Sent: November 24, 7:35 pm
Subject: Tools to repair
To take on contours we used dirty words in other languages.
Tsunami, radiator, fenestra, windows just one disaster after another. Don’t stay in California too long. The Pacific's prevention measures, buoys that monitor these
earthquakes. If the ocean overtakes us, veil our thoughts in skirts because this could happen here.
When an eye mask loosens, some drapery, long rosary might need tools to repair, escape or a battering
ram unless there is space for pressure, warping. At least one attempt to forecast despite blinds.
Is a home safer? A spector, a spill, a cabinet of foodstuffs, that creaking, a porch sinking, sliding, siding or brick, a Bible in the nightstand, radon; I could not discern the true matter from the false.
dateline: Suffolk, England, May 16, 1791 *
in veil of tears to whose fault do you ascribe the drowned vault Alessandro Volta throws the switch that illuminates a venerable text hand-coloured, light-flooded interconstellationary wave tingles on the tongue of which we speak through fantastical device dependent chaotically on quasi-divine algorithm of a suppurating sun the natural philosopher engages matter in terms to give us pause force fissure in the zeitgeist saints are sculpted boys below the waterline efflorescence of recovered paint in borrowed time mementi mori, moisture forcing up the floor we count the bedes right-lateral side-slip compressional forces expressed as uplift
* day of the most severe quake yet to strike Connecticut; in Pisa, Volta commences experiments with Galvanism
An Experiment in Galvanism
Whose fault is what engages matter. Exciting contradictions in the muscles of animals. One captive, the other tied, beautiful limbs interlaced: a disturbance of pairs. Skinny ropes round white robes handled. First sculpted boys then bandied girls snagged after permission. The tip of each finger four points to turn joyful, revelry beyond the joint of the knuckle. Every time a communion is offered, an affection I cannot reject. When hands are previously unoccupied. A staff to placate empty hands. Forcing fissure, the floor supporting a son every now and then singing do this, like tablature. One string pressed as board ridges gnaw. Blood from wine fretted innocence raw. Upper lip and tongue, switch tingles upon the gum corresponding with the shock. No one was injured in the collapse. Nothing bad ever. Four minutes, our pictures and home videos. Baseboard, leather, a wet cloth. Three pillars of glass or varnished wood. And a rocking chair that was my great grandfather's, bent into an arch becoming new as we count beds. Or beads. Soldered to the end of a wire. Some bells once brought against a chest in habit now, wrist in motion, blessings held, laid upon each other in interwoven patterns. A side-slip, a tree falls, a backhoe to extract a girl. There's never a shortage of disasters. The strongest light, whether eyes open or shut. You can do whatever you want--just do it slowly and don't make any noises.
a lifeforce flows in these magnetic patterns fielding an iron planet, filling joyful beings with premonitions of disasters; electric impulses compel our muscles to acts of faith or defiance; video conferences take place behind these shut doors; the rhythmic valves open & shut in isometric, biographic patterns reduced to blip & pulse in video- graphic representation of every joyful, wilful or unwitting move of muscles; our best intention may lead to disasters piled in smoky pile upon disasters in dusty cities; rivermouths are shut by seismic spasm of tectonic muscles contracting in hyperperistaltic patterns; musical forms ignite a simple joyful neurotransmitted response on video screens in quiet chambers; video games erupt in choreographed disasters from flights of finger four formation, joyful pilots in lockdown, quiescent suspects shut in soundproofed rooms; psychodramatic patterns provoke involuntary moves in muscles sensitised to allegory, muscles attuned to catastrophic video representation of ideas in patterns that predicate predicted grave disasters; we enter this with all our senses shut, minds in denial, heartbeat oddly joyful, the tip of each finger four points to turn joyful, exciting contradictions in the muscles; the strongest light, whether eyes open or shut, four minutes, our pictures & home video – there’s never any shortage of disasters laid on each other in interwoven patterns our valves tight shut, our altimeter joyful with flexing patterns of our complex muscles reduced to video, seconds from disasters
Flood Diary, #1
Her beauty helped her to a clever way of listening. Lips open, interruption, an emphasis on grammar. How a city is arrived at, its quiet like a pulse. Then it stops. Sparks, you say. A little pointed. Or was it sharp. A stranger at a bar converses in bursts, igniting in joy. An adequate diversion— he seems to know, which comes as no surprise, the contents of the drink, when what's required is an entire lime. He was an au pair in France making crepes when the bathtub overflowed, the living room submerged. The neighbors sued for damages. Pretty soon you exhaust yourself looking for something to talk about. What she could take out of a person. My tolerance tapped, I'm forgotten like a drain. Here are my recollections, piled on each other in nervous patterns. We needed a place. The others moved away. A morning’s distortion, a window cracked. A soiled garment needing to soak. It felt like a lockdown. Where all the water came from. Forgetting to be skeptical or seeing everything in denial, anxiety exciting contradictions. Pretty soon you exhaust yourself. I wait to disappear like a boat. One somehow treads on, meagerly assuming debt, weight, a kind of attachment. I listened for the set of paces, flights of fingers a curtain passed through. An apartment is a nuclei of vacancy. One person's boundary, walls or valves opened involuntarily. The shape of this low is an ellipse, a surface collapsed over its own fallen body. We were oblivious to consequence, compelled in directions by drunkenness, a chance encounter behind shut doors. A disturbance under the stairs. How love divides us. Go on. This is someone else's life she's playing. We used to talk until all hours. But we've used all the words. In trying to predict disasters or one miracle after another, depending on how you look at it. A lifeforce on both sides like a river. Where you ask permission to enter—but water takes the path of least resistance, or so they say, conveying pleasure, or this. In overabundance, seeping as it follows its own slow noise. I've a feeling I could provoke a reaction. I read "women in danger" as "walk in a jar" and thought of entrapment, inequality, feminism. Which is better, before or after. Our underlying currents reduced to patterns.
The age of insecurity
it takes an expense of will (or an effort of wing) to reach this point from where we look down on milling humanity, a city quietly pulsing (as if a living city ever achieves quiet) taking the path of least resistance between hillocks as it spreads to overwhelm the rising smoke, biblically miraculous, conventionally claims the epithet ‘plume’ as if a feather could ever be this threatening, yet we see, in our uniquely privileged moment, how this metaphor might also apply to an escape of oil in deep sea, ink on a quill written into the terrifying world where the innocent eye sees nothing no pattern in the shape the rocks take or the inbuilt obsolescence of highrise blocks that will flex with the mantle only so far, strain maps of bridges with colossal catapult potential should they lose their bearings in the good earth blurring the continuities we take one element for another, water for breathing, plutonium for fire, catastrophism as a way of life in the 17th century some scientists wanted shot of Aristotle, the Swift response ridicule of the scientists (a category not yet so defined) Edison was no scientist but an entrepreneur, the electric chair an advertising gambit; dams at Niagara might have powered Atlantic City, current turning one wheel to spin another as a photovoltaic sun lights up the Vegas night & what of Volta now? his name subsumed, an eddy in the currents swirled with Ampere & Watt the pattern’s in the pile, affairs cunningly woven & trodden underfoot