DanaMajor picofpicmirrorrorrim

No Vember

I miss writing but words show on the page like over-whitened teeth.

I take my fingertips to my brows, where is the writing? I step over the reasons it’s gone, to the quiet banks of remembering, where I wait without reaching, without need seeping foglike around my poised, indifferent typing fingers…

other words come to me instead,

 

k e r p l u n k

 

f       o       r

 

example.

the tarot was unequivocal. Now is the time to clean up unfinished business. I have weeks of office work, foundation-laying, project completion, and not even a functional list-making app.  The cards were clear twice about it. First, admin and its stacks of envelopes, and little red three digit inbox numbers written by process of inner dictation. Then second, I need so much kombucha tea and chi quiang muscle clearing, I need quartz crystals and block printed Indian tablecloths waving in the breeze. I need King Spa black spot polishing scrub, makeup that looks like I’m not wearing any, and 30 days frozen outside of time to get my office papers straight.

no appointments, no windows, or clocks on the wall, only my laptop, a telephone, a printer that works. and space in the filing cabinets.

and getting off sugar. It poisons me and causes all my decrepitude. My jaw aches, my knees creak, my tongue is constantly sour, my tinnitus whines for gas station chocolate bars. i promise to turn my dreams in the direction of South, and in my sleep so shall gather all the clues and packing lists I might have made had I not fried my adrenal system all day with lowbrow confections, Nutty Bars and Coco Krispies, and not enough water.

the transformation into the digital age is complete, in case you can’t feel it. the world runs that way now. the rocks and greenery, the magma and icebergs, as the stuff of primordial beginning, a wonderous, sickeningly organic medium, where loss is the dank accompanying note, and time can be examined, but first apply this ointment under your nostrils.

i think of patterns, of handmaking, I think of my own environment even stronger in its capacity as memory than as present. making making. i think of kinetic machine sculptures powered by present and available energies.   did you know, Machine, that by definition, machine does work?

“Its only purpose is to provide a way in which some people will be able to find their own Internal Teacher.”

how can I find my own internal teacher without the music playing?

at this time in history when humanity moves away from handmade ways of living, when click and dragging packets of pre-written command sequences is “coding” the way going to the grocery is “farming,” at this time of the 3D digital printer, now is when we want to get back to the very basics of cooking and eating, brew own beer, pick own apples, know your pig?

and forget about reading. if it’s not letters pressed up to the glass face of my phone, I haven’t had time. I keep thinking I’ll read something new, not a deeper read into an existing line of inquiry, but something completely new.  sometimes you have to break your leg to reset it straight. n’est-ce pas.

deep, deep clean and reorg, shedding, re-tuning, inventorying, building it responsibly from the ground up. building it sustainably. life as a sustainable system of practices.

I’m reading my hospice friend a Nabokov story, a few paragraphs a day. He’s got brain cancer. He always only had one eye, and we used to joke about it ten years ago when he worked for me in the last days of my production line. F grew up in the Hutterite community. He left to live an artsy, intellectual, gay city life with a beautiful, kind man. F is humble and selfless, and well-mannered, and also wry and perfectly willing to talk about good times being the Lucky Pierre. His personality is still all present, but a while back he lost much of the feeling in his hands and arms, so I am massaging them with my clay-strong grip and he loves it. He can’t talk or eat or drink, but he can aspirate through his trach and smile with his eyes. he is already on his way out of the body, i have felt this before, the dying, they pass through me, i see them, or feel them. They are porous and less concerned with staying in the body. I suppose his brain is going to forget how to run his body. he is at easy peace, staying himself all the way. but he is everybody’s business with the physical therapy for his limbs ], so I read a couple paragraphs, and the nurse comes in, and by the time they have him all rolled over and refreshed and measured, his eyes have closed almost all the way, the grey lids tissue thin like a baby bird’s, he tips his head back and the shrinking flat curl of the rest of him rises and falls dry and lightweight with the breath he pulls through the tube insert in his neck. Nabokov draws icicles and plays us their invisible drips, hanging us to the winter eaves by the one good eyes.

the undone the undone this is the season of the undone. it’s an ideal cushion project for this transition. guess what. no trauma no drama. it’s optional and I’d rather not. you are always safe Tami says to me, I am always safe.

better to pull ur oar inside the boat and let chance get u to calmer waters. no mention of Cassandra, or the seeing eye.

the next right pass with the work is to update my website. pictures and events, I finally have time to jumpstart the news section, but because I have nothing to report for months.

I’ll have a sandwich. I’ll take a look at the latest written form that Babylon requires of me.

I’m not going anywhere for ages. the cards were sure of it.

when the words bottleneck at the writing, that’s the one I’m waiting for in The Ever Changing Knever Was.