J MacPherson + L Yutuc

November 18, 2017 Jason Brown

: : Living Spaces

I love it when
I hear a noise
from the other side of the wall
in my apartment.
I imagine it’s you,
you’ve come home
again. It helps me
picture our lives
playing out simultaneously;
the distance collapsing
like a telescope, becoming
more manageable. You get up–
I can hear you
washing your face, cooking
breakfast, listening
to the radio. When
the walls are silent
you’re just at work,
you’re just out
running errands.

// J MacPherson

: : The Bed We Lie In

Creator's Note : :

Out of impulse, I voluntarily entered a state of false homelessness with the following parameters: I could not return home for any reason and I cannot stay in the same place twice. In a span of two weeks, I was graced by the hospitality of friends and strangers, connected with people at the most profound level, and reflected deeply about my own self. I was reminded about the importance of coming home and what that means to the person you love. Thus, The Bed We Lie In focuses on my former partner's perspective as he recounts his experiences and thoughts during my time away.

// L Yutuc

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: : Lemma // J Platt + M Bohrer

November 17, 2017 Jason Brown

Dear Defiance. Digital Photograph. J Platt. — *Dear Defiance*. Digital Photograph. J Platt.

lem · ma

// M Bohrer

assumed definitions— unproven theorem of proof.

taking annotations, making them mine.

ten · sion

stretching with strain— points of tightness and pressure, caught in equilibrium.

physical stresses— anxiety and force, minds fraught amongst fixed positions.

in · between · ness

spaces often overlooked— times passing through, translation of a medium.

sitting in between chairs— not at home anywhere, entangled here and there.

trans · lation

moving media— displaced minds and memories, carrying meaning across customs and cultures.

split personalities, learning something, to leave it behind.

noth · ing · ness

void— thought divides action.

blank dormancy.

converging insignificant space, with valueless time.

an · y · where

in, at, to here.

near, close, by me.

no · where

antonym any- where.

a hidden twin or sister.
be · ing
fundamental existence.

singularity. the loneliness of (celestial or gravitational) infinity.

rem · nant

rejected remainders—

trapped, silver disillusionment.

frag · ment

further breaking incomplete realities.

divorcing X, eternally linked origins.

Eve. Digital Photograph. J Platt. — *Eve*. Digital Photograph. J Platt.

word

human sound— Kharon’s charge.

sense all things, murdering objects.

bod · y

mortal coil— organizing structures around a vacuum.

amassing corpses.

lan · guage

being human— twisting expression. communicating between conventions and structures.

of taking things, converting objects forcing them into our world.

self

ego, mind, spirit— object’s subjects, essentialness, tangible nothingness.

Mrs. Ramsey’s wedge-shaped, core of darkness.

e · go

metaphysical i. reaching for black matter— beyond vanity.

mind

thought cauldron, remembrance of a past.

warning spirit, insanity and mania.

spir · it

force, your breathing soul

wor · ry

worn anxiety.

teeth snap, wearily strangling, harass (your) intellect.

sor · row

guilt of grieving—

maroon colored remorse, distressed worry.

pain

screeching tear, reverse entropy.

fearing penalty.

the ache in the wrist in February.

fear

simultaneous debunking inspiration.

impossibility of answers, force of a vacuum.

hurt

tar wounds—

see (striking, endless) pain.

bombs at Ludwig-Maximilian-University, reminders in a brick wall.

No Access to the Void. Digital Photograph. J Platt. — *No Access to the Void.* Digital Photograph. J Platt.

wait

sit silently,
observe patience, pace with preoccupation.

time by external forces.

stand · still

stillstand

screeching glaciers to a halt, lights stop flickering.

motionless.

complete calm- emergency.

leave

remain, in awayness.

breaking your heart, without looking back. write formalizing beliefs. marking life, eternally.

pa · tience

suffering, endlessly deferred.

tolerating silence— blood seeping into concrete.

whis · per

transmuting stillness.

steel whistling— stabbing sensual sharpness

pass

departing death lost in purgatory.

interpunct of living, the aftermath of entanglement

mourn

veiled memories.

monopole of darkness, mindless inertness.

seven years of waking sorely, no dent in our pillows.

