This was 4 months ago

one thing I am learning: to really see my self as a galaxy, to feel the ebbs and swirls and eddies, to watch them turn around, swirl, swish, thunder onto the shore, painful, stinging, sudden, refreshing, pulling. often times an emotion pulls me towards a direction, and I listen. what is it to be tugged? what is it to feel the gentle pull, and to not move quite yet, to feel that sensation bloom onto me?

is it: insistent, unyielding, unsure, sharp and sudden, nagging, hesitant, curious, gentle, meek, angry, confident, direct, friendly, sweet? a pull has a personality, I think. sometimes the pull is one-sided, a jerk onto the heart, a singular vector that's easily to draw: point, line, arrow. other times it's a dynamic, a system in motion, the pull sets other vectors into motion, a rube goldberg machine of actions and reactions, causes and effects, potential energies stored up waiting to be unlatched, and then unspooling, bouncing, opening: 'and then, therefore, but, because, and as a a result'. the intricacies of a system. of my system.

when I say 'system', I realize that I mean: 'observed intricacies', complexity witnessed, context celebrated. a narrative appreciated. one thing I am learning from P is that a story doesn't have to be linear, or logical (a joke is a logic, arrested), and to instead find a narrative through cooking and plating alike. a reminder from H on how to admire the film; that cinematography counts for something, and that sometimes that's enough.

metaphors and material experiments abound in my mind because I cannot close a gap that was created due to language; words fail me; I add more words, trying to see if I can build a bridge, not letting it sink in that each word is a bridge and a chasm at the same time, a chalk line drawn on the playground that then demands that you jump over it, an invented rule that itself generates the possibility of transgressing. was it always about language? finding one? failing to find one? the inability to talk about the inability to talk about the inability to talk?

--

(me, sitting on the pier, typing near water:)

I'm trying to point towards something, I realize, insistently. look; I point with my finger, gesture with my eyebrows, orient my body. look, look, look. can we look at it? can we see? I think I am finding my body point towards it, first. my body knows, reveals it in my stance; the line connecting my feet oriented perpendicular to the center I am avoiding, or refusing, or unable to look at. can we talk about it? can we sit in the center? next to the woofer, on the dance floor, the air vibrates. our bodies shake. here we are. the reverberatory center of all of this all, you know? (waves hand, vaguely)

isn't this it? isn't this really it? I open a new tub of yogurt, I think, gently lift off the diaphanous layer of paper on the surface, barely distinguishable from the yogurt below. I swivel my hips to maneuver it above the open trash can, admire it for a moment, pinched between thumb and forefinger. is it paper-lathered-in-yogurt? yogurt coalesced into film? no matter, drop it in. isn't this it? underneath that indeterminate layer, the conversations, the pointing at our cores, the getting close to our speakers, observing our logics. mine, yours, ours. me looking at mine. me looking at yours. you looking at yours. you looking at mine. me looking at ours. you looking at ours. us looking at ours. a combinatorics of witnessing, being present.

other questions bloom, as a result, like:

have these questions always been here? (yes)

do I want to keep on asking them? (yes)

do I know how to articulate them? (only through truths told slant)

will others want to ask them with me? (not always, depends on who and when, sometimes, for some, never, for others)

is there more than one way to listen? (always)

will I ever find the answers? (probably not, absolutely yes)

are these questions ones I can ask? (yes)

are these my questions? (yes)

do these questions belong to me? (no)

more questions I do not, in all seriousness, have the answer to:

is it possible to be asking too much?

what am I already unable to see by thinking of these questions as questions?

what does it mean to ask a question, in the first place?

what is the opposite act of asking a question?

---

for my future self I will say: this was a grand time, wasn't it? a wild time, a ride, an experience, a passage, a shift. so far I have learned how to feel my galaxies, and go on slow walks, in which I find my center of gravity, locate it in my body, all the while moving my legs. shifting the center while keeping it stable. how does the center of gravity move around? if you could chart it as a point on the x-y plane, leaving behind a trail, I imagine it creating a periodic loop of some sort, moving pendulously, with rhythm and regularity, stability and change-

--

a repair manual, distinct from a user manual, is always more voluminous. it plunges you in when you open it: no intro, little fanfare. diagrams, indices, legends, keys. terms, parts numbers. an exploded section. a detailed closeup. troubleshooting. further instructions. on page 39 you see the parts laid out, suspended in mid-air. this screw goes over here; that screw goes over there. much attention given to the logic of fasteners, washers, assembly order.

to repair is to open up. lay it bare. see it for what it is. here you go. arrested, momentary, presented. a stuck carriage, clogged tear ducts, joints in need of conviction and coaxing. machinic metaphors for life, again, returning and circling back. mouth-to-anus, eating, producing, shitting, metabolizing. internal pressure pressing against pistons, turning a wheel. an action potential rippling across the membrane of a cell, contracting muscle fibers with incredible force. am I a train, a plane, a pair of legs, a car, a bicycle, a boat? are we (all) a ship, a peninsula, a flotilla, a party, a platoon, a school, a city, a wilderness? which centers of gravity do we hold?

--

(amidst this all:)

the memory of a walk. diagrams emerging with the surprised certainty of mushrooms fruiting overnight. a) a slow, steady flow. b) an excited, energetic movement. a line connecting the two, and the dance it makes, twisting, inverting, dancing, orbiting, leaving a series of lines on the pavement. the tender and joyous sensation of a tug on each end.

the feeling of leaping. of finding. of settling into a place, finding a position for the body. of finding, of yearning.

--

these seasons of being present.