this view of the anthropocene, i think it’s cockeyed.  we are pounding on the surface of the planet, emitting gasses into its atmosphere, the less dense layer over the hard layer that we say is the surface perhaps because bodies are a certain density and not another.

the naming, that’s the power we think we have, the power to name?  a rose is a rose, the scattered dust of Shakespeare shifts in its resting place. little boxes of what is and what we say it is.

summer back roads, people on busses on the way to anything else.    i think of Maker’s other projects, swirling in the What’s-It.  world of chimps who grin and bounce, hitting each other over the head with whatever was grabbed from the other’s hand.

Surelye there be end tables to make, cars to paint in designs that baffle the masses.