Massive Halo Object. Digital Photograph. J Platt. — *Massive Halo Object*. Digital Photograph. J Platt.

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: : It's a Wanderful Life // J Platt + J Kent

November 17, 2017 Jason Brown

It's a Wonderful Life. Digital Photograph. J Platt. — *It's a Wonderful Life*. Digital Photograph. J Platt.

#PearlHarbor

// J Kent

"We were talking about Paris."

I arrived at the restaurant. Before I've taken my seat I’m told:

The Eiffel Tower?

I didn't know what you meant,
A pause: a beat of condescension.
Collective consciousness had evolved in the past six hours and I had missed the tide.

The shootings. A concert. Terror.

"I don't have a smartphone, or the internet at home---I didn't know."

I said

The expectation of being a global citizen. The expectation of empathy. The expectation of not knowing how to
not / know / what / to / do.

ROBIN WILLIAMS IS DEAD:
"Wow...So sad...SH*T!! A true legend...RIP...Oh no! So tragic...Very Very sad news..Such a terrible loss..."

And the inclusion of a visual. A face in torment. Actually the inclusion of a colon and then a parenthesis
( :( )
This is a picture of my sadness--An annotation of my sadness.

“Talk about a rough Monday”

“ lol #stabbed, #Cantfeelmyleg ”

A trio of images: a wide angle shot of the leg, a close up of the wound, and the girl’s face, surprisingly devoid of emotion other than the signifier of stained mascara trails.

(

“Aniconism is the absence of material representations of the natural and supernatural world in various cultures, particularly in the monotheistic Abrahamic religions.” From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

)

I stand in a field with a farmer. He gazes over the horizon and tells me his wife has become a born again Christian. They no longer have sex. He married a hippy who rode motorcycles and wore white leather.

Now he fathers a large denim-clad brood, that everyone pretends he wants:

“It is lonely, but I have my online forums. Other like-minded people out there that I am connected to. Without them…”

We return to looking out and looking within…

… Lebanon… / …Chrissy Teigan…

: : Glomly // R Kelsey + R Hill

November 15, 2017 Jason Brown

Eleanor 1. Illustration on antique photograph. R Kelsey. — *Eleanor 1.* Illustration on antique photograph. R Kelsey.

: : glomly

\glɑm-li\ adj (1985).

1: A feeling comprised of three parts homesickness, two parts loneliness, two parts sorrow, and perhaps one part confusion or frustration. The feeling includes a wish to go home and be with people who are well known. So there is an urge for closeness, comfort, and affection, but an aversion to that which is new and strange, but due to circumstances or location all that is accessible is unfamiliar.

2: When you are feeling especially clingy, and you just want to glom onto something familiar

// R Hill

Eleanor 2. Illustration on antique photograph. R Kelsey. — *Eleanor 2.* Illustration on antique photograph. R Kelsey.

Eleanor 4. Illustration on antique photograph. R Kelsey. — *Eleanor 4.* Illustration on antique photograph. R Kelsey.

Eleanor 3. Illustration on antique photograph. R Kelsey. — *Eleanor 3.* Illustration on antique photograph. R Kelsey.

Eleanor 5. Illustration on antique photograph. R Kelsey. — *Eleanor 5.* Illustration on antique photograph. R Kelsey.

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FOLIO : : Nada // G Kim

November 15, 2017 Jason Brown

Curator's Note:

In the following narrative, an individual identifies using both "he/him/his" singular and "they/their/themselves" plural pronouns. Use of multiple types of pronouns may not be the most obvious at first read, and gets a little more complex given the relationship with the storyteller. I encourage you to take your time and sit with this unique relationship to Self and Other.

: : Nada

: : "nothing," 1933, English slang, introduced by Hemingway, from Spanish nada "nothing," from Latin (res) nata "small, insignificant thing," literally "(thing) born," from natus, past participle of nasci "to be born" (Old Latin gnasci), from PIE root *gene- "give birth, beget."

TRACE 3

It was only a little while ago that I realized I am in love with them.

