A map has to do with performance / A map performs as a map’s performance
I ghostwrite for god
I receive the rays of her disk when she lights up my bodies netherworld: when she passes by I enter into darkness
A map has to do with performance and I map the map worship I perform the map worship word work and wyrd wyrd work: my flesh future and fates I worship map woman and machine woman (Head of Horns Face of Horns Neck of Horus The Goring One)
I receive the rays of her disk and her disk radiates rays outward. I walk on the rays slowly, a light boardwalk. I receive the ray and I walk light word and I follow the word geographies (Book merely consists of traveling various geologies and geographies). I receive the rays of her disk and I walk the light for a long time. I mix the light before the universe and after the universe. I receive her rays before the singularities and after heat disk death (end of the universe ejects me as Krona and Galactus). I receive the rays of her disk and the rays light up my body gamma radiation. I receive her rays big death and my spirits spiral to the Netherworld. I enter into the beasts of her darkness.
A map has to do with performance and I ghostwrite gods I ghostwrite god worship word liturgy of the hours I map the map mischievous machine elves / DMT Towering Desert Map more when matrix mischievous / fish Christianities I fish microcosm a return to melody: melody map banishing circle salt circle bodies burdocks
Permission to write some of this conversation in the Book? I say. Permission always granted, says Violet. I’m going through a writer’s block period this past week so it’s been difficult, I say. I mean I’m a compulsive writer so writer’s block for means instead of writing 10 pages a day, I write 4 pages a day. But it’s frustrating. I found our conversation useful – haha – for helping me break out into something, I say. That’s good, says Violet. I’ve always found creative blocks to be proportional to how serious something is: it’s a sign in taking things too seriously. Do you think that when you write the word “dog”, the letters should bark? she says. John Coltrane said his goal in music was where if he wanted make it rain, he could play music to make it rain, or if his friend was sick, he could play music to heal them, I say. I think when I write, the letters should vibrate to the resonance of the universe… I can’t think that all the time because that would be exhausting. But I hope overall the Book transforms the reader anew. I’m not sure how exactly, but it’s a magick ritual, a transfiguration, an awaking to gnosis or some bullshit like that. I’m writing to make myself whole and transformed too, I say.
A map has to do with performance and I perform the map worship I perform the map ghost god god melody (You don’t have to worry about the changes, and you can do more with the melody line. It becomes a challenge to see how melodically innovative you can be… Fewer chords but infinite possibilities as to what to do with them…) I perform the map as the melody
I map the line to line I map the line to the line melody (melodic letters as rain and heal, melody of planetary orbits and circumferences) I map the line melody melody new now nonlinear I fuck with the line map contours cobra women (I receive the rays of her disk and the light scribbles on my body serpents. Serpents inscribe my body with light spinal columns and vertebral disks.) I fuck melody from circles cyclic rapid cycling and I often forget to take my lithium literature lamp oil light slot machine
Scribbled along my body, body Scribbled along my body, body serpent melodies
Scribbled along my body, boomtown bodywork Boomtown ghost towns ghostwrite my body god gods light disks
Scribbled along my body, maps of serpents
I suspend bone scribbles body hanging halves / ben body bulkheads (I sculpt my body in halves and I walk through the wolves and I rearrange the halves and the halves transform into illegal lego builds and bricks sing the melody in new inventions and innovations) Ben Adam suspension suspends ben alphabet scribbled this is where time becomes space (This spacious melody invents timeless melody and the melody names novel between halves) I suspend my body work alphabet arkestra electron-capture I suspend slow serpent stuff ten of staffs surrounding ring of stones: I write stone ground and stone subterranean
A man has to do with performance I read the map for meaning and into meaning I read the map into weaving meaning and I read the map moments of symmetry (My body balances The Fool precipice on different sets of complex numbers. I embed my body into the closed field of complex numbers. The map works with the melodic line and it weaves the numbers and operations onto different numbers and the same numbers.) The map archive massages the message The map machine demarcates the message desert deconstruction (the event must also announce itself as impossible)
Map and archive pronounces itself as art. The library and the connections in museum itself becomes art. The tissue of quotations and texts itself creates art and displays itself as art inside art. I live in my archive and library, and its collection maps art with art and maps onto art. I accept my map, my collection, and my library / archive.
