notes
things that go...
* * *
from dictee, theresa hak kyung cha
there is no future, only the onslaught of time. unaccountable, vacuous, amorphous time, towards which she is expected to move. forward. ahead. and somehow bypassing the present. the present redeeming itself through the grace of oblivion. 140
the ink spills thickest before it runs dry before it stops writing at all. 133
if within its white shadow-shroud, all stain should
vanish, all past all memory of having been cast,
left, through the absolution and power of
these words.
covering. draping. clothing. sheathe. shroud.
superimpose. overlay. screen.
conceal. ambush.
disguise. cache. mask. veil.
obscure. cloud. shade. eclipse. covert. 132
inwardly luscent. more. so much so that its entry
closes the eyes
interim. briefly.
in the enclosed darkness memory is fugitive. 118
it is her, with her elbows on the piano. it is you seeing her suspended, in a white mist, in white layers of memory. in layers of forgetting, increasing the density of mist, the opaque light fading it to absence, the object of memory. you look through the window and the music fills and breaks the entire screen from somewhere. else. from else where. 108
you know that he cannot speak either. the muteness. the void muteness. void after uttering. of. each phrase. of each word. all but. punctuation, pauses. void after uttering of each phrase. of each word. all but. punctuations. pauses. 106
a wedding invitation:
the hour being as yet uncertain, you are invited to hold yourself in readiness and watch. 103
our destination is fixed on the perpetual motion of search. fixed in its perpetual exile. 81
little by little
there. then. years after. uncertain if
the rain the speaking remembered how it had been
as it had been if it had been.
bite the tongue. between the teeth. swallow
deep. deeper. swallow. again, even more.
until there would be no more organ.
plus d'organe.
cris.
bit by bit. commas, period, the
pauses. before and after.
after having been. all.
before having been.
phrases silent
paragraphs silent
pages and pages a little nearer
to movement
line after line
void to the left to the right.
void the words.
void the silence. 71-73
i write. i write you. daily. from here. if i am not writing, i am thinking about writing. i am composing. recording movements. you are here i raise the voice. particles bits of sound and noise gathered pick up lint, dust. they might scatter and become invisible. speech morsels. broken chips of stones. not hollow not empty. they thing that you are one and the same direction addressed. the vast ambiant sound hiss between the invisible line distance that this line connects the void and space surrounding entering and exiting. 56
you say this is how heaven should be. you say this is how it must be death. (memoryless. dreamless.) afterwards. the thick the weight of stillness. you are moving accordingly never ahead of the movement never behind the movement you are carrying the weight from outside being the weight inside. you move. you are being moved. you are movement. inseparably. indefinitely. not isolatable terms. none. nothing. 51
* * *
From my hand at night (my light
A little oil in a dish or a rush taper smoking
Not so diffferent from his), flower
Ovid's fantastic shapes, shadows
Of an old empire's former splendor
Now perjured by Virginia's clay & leaf & sand
Turned to the king's profit as iron, silk, & glass.
Belief is possible at night, solitary, firelit.
Then, I can believe in Ovid's centaurs,
Or at death that he was met by a three-headed dog.
I can believe in your letters, which never come.
* * *
* * *
are you socially mediated?
* * *
do images work their way into the narrative of revolution? what meaning is transferred? and how?
* * *
immense, illiterate, consoling
* * *
beatrice's bag of lemons,
now without waxed peels.