We did an experiment. I stood behind a one-way mirror while they looked into themselves. They projected their eager desires, immersed in adorning themselves. Perhaps, I envied them, a little. Per our agreement, I observed and documented them, hiding behind the mirror. Series of images started to pile up in my mind, and only one thing became clear: my gaze of censorship was meaningless scissoring, which merely limited and manipulated what to accept of them.

This work traces how we have explored, fought, and collided with each other.
These images are the by-products of that process.

The by-products have piled up, and I look again into them.

It was only a little while ago that I realized I am in love with them.

TRACE 2

He seemed gay. He was seated next to me at the classroom of graduate school. He was a hard person to simply place inside the box I had labeled ‘gay.’ It was not because of his foreign accent, his exotic looks or the symbolic accessories which I could not recognize. When he put on his makeup for a drag performance, he turned into someone who confused me even more. I tried to put them in the box that said ‘Drag Queen,’ but they did not have the thick lips or exaggerated cheekbones. They weren’t simply headed towards femininity. I have tried, and failed to define them. It was uncanny. There was a strong resistance against my perception, my definitions. Not long after, I even taxidermied them on top of my images to attempt a definition.

I decided to document all the reflections that were doomed to this failure.

TRACE 1

Quite a long time has passed since I first saw him. Perhaps, I have yet to truly face him. Could it be my chronic condition? Do I end up projecting myself onto him, even when I look at him, as I persistently try to look for myself?

Every time I had to adapt to new surroundings, after following my parents to this new city, I had to see and read other people. For me, seeing meant observing other people’s desires. Seeing let me meld into the surroundings.

But, the seeing has reached my own Self now.

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: : Here Be Dragons // J Mannebach + A Smythe

November 14, 2017 Jason Brown

Vouchers. Paper and gold leaf. J Mannebach.  A map of Chicago was the catalyst for Vouchers, which also references the interior body and illuminated manuscripts, a grand contrast to the important stories swept under the rug in anonymo… — *Vouchers.* Paper and gold leaf. J Mannebach.
A map of Chicago was the catalyst for Vouchers, which also references the interior body and illuminated manuscripts, a grand contrast to the important stories swept under the rug in anonymous representations of people’s lives. My use of found paper fragments emphasizes these tectonic shifts in the transition between areas that are cut, torn and sanded, placed comfortably, and sections that are manipulated more in the tradition of marquetry, revealing a seam rather than overlap.

: : Here Be Dragons

// A Smythe

Geographers ... crowd into the edges of their maps parts of the world which they do not know about, adding notes in the margin to the effect that beyond this lies nothing but sandy deserts full of wild beasts, and unapproachable bogs.
Plutarch, Life of Theseus (circa 75 AD)

I am standing in front of an illuminated map of the Houston Galleria, attempting to locate myself within this 2.5 million square foot shrine to material consumption. I used to know my way around this place blindfolded. It’s the country’s fourth largest mall in its fourth largest city, a city I abandoned four years earlier. The mall in our new little town is an hors d’oeuvre compared to this one. It’s spring break and I’ve brought my tween daughters back to the cradle of their childhood and they are on a giddy mission to revisit Dylan’s Candy Bar, the Disney Store and Libby Lu’s but I can’t remember which wings and which floors these stores are on—new geographies, among other things, have occupied my brainspace. We’re on a tight agenda this trip and I go back and forth on whose priorities should take precedence. I want to squeeze in all the places my girls miss most, the places that will remind them of what is normal, happy and enduring, that might extract whatever refrains of carefree childhood laughter that remain despite their parents’ failings. I am also desperate to drag my devastated heart into the embrace of old friends and the places that had been mine long before I’d married—the skating path in Memorial Park, my writing table in the courtyard of Brasil, a restaurant at Dunlavey and Westheimer with no signage, the apartment on Sul Ross I lived in when I was in grad school. I’ve conceded Indian fare at Khyber House for James Coney Island, an afternoon at the Menil for overpriced rides at the Downtown Aquarium where, after consuming industrially produced chicken dino nuggets, the girls will decorate star-shaped rice crispie treats with colored icing and sprinkles. We’ll only have time to accomplish the top tier sacred stuff. Well-heeled shoppers from uptown and on quick jaunts up from Mexico City jostle me as I scan the large map and I want to bark at them to back off, conscious of every minute I’m wasting, anxious to match store code to colored rectangle and formulate an efficient route through the incessant din of chattering voices and elevator dings. I locate the “You are Here” marker. Relief wells up and I exhale in the same moment I realize I’ve been holding my breath. Tears poke at the corner of my eyes. Someone knows precisely where I am. I am here. I am here.