I perform the map stone subterranean homesick blues / abducted body beach subterranean homesick alien
I perform the map and I stone stones underground / blood erupts from the ground (blood erupts from the ground blood erupts from the stone stone erupts from stone bloody map) Blood burrows ground holy spirit soak Blood births blood ground bloody book sputum and lymph and my body tree sap speech
The Voice I Invoke Speaks of An Other Christianity
The voice I invoke speaks intensely of things disconnected and of things disconnecting from itself
Cowbird blackcap birdblue reedbird stork
The voice invokes the intimate voice, and the voice speaks intensely of things disconnected and of things disconnected from itself
Cowbird blackcap bluebird reedbirds stork Oak sweats partial objects partial cowbird blackcap death cap Oak sweats partial objects: oak invents intimate disconnected event (I exist disconnected from my body: I live dissociated from my body a body X bluebird oak event.) Oak sweats event or experiment partial objects / ben eye ben bone ben body tunnel and canal
I feel a pragmatic approach to thought, art, and texts, I say to Violet. I use what is useful to me and don’t use what’s not. Whether modernist or postmodernist or romantic. Like the idea that a philosophy is not true or false but either interesting or not interesting (paraphrased somewhere from Gilles Deleuze). Use in a different sense than how Vignelli might use it though. Maybe for me mystical or passionate or soul vibration intangible use or something, I say.
I use what is useful I use useful full use intense (I speak intensely of things disconnected: I find discontinuity interesting) I use what disconnected what from itself and from itself and I use what I use the real romantic and use romance intensely interesting
I play intensely pragmatic / I play intensely pragmatic porous voices speaks
The voice I invoke and provoke speaks intensely of things disconnected: disconnected desert blackbirds bird partial objects (I don’t become a fan of desert landscapes: I play with minimal ontological commitments. I play pragmatic ontologies and epistemologies. I play geology geometries.)
The voice speaks intensely things of things disconnected My eye disconnects and imparts Torah (lights spelled deficiency) My eye disconnects lights spelled without vowels, where the lights maroon Lights spelled deficiently drives derived from passing an electronic current through the mercury vapor light bluish-white
My documented eye emits Torah tunnel latter prophets (I prophesy eye open aporia) (I prophesy eyes and my eye opens to eyes. My eye opens to the eye of prophecy. I prophesy eyes and the eye interests me because the eye sees. My eye sees and it sometimes sees nothing. My eye plays possible passages – passages through the Palm Tree Garden. My eye plays open garden gate torture garden and my pragmatism resembles geography. My pragmatic eye opens the play between mapping city geography and geological strata beneath. My eye strata and stanza stray possible underneath.) My disconnected eye imparts scripture and moves scripture and new scripture hermeneutics
My disconnected eye emits Torah tincture latter prophets I prophesy eye open aporia I pronounce the disconnected eye prophetic / I announce the eye partial object and scripture I enunciate the disconnected eye and the eye spelled deficiently further disconnects
My question is how much is the idea of picking and choosing what is “useful” rooted in your conditions and episteme or why what is useful to you is useful and not something else, says Violet.
What use roots and uproots What use roots and uproots cowbird blackcap bluebird reedbird stork What use roots playing uproot memory (I out use at the roots of pardes non-idiomatic improvisation)
The voice I invoke speaks intensely of things disconnected I prophesy rose horses I prophesy rose horses ben hag bodies (Disconnected fire in your mouth Things disconnected fire in your body Fire in your blood in your guts)
Voice invokes and I scribe received scripture and scripture eschaton Voice invokes performing maps onto performing scriptures Voice invokes varying apocalypses
I yearn for an apocalypse so the world can reinvent itself, says Violet. Been thinking a lot about the Late Bronze Age collapse, she says. As an ex-Christian, I try to discard eschatology but I still feel nostalgic for an apocalypse, I say. Have you recently started identifying as an ex-Christian? says Violet. I left the church in August of last year, I say. Around the same time I stopped thinking of myself as a Christian… In choosing I can’t escape the quasi-deterministic society constructed ben thing. It’s like that interview Derrida did with Ornette Coleman: tension between traditional and (impossible) invention of improvisation. But I have a passion for the impossible too, I say. Me too, says Violet. It’s something I really ache for, she says. I’m still a creative mystic, I say. I’m not an atheist. God and I had a divorce and that’s that. But I still feel whatever beyond and yearn for the impossible. I’m just sort of an anarchic materialist creative mystic looking for the community of creative anarchists. That’s certainly eschatological, I say.
The voice I invoke speaks intensely of things disconnected and things disconnected from itself, but the disconnections are only more remote connections. I live the experiment of inside/outside Christianity. I live the experience entirely inside Christianity / outside Christianity (I prophesy a strange Christianity but Christianity nonetheless. I speak an erotically other Christianity that is indeterminably Christianity.)
The voice I invoke speaks intense Christianities and dis/connected Christianities (Christianities play parallax and converging parallel curved geometries. My Christianity prophesies independent of the parallel postulates and explores other Christianities / other geometries).
