, part of dreaming with me.

We lay on the bed together, stalk of oats, pride of apes in a decision tree they call a person, day, the events there. Each dream one expression of attention, every night a network of perceived morning light, joining the first movement of the day left to build like moments.

Watercolors in dream journal, a thing between bites and pages surfaces. Cosmedics of joules, currents brought to jaw and foot alike, each cut-out communion two ways in sun rays colliding. Swallowing to memory our two days. My fingers through a smoke of ink, pages swell.

Claymation coordination: zine pages treat speaking like tupperware, tupperware each climate controlled organ biorhythm expression its algorithm, organs treat ettiquette with do’s and don’ts reagents reward, a garden of fevers suffering shared self. Claymation coordination.

Joining the coordinating, stringent reaction to maps channel. To collect, cartographs tease being apart from imposed supposition to superpositioned starlight finding its way to basic metabolism. Invite lifts prescription, allergy medication.

Pills finds expressions self sees not metric, job-well-done press-space-to-continue driven out. What signal discomforts being not to scale. By treating not having a voice as something to fix, is not the loss in seeing a problem? Where there is mere company, loving self, else’s fancy.

Where bodies are collisions of mothers and foods, not problems but eruptions, no contract, just stars going out like extinction’s just another word forcing now into who. When now might be out to bring voice from moments we meet, find presense feeds more than we ever extract.

Picking out the char speck from a meal, isolating what to ingest from won’t, what part of my dwelling is this speck? What debt to recognize has gone onto to become inedible, to be returned to the fields and be welcomed back to shared sunlight, another offered celebration.

How do I find the ritual? How does it translate from spoonful to mouthful, from tool to word, from import to exhaust, from presence to presenting, from now to how to be, except in where I bring those connections this moment. Each one a star to place in my guts sky.

Painting the ends of the body. Dancing with the impossibilities recognition falls to with infinite regress. Inside, complete acknowledgement. An imperfect representation of all sound afforded. Topology of this moment a spine the bones of an ability to swallow settle into a breath.

Out of an entire atmosphere, a breath. And all around us, these words, what we speak. An endless array of ways to read them. Each way accounted for, and poured into the representing. Every place the words can be read, how many times, at what time(s), rich, substantive soil.

To grow into these channels, to find my way through speech and live on its outskirts. On all the ways it isn’t read, foraging on this, creating pockets for meaning to collect in the places you wouldn’t let through, terrain of understanding you never find seat in. Air swallows lungfuls.

For voice was thoughts before they were words, and senses before they were thoughts and states before they were senses and surfaces before they were states and heated and cooled all the while and each pass another reading and you only this one: to know water carries the one.

Water carried the voice here, is a surface (if the glass becoming writes on), is the breath. Of collision, water wrote these words: “and water wrote in stone and water writes every cliffside and water writes every student paper. And water will write every debt and law, every end to each.

Water fills all space in you, holds you like waterbear on every substrate you’ve spoken into, every hug you’ve ever nurtured, every star you’ve ever looked to guide you to on how to go. Roaming through it, leaning holding being into presense bringing up the flow enough to notice.

To notice focuses space, to bring the water of the oats to sip their separate sunlight with the water of the meal, to share a field-meal space to always tend to a place so slow there’s time. A place voice is always not you what meant to but allowed. As allowing’s always been the person.

Not in words, nor thought, sense, state, surface, hot or not, every edge point compressing brings together - here and hare, fear and fare, tear and tear - patterns take to song like rhythm to pitch, in a hand offering how drink. Where an I brings voice to water, a tongue brings water an I.

Pools develop, the everyday edge of vision a taste eyelips form to blink away emotion, how the first mother has no mother’s instincts, how the first rain is always, for all time, a flood, how the first I was an offering to all that was else, how the first to forget was always first to feel.

Useless, sure, voicing water, so shapeless, each translation viable, each voice valid, tragedy of the common sort, how sort-by-best was always going to be fascist fodder, so sifting required broken, local songburst, short and small moments water is let and given voice.

Faceshield of our apparatus defogs, each breath consensing onto it spread across the glass, reaching down into the catch, into a tube, ejected from a place along the forearm. We pour the tubes over city streets, watch them puddle, make friends with the piss and the oil.