For some months now I’ve woken up at various hours of the night with no sense of where I was, a common experience for the newly displaced. But it’s coincided with the sensation of not knowing who I was or even what I was—I suddenly emerge into darkness as a blinking wad, void of consciousness of a self, a detached observer newly hatched into the universe, suspended, before any defining facts cohere and establish me in place and time or even as “me.” Floating in this waystation before my eyes begin to adjust, my mind flails about for purchase: Am I twelve? Twenty? Forty-five? Is this the house I grew up in? My Cambridge apartment? The house I built with my husband, our daughters sleeping peacefully in twin beds down the hall? I orient myself on these awakenings by triangulating the position of the bed in relation to the emulsion of windows and doorways, mentally culling through rooms I have woken in until a wallop of recognition whacks me upright: I am in Columbia, Missouri, alone in a bed I once offered to guests, in a strange house, my new house, my daughters sleeping miles away in the home of their father. Where I used to sleep. Oh, yeah. That me.

You Are Here Upper Oswald B Trim -15 vig 15.png

After four unbearably long months of bleak winter days, parcels of sunshine arriving in minutes and hours, and still hostage to mood ravaging atmospherics I’d not reckoned on when we departed the perpetual summertime of Houston, the X’s marking the squares on the calendar finally completed their interminable march to spring break. I herded my daughters, their bathing suits, flat irons and electronics into the car, filled the tank and, after a hard left at Kansas City, fled south on I-35: to warmth, to light, to riotous blooming, to the place we’d left behind for what I’d been certain would be greener pastures.

I was traveling without my husband of 13 years, having moved out of our home two dreary months earlier, in the frigid temperatures of January. Plans for the next chapter—raising our daughters in an idyllic college town featuring fresh air, four seasons and a scenic natural landscape in which to grow old and gray together—crumbled almost on arrival. Marital troubles, exacerbated by addiction and mental health issues we thought we’d left behind in Houston, arrived as tightly packed as the boxes of clothes and books we offloaded from the United Van Lines semi. Now, four years on, Missouri had come no closer to feeling like home, and though I could no longer say where or what home was I was consumed with the desire to return to former places and faces, to wallow in the long known, the worn out and used up, the spurned and rutted paths of the deeply familiar.

You Are Here Upper Oswald B Trim -30 vig 30.png

Innumerable incidents had transpired to bring me to exactly this place, starting with events that occurred long before I was born, such as the precise strength of gravity that allowed the universe to coalesce but not collapse and including every action taken or not taken by a countless multitude of people besides me and including my parents, their parents and so on. “Go back just eight generations to about the time that Charles Darwin and Abraham Lincoln were born, and already there are over 250 people on whose timely couplings your existence depends,” writes Bill Bryson. 250 people, of whom I’d only ever known a handful, yet whose existences directly determined almost everything about me. I had as little say in who those 250 DNA donors would be as I did of my nationality, economic status, race, appearance, talent, intelligence, physical and mental health, the family that would raise me, the cultural mores that would and would not have access to me and whether my epoch would extol pharaohs or princes or presidents, which is to say, absolutely none. All of these vastly formative influences, not to mention the fact that I showed up at all, completely beyond my control.

Once my entry into the human race was fait accompli and I began my unique-as-a-snowflake 10 billion heartbeat death march through the pages of history, was I indeed, as William Ernest Henley yowls, “Master of my fate and captain of my destiny?” How many times (and how many times not) have I been conscious of the fact that one seemingly tiny action, my own or someone else’s, has changed the course of my life? In looking back over my past is there really anything I could have done differently since, however promising other forks in the road might now appear from the perspective of time and wisdom, the salient fact is I did not take them?