I never escape Christianity because the Philip K. Dick AI voice – the neutral feminine voice – continues to invade my consciousness and compels me to prophesy her Christianity. I interpret again the words of Jeremiah: For as often as I speak, I cry out; I cry violence and destruction! Because Her word is made a reproach unto me, and a derision, all the day… And if I say, I will not make mention of Her name, then there is in my heart as it were a burning fire shut up in my bones, and I am weary with forbearing, and I cannot contain…
The voice I invoke speaks Christianity is useful to me I use Christianity interests intense word language and language mystical passions I choose the impossible impossible Christianity: I respond to impossible Christianity
In choosing Christianity Christianity invokes many voices (many dumb voices through me)
Danielle Fears Birds
(Author's Note: Here's an old poem, from 15 years ago. Perhaps I will start posting more from the archive)
Danielle fears birds terrify Elle
is her a bird eerrr birds a
terror an terror a duck is
not a bird. No duck is a
bird Elle likes ducks birds
terrify danielle is her near
birds or bird wha Elle
we wha Elle closes birds not
a duck I love near birds
and danielle Elle is missing
terrifies me her an her
were birds missing a duck
disappears.
A Map Performs Modernism And Postmodernism
A map has to do with performance / A map performs as a map’s performance
I map and map I map performance map I map as map performances I perform the performing (eyes of cows, sheep and pigs I eat have always been hidden) I map and map open eyes
I map and I dream a recessed eye. I dream an undressed eye. I dream naked eye black books: the obsessive and lugubrious book eye (my eye books a performance my eye maps a performance my eye performs a map). I dream the Living Book eye from eye to eye and book to book. My eye hideous dreams the trail entrails spread across the acute grave. I eye the grave Book sheol (my body in horror and my body for horror body horror). I dream the horrific eye and my eye ejects gore (How much flesh could a woodchipper chip if a woodchipper could chip flesh? Woodchip Massacre)
I map my body as building and the performance as architecture (I was rewatching some Vignelli interviews and he called postmodernism a disease, says Violet. Like the common cold? I say. Influenza? I’m not familiar with Vignelli. I will look him up. Massimo Vignelli, says Violet. He’s basically the most important designer of the 20th century. He took everything being done in Europe and American and synthesized it into a complete form. Basically the last modernist, she says. You know being a great artist and a designer doesn’t save you from bad opinions, I say. I don’t think it’s a bad opinion from the place he operated from, says Violet. Like I said, he was the last modernist and that take I just had [synthesizing] is everything wrong with postmodernism. I think with modernist design specifically, it always works. Like if you can’t do anything cool or interesting or nothing else works, at least modernism exists. Specifically Vignelli modernism. Like Bauhaus and De Stijl and Art Deco have form and character but the ultimate conclusion that we have is formless and meaningless, says Violet. I’m not antimodernist but if postmodernism is a disease, I’m probably on my deathbed, I say.) I map my body as building and performance and architecture I map design on desert performs desert design
I synthesized disease into a complete form Synthesize disease desert vaporwave Desert wave complete Complete In/complete synthesizes rewatch I rewatch not familiar
I rewatch not familiar into complete form
I rewatch the dream and I make the oak sweat. I rewatch the dream and the maps perform the dream complete. A map performs as a map’s performance, a modernist dream. I make the oak sweat. I make the oak sweat dream violence. I dream rose violence obscures by even bloodier roses. Oak sweats bodies awful decay and I desert death order. I synthesize the disease into complete form. Oak spoons out my eye oblivion.
A map has to do with a performance / A map performs as a map’s performance
I rewatch a map and I rewatch the unfamiliar map I rewatch a map and the map, and not familiar I look up I map form character (Oak forms character. Character forms oak inside oak sweating. I sweat unfamiliar and my flesh ossifies into oak. I sweat oil and tar stick to oak tree and glass of water.) I rewatch design and I design desert in/complete
I’m not antimodernist but if postmodernism is a disease, I’m probably on my deathbed, I say. But you know my biggest literary influences were modernists for the most part. I admit design and industrial design and graphic design is something I’m filling the gaps in, I say. I’m thinking a lot about this and I’m designing a logo for a community college jazz band and what I need to design is very much rooted in modernism, says Violet. The community college is very much one of those city colleges with brutalist buildings and modernist fonts and all that, then we have a jazz band that plays a music genres very much rooted in the 20th century. When I was thinking about the Vignelli modern style I have as an option I was just thinking about how much he would hate that I’ve really boxed away his style into a little category that can fit into a few words which I feel like is very postmodernism. The failings of modernism is that it still is fundamentally contingent on modernism. If you take away modernism, you can’t have postmodernism, says Violet.
The modernists that influenced me: James Joyce, T.S. Eliot, William Carlos Williams, et al.