Which is to concede that my life, every life, is a nonreplicable narrative, tweaked and turned on the mundane and the miraculous, a story being invented instant by instant, one that we cannot control or accurately predict very much about, leaving us equal parts unsettled (it’s pointless to try to guess what might happen next) and exhilarated (something will happen next.) I’m forever rereading and critiquing the novel in which I have been and remain the protagonist and the villain, waltzing with angels and demons, friends and strangers, through inexhaustible reversals—a book I can’t put down.

You Are Here Upper Oswald B Trim -45 vig 60.png

I am here and you are not. I googled your name again today and still nothing comes up. There is no digital record of you ever having existed, much less departed. Poof. It’s still hard to digest that you’re gone though it’s been 15 years, longer than the duration of my marriage. Death, in our modern scattered geographies and digital relationships, can feel like just another version of absence. He is not here, said Jesus to Martha and Mary after their brother died, he is sleeping. He’s out of town. He’s offline. He is not here.

Not here. My first best friend, Robin, moved into the new house two doors down from our new house in New Jersey.

She had a log playhouse identical to the one in my backyard. Robin had a Barbie doll and I had a Tammy doll, Barbie’s cheaper rival. We trapped squirrels in her hamster cage, fed baby rabbits with eye droppers, pressed maple leaves in albums, rode bikes around the block, and asked every long haired teenage boy that passed on our sidewalk if he was one of the Beatles. Paul and John were regulars, and we saved all the autographs they scrawled on the paper bags we’d grabbed from our kitchens before they got away. I wore my “friends forever” necklace for a year or two after a moving van rolled up and carried her to Illinois. We wrote letters for a while, until we didn’t.

Not long after Robin moved away, my grandmother died. Our grandmother, although you were still a few years away from your debut in this story so you never knew her. She lived with a parakeet named Pete in a tiny basement apartment in Queens. On weekends she’d ride the bus to Matawan and Dad would pick her up at the station. She’d arrive with the same Macy’s shopping bag which held her modest weekend supplies and from which she’d surprise me with tiny wooly suits she’d knitted for my Tammy doll, which looked like something Barbie’s grandmother would have worn. When Bremmon was diagnosed with cancer she didn’t go home anymore, she slept on the downstairs pullout couch, until she didn’t.

And Cathy Mac? When she’d come home from college with me you’d follow us around all googly-eyed. You weren’t even shaving yet. She pronounced cantaloupe “can-ELL-o-pee” and thought marshmallows grew in swamps. We didn’t hold that against her because she’d spent her childhood in France so how would she know? And because two of her three brothers died of muscular dystrophy by the time we were seniors. Several years later she carried a child through a cancerous pregnancy, postponing treatment to protect the life she held in her womb. The daughter she lived to hold in her arms will retain no memory of her touch. At least we all remember you.

I thought your loss was the worst I would ever be required to bear. I didn’t think I would ever cry harder, grieve more deeply, ask so ferociously Why? I never understood how you could choose to exit, how anything could become unbearable enough that for relief you’d opt to cease to exist. I do now. But because you did, I know I never will.

You Are Here Upper Oswald B Trim -60 vig 80 .png

Houston is internationally famous for its Galleria. I’m not particularly thrilled it’s the spot my kids most want to revisit. Upon our move to ten acres in the country, it became evident that they were more comfortable with concrete than grass, with A/C than fresh air, with the 24/7 whoosh of traffic than sounds of owls and coyotes outside our windows, or the silence we encountered under the vivid stars we introduced them to, stripped of ambient city glow. I was grateful to have moved before they were swallowed whole by a culture of consumption and manmade environments. At our mall the Gap is as fancy as it gets.

When I was a child, I was as much of the world as a rabbit or bird. I swam in it, climbed on it, played with it. I picked its fruit, skipped its rocks, splashed in its puddles, squished in its mud. I didn’t notice the world, I was in the world and I was of it.