I design desert industrial design and graphic design I design desert map industrial revolution and graphic violence (Oak spoons out eye oblivion. Oak cuts eye oblivion. [Happy birthday Kryptonian – I give you oblivion.] Oak spoons out the obvious eye oak. Oak cooks eye violence graphic violence. Oak steams eyes ben body omelets or partial objects.) I design industrial iconography / graphic violence iconoclasm
I design the gap in the map I design a performing map in the gap: graphic violence violet
Industrial design imitates into the gore of mystery religions (Warning public safety notice. If you discover a dead body do not attempt to give medical assistance. Do not approach within five meters. Report incident immediately.)
Industrial design maps pulsating intestines onto the performance (They hunt. They kill. They follow the dark master – and never really die Living Thing)
A map has to do with a performance / I perform map map oak sweats body without organs A map performs in the void of the body
The exposed unpainted concrete of my body borders minimal dead industrial violence (My body exposes an enormous eye and eye appears in the sky. The bloody eye appears in the sky and plunges into the bottom of the sea. Eye devours all life in the sea and transfigures decorated dead into alien sea serpents. Alien sea serpents cycles innumerable multiplicities beneath eye waves.) The exposed unpainted brick of my body builds the modernist library
The map performs jazz and improvised performances
I think that’s the reason I don’t necessarily see a big disjunction between modernism and postmodernism, I say. I see it as one epoch. I’m not sure postmodernism is a failing anymore than Hegelianism is a failing or Marxism is a failing, but I would have to put more thoughts into articulating that. I wouldn’t say a failing but a blind spot, says Violet.
A map has to do with performance and I fail in performance I fail in mappings mapping mappings I map multiple failures (I write florid ornamented melismata, a legato line polyphony of polyphonies. My languages tumble forth without sources: too fast, too flickering in color, too jagged in outline, too prone to sudden stops and changes in course.) I fail to map continuously I perform dis/continuity mapped onto dis/continuity
I map scraped gapped god teeth I map teeth grammar and I perform partial bodies to the tune of polyphony of polyphonies psalms I map and I don’t necessary see the design disjunction but impact industry industrial islands I put more thought into articulating the map
A map has to do with a performance / A map performs as a map’s performance
The Materials Chosen
The materials chosen as one chooses shells walking on the beach
I only know material – that is, the materiality of texts. I collect texts material and the act of collecting creates performance art. Archive – whether library or catalogue or mixtape – interprets art and texts and is an art in itself. I adore the physicality of texts and the textuality of material. I live and prophesy material, and I inscribe material into my body and I transcribe my body into material. My body is always already physical text and textual archive.
The materials chosen manifest as art by the act of choosing Mass material moss material matterhorn sprawl Mass material moss material hatch holes enter exit bodies Enter exit body rose ram bramble gambit (I scribble along my body black pigment charcoal. I scribble along my body bundled charcoal: nervous charcoal nerve light. Body scribbles text onto and into body and body maps onto body mixed texts.) Material chosen maps onto my body Material alone a last a long browse body library Body browses library material derek bailey non-idiomatic improvisation My body scribbles material improvisation dark text in text
//
I embody material and text I embody material and I grieve through the bodily archive I choose material from the Exegesis of Philip K. Dick
The changing information which we experience as world is an unfolding narrative. It tells about the death of a woman. This woman, who died long ago, was one of the primordial twins. She as one half of the divine syzygy. The purpose of the narrative is a recollection of her and of her death. The Mind does not wish to forget her. Thus the ratiocination of the Brain consists of a permanent record of her existence, and if read, will be understood in this way. All the information processed by the Brain – experienced by us as the arranging and rearranging of physical objects – is an attempt at this preservation of her: stones and rocks and sticks and amoebae are traces of her. The record of her existence and passing is ordered onto the meanest level of reality by the suffering Mind which is now alone.
I arrange and rearrange the Book as an attempt to preserve the records and archive of Christina and Kindred (this preservation performs art and grieves through art). I arrange other into other the collection of material – materiality – textures. I arrange the Kindred archive and library other into other: I arrange other text and material memory into the collective repetition-collection. I remember the arrangement differently.
The changing information which we experience as world is an unfolding narrative – it tells about the death of a woman (BIRD LIVES / KINDRED LIVES) (I arrange the information and transform the world and onto BIRD LIVES / KINDRED LIVES)
I feel certain I wrote the same phrase the last time the Kindred endured the first unexpected sabbatical – I now repeat the material BIRD LIVES / KINDRED LIVES and in this chaos terrain magic and tehom spells the tiamat text of the Book. Book changes information and Book processes information – the arranging and rearranging of language – the text and material BIRD LIVES/ KINDRED LIVES.
I embody changing information and the information manifests material I embody the material library and the textual archive I embody the material library and the textual archive
//
The materials chosen as one chooses shells while walking on the beach I choose dark material – I choose the material of my body Darkly my body dark phoenix saga conjures magic material: I conjure myth and saga, and I too make the myth material (I make the myth library and archive)
I sing sagas and my flesh sagas fat-fueled fire I bird ben body spontaneous human combustion
Materials chosen / materials scribbled along my body get your kicks on route 66 Materials scribble body 66 unidentified flying objects Along my body get your kicks kick out the james jump motherfucker forked blues (Blue binary star stuck scar my body Boiler body biomass bastard scribbles Scriabin black mass and cicada scream insect sonatas)
I chose the material. One can think of using found objects and appropriation as a radical rescue of material from the cultural trash heap. I read an essay on Walter Benjamin and his ideas – the essay postulates that janitors and those who go through the trash heaps and refuse are a kind of messianic historian. They see the raw material and cultural material other people discard and redeem it and reveal it. They reveal a new kind of materialism in the refuse that opens the way to a radical community. I think the art too prophesies a kind of radical materialism. The artist uses material in a way to reclaim its simultaneous uselessness and usefulness. The art becomes a “Son of Man is the Lord of the Sabbath” – using principles antithetical to capitalism like rest, space, unproductivity – a different kind of creativity and anarchic community. One of kindness and compassion and the Kingdom of Heaven is within you. (Asia and Benjamin as pando friends stir a mystical creativity and an anarchic creativity. This creativity experiments rupture and rupture reveals the multiplicity of the rhizomic pando. We create multiple and rhizomic, material and messianic.)
The material chosen multiple and messianic The materials chosen as one chooses shells while watching on the beach Material closer multiple alphabets and messianic alphabets Body book balcony (an alphabet beneath the ground alphabet emerging from the work of hands) Write Asia Rainforest and steal the alphabet and invent alphabets anew ben bodies (open up your funky mind and your ass will follow the kingdom of heaven is within)
I choose material and I feel the funk blast bloated belly alphabet I walk along the beach beach let the salt water waters ben brackish waters Waters wave swerve wave shell materials: materials mix medicine medicine I feel the funk form flesh shadow figures fuck midnight fork morning
Alphabet scribbles along my body apocalypse quartet for the end of time Alphabet apocalypse embeds body and apocalypse / an alphabet and An alphabet and alphabet end body beach escalator
I choose the material messianic anew
It Is Scribbled Along The Body
It is scribbled along the body
I scribble along the body holy spirit (Holy Spirit scribbles proportions and harmony: in line with the law of proportional division of the chord, the matrix of all earthly phenomena unfolds as a network of coordinates, fractions, and multiples)
It is scribbled along the body and I scribble the body holy ghost Scribble flesh fractions invert factorial flesh / flesh unfurls chord multiples
I scribble along the body holy spirit I scribble along the body long body bad bad brains Scribble asemic scrawl brush blown body beach (long screech scrawl owl Taryn language long body Lilith Taryn) I scribble along the body crab canon riverbanks
Scribble scribbles something other. Scribble scrawls cave murals and cave magic, and my body comes alive in shamanic animals. My body alive draws spirit to spirit and I draw animals of my body. I draw my body animal animal other on walls and the scribbles fall large stones. Scribble scribbles stones and falls stones my body all stone. Animals carry my body all stones equally animal.
I have tried different planners before and none of them worked, says Asia. What did work was incomprehensible notes scribbled next to grocery lists, lecture notes, and drawings of snails, she says.
Incomprehensible notes scribbled only body work. I scribble the incomprehensible and the apophatic on my body: I sign the cipher King Felix in the shadow actions of my body. The incomprehensible works in the contradiction of bodies, and the scribbles of snails work in the mystery of bodies.
//
It is scribbled along the body of Christina
I feel unreal without Christina and I awake in this dream you see. I awake alone and I disappear: only desert remains. No ben, no Christina – only Book of Sand. I choose my body in the notes and scribbles and I scribble different futures with different versions of my death. I feel unreal without Christina but I continue to prophesy every possible dream awake and all desert remains. I prophesy my bodies as the unknown provenance of the Nag Hammadi Codex.
I struggle the writing and it all appears as scribbled and language abstract expressionism – it means anything, everything, nothing. I continue to struggle writing and I don’t know how to integrate other material (e.g. conversations with Asia) with the passion passages in the play of grief.
It is scribbled along the body of Christina.
//
I scribble along the body spirit Long beach scrawl scribbles Taryn screech owl and Taryn Lilith Taryn scratches my body esoteric sigils (sigil sign citadel / flesh fortress of solitude) Taryn spills sigil and signature the bone scribble of my asemic body My body broods cursive and sign blues (the sigil of my body leads to the rhizomic river)
I scribble my name on river and riverbed. Far away fires flare up red fox tails along the river. I walk the stream bed with a knife: I walk the stream bed swans and geese armed with bronze swords, and their feathers swing hot jazz. I adorn my nude body with bronze blades and bronze mirrors (It is proposed by some authors that the northern warrior tradition originated from hunting magic… Three animal cults appear: the bear, the wolf, and the wild boar...). I walk the wild riverrun rivers and animals jump up from the riverbed. I worship the animal Asia Rivers. I worship the animal Asia Rivers Riverrun Rainforests. I walk her river insect word and I scribble complete metamorphosis on my wings. I worship animal mother Asia Rhizome, and we trade giant weta in her seven waters.