It wasn’t until I went off to college on the vast, flat plains of West Texas that I began to notice I lived in a landscape. I was enthralled by the size of the sky and its wild sunsets, sandstorms, and starlight. How the horizon was a clean seam between heaven and earth. I began to see the world that hosted my existence. I felt the crunch of sandy soil under my feet and the way the hot air blasted my face, I saw rows of cotton striping fields and smelled the stench of pig farms north of campus. After leaving Lubbock I moved to Boston which, treed, hilly and architecturally dense, felt claustrophobic. In the city the sky was an afterthought. Without a car, I’d ride the T out as far as I could to get to the coast where I could find the horizon. But come my first fall, on a winding drive through the rises and troughs of the White Mountains, foliage ablaze in every direction, I was enamored again. I’d seen leaves turn before, I’d pressed them into books in my childhood. But I’d only seen the leaves, not the trees.

As my daughters mature amidst the green hills we’ve moved them to, I hope they, too, come to recognize there is no birdsong, no thunderstorm, no unfurling petal to be found within the confines of a mall, whatever its size.

You Are Here Upper Oswald B Trim -80 vig 100.png

A map: a rendering of a place someone else has encountered, traveled, pondered, measured. And returned from. It’s a record of the verdant, the hazardous, and the pathway through. Everything we believe, all we think we know, requires us to place our trust in the testimony, perceptions, and analysis of someone who has gone before us. Roman and medieval cartographers inscribed the classical phrase, “Here are lions,” to denote unexplored areas. In Asia, a 15th century globe’s uncharted territory warns, “Here be dragons.” These areas at the edges of charted lands were illustrated with serpents, sea monsters, dragons and mythical creatures with the assumption that to venture on into the unknown is to embark on a frightening and treacherous journey. To leave the charted is to embrace risk, danger, discovery. Most of us will never leave the four corners of our known worlds until forced to, until something drives us past the security of recognizable borders. Propelling ourselves beyond the comfort and assumptions of the known is our only avenue to unfiltered experience, our ticket to peer clear-eyed through an unsmudged lens, our means to confirm what is true and dispute what is not in the accounts of others who have gone before us. It is how we expand the borders of the map, mark a new path, leave our gifts of insight to those that follow after. Ahead may well lie wild beasts and unapproachable bogs. But so did the past. The dragons I’ve already encountered have prepared me for dragons to come. It’s just as likely that ahead may lie fairies, unicorns, and unspoiled oases.

Not here. My daughters have just driven away with their father, my time over, and again I feel my insides rip away as they disappear around the corner, the loss I will rehearse weekly until the day I wave and they don’t return at all. This is not the path I signed up for. The sun is coming back to Missouri, standing on the front step I feel it on my face, a solace. The air is ripening with greening things returning from the long ache of winter, the hard season veined with spring.

Here be a blank white page. The past was once the unknown I journeyed through, the charted merely the illustrated version of what was previously uncharted. I am mapping the one journey in the entire history of the world that only I can take. Everywhere I have been and everything I have done has led me to this point. So far on my clean white sheet of paper I’ve drawn one small rectangular box, the words inside inscribed in lead.

Vouchers (detail). Paper and gold leaf. J Mannebach. — *Vouchers (detail).* Paper and gold leaf. J Mannebach.

Back to table of contents

: : Living Spaces

: : The Bed We Lie In

lem · ma

assumed definitions— unproven theorem of proof.

taking annotations, making them mine.

ten · sion

stretching with strain— points of tightness and pressure, caught in equilibrium. physical stresses— anxiety and force, minds fraught amongst fixed positions.

in · between · ness

spaces often overlooked— times passing through, translation of a medium. sitting in between chairs— not at home anywhere, entangled here and there.

trans · lation

moving media— displaced minds and memories, carrying meaning across customs and cultures. split personalities, learning something, to leave it behind.

noth · ing · ness

void— thought divides action. blank dormancy. converging insignificant space, with valueless time.

an · y · where

in, at, to here. near, close, by me.

no · where

antonym any- where. a hidden twin or sister. be · ingfundamental existence. singularity. the loneliness of (celestial or gravitational) infinity.

rem · nant

rejected remainders— trapped, silver disillusionment.

frag · ment

further breaking incomplete realities. divorcing X, eternally linked origins.