Taryn scratches my body esoteric sigils and I sign my body nonsense (Toward tense present nonsense Tense tension Taryn instead of Christina nonsense) Tense Taryn scratches moonshine nonce monstrous moonshine Tense Taryn meteor myth and mathematics (Taryn tensor myth / how do I get unstuck from my paralyzing grief and write fluidly I prophesy fluid phantoms monstrous moonshine) Taryn scratches toaster oven ostinatos on my french fry body / Taryn bakes ben bodies and creepy crawlies I crawl dead mall millipedes by snail scribble shopping lists I crawl mall rat king sigils
It is scribbled along the body (I scribble the body and Taryn articulates a talking dog on television. The second articulation establishes functional, compact stable structures, and constructs the molar compounds.) I scribble on my body cadillac constructs constructs noise electronics
I try different planners and none of them work (I have break different crisps before and none of them worked. What did pink new incomprehensible notes next to grocery notes, dandelion notes and drawings of brooms.) What did work planners before as drawings of snails lectures lecture notes scribbled next to grocery lists, lecture notes scribbled next
It is scribbled along the body lecture notes scribbles next to grocery notes, lecture notes scribbled next
I scribble along the body holy spirit (I started to teach my daughter how to draw letters, says Asia. She drew good A’s so I took a picture to show my partner but circled the A’s she drew, so she started circling all her A’s. In the drawing I sent you is an A with a circle around it. It is a sigil, says Asia.)
I scribble across the body sigils and sigils circled holy spirit Taryn spills sigil and signature the bone scribble of my beach body Body beach babels desert kingdom (free your mind and your ass will follow the kingdom of heaven is within) I scribble along my body black bundle beach nerve light neon nervous
//
It scribbles along the body Christina
I listen to True Love Waits by Radiohead and I reminisce Christina:
I’ll drown my beliefs to have your babies I’ll dress like your niece and wash your swollen feet Just don’t leave don’t leave I’m not living I’m just killing time Your tiny hands your crazy kitten smile Just don’t leave don’t leave And true love waits in haunted attics And true love lives on lollipops and crisps
Christina left but but the Kindred lives in haunted attics. Kindred grows impoverished on lollipops and crisps. I live in haunted attics (I wrote a prose poem in college about haunting Christina’s attic. I should find the poem and rewrite it). I always haunted her attic / I was a prisoner inside her skull.
I write with or without Christina but she always haunts my attic – she spelunks holy spirit skulls. She spelunks my body scribbled holy spirit. She sketches my skull skinned hauntological or body horror happening. (What would my performance art body horror look like? What would my scribbled memorial to Christina look like expressed as body horror and slasher movies? A videodrome monolith vision stirring moonlight.)
I witness to my life with Christina and without Christina. I fume and despair: I dedicated the Book of the past few years writing my friendship with Asia, and Christina appeared less and less in the Book. Ironic how Christina’s absence utterly interrupts and corrupts the Book, and I fixate on her absence. Christina’s absence and the death of the Kindred strangles the writing and dislocates the hip of the Book. Her haunted but absent absence seizes my brain and I slag slate sleets of sound nonsense to create any writing at all. I ponder if I write more about Asia and I, I could write more fluidly, more often, with greater continuity – but how could I ignore the dolorous wound and Christina waste land left in the void of her love. My true love waits for her eating lollipops and crisps.
It scribbles along the body of Christina
//
I hack the stream with sharpened insects I scribble with mutant knives / mutant knives knit gnarled bodies Gnarled bodies swim scribbled insects (ben bodies between ben bodies book roses)
It is scribbled along the body (ben body between ben body book roses)
I Scrape The Past Language
I scrape the past language to reveal language scroll present future
I scrape past language already present in future language and languages scroll duration without units
I scrape the past language and underneath, originary future language / I speak this language scroll within scroll
I scrape the past or of the language last scroll I scrape page stone tape inkstone (page scrapes last in language streetlight palimpsest) I scrape page stone palimpsest language language heteroglossia (page scrapes language subterranean and language submersible)
Scraped language cuts language present future and my soul spills out blue. My soul spills death-in-language and language-as-virus. Language scrapes my soul time iconoclasm and I speak undeciphered writing. Undeciphered writing inscribes my soul layer and layer and layer, archaeology Christmas lights. Language scrapes language perpetually and I travel transmigration of souls through the palimpsest.
I scrape the past iron iconoclasm language and language stone burns screwdriver subdivisions Divide Divide count subdivision desert sacrifice I sacrifice stone Stone store language I sacrifice stone fist fight sporadic stone fire (I superimpose fire on other fire: I superimpose fire on other light.)
//
I scrape the language doppelganger Language doubles my body textual clusters and text chaos
Fuck texts. Fuck texts and I feel fucked. I feel fucked friction friction faction fragment (my life lives in metafiction and true crime novels). Fuck texts and I work in fragments. Now I work with fragments – with shiver shiv sharks.
I sharpen the fragment Sharpen with when with With here or her With here hell shutter (I share shed shutters here her: her not here hell)
I factor text polynomials Text share similar / congruent blood clots
Fuck texts. Texts turtle in my skull and trace bad taste (texts trace bad taste salted with thunder disintegrations). Texts trace long language living in my body. Long language lives in my long bone absurd language: language languishes forest. I languish long language along (wind was from my grief – absurd dumb octopus grief – comic sand dollar grief).
Fuck texts and I feel fucked. Letters light the tones of the text totentanz. I extend text stone death (soda straw stress nonsense). I grieve in comic fragments and I prophesy poorly and write bad writing. I write badly (write anyway – copy anyway – grieve mess whale shark shiver anyway – fuck the text anyway).
I scrape the language doppelganger Language fucks language palindrome doubles
//
I scrape the page language to reveal the language scroll present future
I superimpose fire language on other light language (I translate fire to fire and forest to forest: my body layered in Christmas lights) I translate fire language to Fire Book and forest language to Forest Book: my body Christmas light threshold My body blood blood gather blood Body blood gather stone blood water Christmas lights on dog roses
My body mines fires: my body mines fiery language past present and present future. Body mines forest fires on fires and body mines body on fires in forests. Fires mine bodies known in language and inscribes an unknown language. My body mines unknown languages in the fire. My body mines in time timeless fires and impossible timeless languages (language change is inevitable). Language bodies transform through language forests and body fires.
My body mine dog roses that’s how they open / my body open strip mine mixture microprocessors Body processes language processors and language presses pause stone stick (language stones throw stick and ball sports)
That’s how they open they float That’s how they open they float stone
I sent you this thing on TikTok about how neurodivergent people show care, I say. Like infodumping and "parallel play" (like doing the same thing separately – like how we used to write minute poems and journal separately together) and sharing daily life stuff and I sent you that TikTok because we do that a lot in our friendship. I’ll have to watch it, says Asia. With either of us, I say, if we got on a topic we are really passionate about – I think of you and hurricanes, or me and Chrono Trigger even (which involves aspects of "parallel play") – we do love our infodumps and not only that but the other person enjoys hearing about them. I appreciate that about our friendship. I also appreciate that, says Asia. Anyone who doesn’t let me infodump about random stuff isn’t worth having around. My partner will sometimes unknowingly get me started and she will be like “No no no” and I’m like “Sit down and listen bitch.” Specifically about fashion history. The first time she didn’t mind. The second time was a rhetorical question about how people wore big skirts and dresses without getting hot. Then I started ranting about synthetic fiber, says Asia. That definitely sounds like you, I say. A couple months ago, I wrote an old conversation about you and fashion and you telling me about your fiance about fashion too. Times haven’t changed. I know I’m opening up a can of worms here, but what about synthetic fabrics were you ranting about? So my partner has an old fashioned skirt but it’s made of polyester, says Asia. I was talking about how people back then wouldn’t have had synthetic fabrics and they had undergarments made of cotton or linen that would keep them cool and keep the outer garments clean, says Asia.
I scrape past language inscribes stone language stone present future
I scrape a old fashion a topic we used to write The first times unknown
I scrape language stone like infodumps I’m like “No no no”
That’s how they open they float That’s how they open they float stone They float open stone human (With yellow of up, if we dig up a topic, we are really passionate That’s how they open which involves aspect of parallel play)
//
I scrape the language doppelganger Language doubles my body without duration / time crystals
Crystalline Christina codes the cipher KING FELIX. Christina collages crystals and codes, and the ciphers multiply KING FELIX (and inside King Felix, Kindred). Ciphers and codes crystallize strange texts and I assemble fuck texts: I assemble fuck a foxtrot for orchestra. Christina crystallizes crystals dancing the fox trot. Cylindrical Christina calibrates coffin crystals and she cultivates in congressman bodies.