word

human sound— Kharon’s charge. sense all things, murdering objects.

bod · y

mortal coil— organizing structures around a vacuum. amassing corpses.

lan · guage

being human— twisting expression. communicating between conventions and structures. of taking things, converting objects forcing them into our world.

self

ego, mind, spirit— object’s subjects, essentialness, tangible nothingness. Mrs. Ramsey’s wedge-shaped, core of darkness.

e · go

metaphysical i. reaching for black matter— beyond vanity. mind

thought cauldron, remembrance of a past. warning spirit, insanity and mania. spir · it

force, your breathing soul

wor · ry

worn anxiety. teeth snap, wearily strangling, harass (your) intellect. sor · row

guilt of grieving— maroon colored remorse, distressed worry. pain

screeching tear, reverse entropy. fearing penalty. the ache in the wrist in February.

fear

simultaneous debunking inspiration. impossibility of answers, force of a vacuum. hurt

tar wounds— see (striking, endless) pain. bombs at Ludwig-Maximilian-University, reminders in a brick wall.

wait

sit silently, observe patience, pace with preoccupation. time by external forces.

stand · still

stillstand

screeching glaciers to a halt, lights stop flickering.

motionless.

complete calm- emergency.

leave

remain, in awayness. breaking your heart, without looking back. write formalizing beliefs. marking life, eternally.

pa · tience

suffering, endlessly deferred. tolerating silence— blood seeping into concrete.

whis · per

transmuting stillness. steel whistling— stabbing sensual sharpness

pass

departing death lost in purgatory. interpunct of living, the aftermath of entanglement

mourn

veiled memories. monopole of darkness, mindless inertness. seven years of waking sorely, no dent in our pillows.

#PearlHarbor

: : glomly

: : Nada

TRACE 3

TRACE 2

TRACE 1

: : Here Be Dragons

stretching with strain— points of tightness and pressure, caught in equilibrium.

physical stresses— anxiety and force, minds fraught amongst fixed positions.

spaces often overlooked— times passing through, translation of a medium.

sitting in between chairs— not at home anywhere, entangled here and there.

moving media— displaced minds and memories, carrying meaning across customs and cultures.

split personalities, learning something, to leave it behind.

void— thought divides action.

blank dormancy.

converging insignificant space, with valueless time.

in, at, to here.

near, close, by me.

antonym any- where.

a hidden twin or sister.
be · ing
fundamental existence.

singularity. the loneliness of (celestial or gravitational) infinity.

rejected remainders—

trapped, silver disillusionment.

further breaking incomplete realities.

divorcing X, eternally linked origins.

human sound— Kharon’s charge.

sense all things, murdering objects.

mortal coil— organizing structures around a vacuum.

amassing corpses.

being human— twisting expression. communicating between conventions and structures.

of taking things, converting objects forcing them into our world.

ego, mind, spirit— object’s subjects, essentialness, tangible nothingness.

Mrs. Ramsey’s wedge-shaped, core of darkness.

metaphysical i. reaching for black matter— beyond vanity.

mind

thought cauldron, remembrance of a past.

warning spirit, insanity and mania.

spir · it

worn anxiety.

teeth snap, wearily strangling, harass (your) intellect.

sor · row

guilt of grieving—

maroon colored remorse, distressed worry.

pain

screeching tear, reverse entropy.

fearing penalty.

the ache in the wrist in February.

simultaneous debunking inspiration.

impossibility of answers, force of a vacuum.

hurt

tar wounds—

see (striking, endless) pain.

bombs at Ludwig-Maximilian-University, reminders in a brick wall.

sit silently,
observe patience, pace with preoccupation.

time by external forces.

remain, in awayness.

breaking your heart, without looking back. write formalizing beliefs. marking life, eternally.

suffering, endlessly deferred.

tolerating silence— blood seeping into concrete.

transmuting stillness.

steel whistling— stabbing sensual sharpness

departing death lost in purgatory.

interpunct of living, the aftermath of entanglement

veiled memories.

monopole of darkness, mindless inertness.

seven years of waking sorely, no dent in our pillows.