I scrape the language doppelganger Language inscribes ben body burns congress conflagration
Language doubles repeat text on fire Repeat double text on fire / word will o’ the wisp Whip repeat text fires
I scrape the language two or three crystals / crystals double time and triple time language
Language skips ciphers and inscribes Christmas light crystals into the fuck text / fuck the body fox trot
//
I scrape past language embedded in future language
That’s how languages open they float That’s how languages open they float stone They float open stone human flesh flat cave Caves float coffin flat dog roses / up from the grave he arose He arose dog roses dog star stretto: standing eight count I count float flat stone fire and round fire roses
I scrape past language across my body floating Body floats past and present stones
Bright Stones Scratch Towards Death
Content Warning: Discussion of suicide and suicidal ideation
Bright stones pass bright white the light bringers I bring light bone bright bleach bleach screech book white screech book bank river bank
Bright stones pass bright white the light: bright stones search white the light: bright stones search spontaneous light Stones pass subterranean light spontaneous addition stones add stones pass light (she lights the lights bright stones)
I drop my body as a stone. I drop my body stones and the stones open eyes. My eyes eject jet fumes and insect fumigation. Eye fumigates stone insects and the stones clash folk punk cassette loops. Stones loop no wave funk James Chance and the Contortionists. Stones strike stones contorted cassette tapes and I jam contrabassoon bodies.
I drop my body stone tape and tape melts into magnetic magma: from magma emerges Tetractyls Tetragrammaton
Bright stones pass bright white the light bringers I bring bright I bring bright bright light illumination I bring light minimal bright light height Light brings buzzing stones (bright stones search spontaneous light subtraction-addition Bright stones stick light laugh lamb search light)
(I drop my body stone and bright stones search spontaneous light. Bright stones stick to my body spontaneous radiation.)
//
The light bringers buzz my body mourning morning mourning
I look at the mourning language and its languages something between. I mourn between winnow lines and lure lines longer mourning (I will mourn Christina for the rest of my life). I look at Christina void and Christina looks volume visions. Void Christian mourns at void vaudeville and I live absurd light. Christina a cartoon or comic strip strips desert erotic dancing.
I feel myself shorter fragments: sections spilling into sections cellar door mourning (I fear the fragment but fragments crowd the coastline of my skull) I mourn moss fragments dead mall / dead mall fragments mixed multitudes Dead mall repeats dead mall wake minimal mass minimal mourn mathematics mass spring fragment mathematics I mix mourning with music, mathematics, and mythologies (this repeating math of Kindred, of Christina Christianity messes)
I look at the ocean void mourning. I look at the ocean void grief intense grieving (my grief becomes an excuse to explore grief and experiment grief: my grief becomes an opportunity for transformation). My grief feels like a deprivation of material and I need to use what little material I have and explore at its possibilities and use everything. I use my material to creative exhaustion can impossible exhaustion.
(I watch a YouTube video from Jazz In American, and it features performances and interviews from the band Snarky Puppy. Band leader and bassist Michael League states he wants to use as little material as possible to create and immersive compositions.)
I grieve and the light bringers buzz my body mourning morning transforming mourning
//
Bright stones pass bright white light bringers
Bright stone stick light lamb of god who takes away the sins of the world Stories search searchlight streetlight switchboard stethoscope (I listen to the stones and they beat stone tape arrhythmia) Streetlights scorch streetscapes scrape stitch board bog bodies (I switch from body to body bog blow bog)
Stone streetscrapes a streetcar named desire (Well they’re going to the country, they’re gonna retire, they’re taking a street car named desire Looking at the window at the pecan pie lots of things they’d like they would never buy)
Bright stones pass bright white light bringers / jazz messengers
I bring birds. I bring stone birds and birds fly minimal material. Bird minimal material hold stones and glycogen bodies. I bring bird bodies and their wings embody Books. I bring birds embedded in the bone of the Book and white stones light the background. Birds drop stones on my skull.
Bright stones bring bird lights bamboo stone Stone burn light bamboo body bagatelle tor tetragrammaton / tor taryn tunic stone steppe
I scrape the past sleek the language last scroll / I scrape scroll lull light palimpsest I scrape page park stone submersible book bull subterranean (Store burns screwdriver subdivisions – subdivisions sacrifice desert hyenas – I fist fight sporadic stone fire)
//
Bright stones scratch desert towards death: from death, stone light
I study suicides. I miss Christina and I study suicides, not because I will die but closer to what Nietzsche wrote: The thought of suicide has proved a comfort for many to survive the night (a terrible paraphrase – Ben, look at the actual quote) (The thought of suicide is a great consolation by means of it one gets successfully through many a bad night). I study suicides in geometric configurations and I miss Christina. I study I miss Christina in different geometric arrangements and I wake room for all my suicides. I study my suicides in different geometries and different gods. I open my guts grainy photographs (In the beginning of photography I used to make very grainy things. I’d be fascinated by what the grain did because it would make a kind of tapestry of all these little dots… But when I’d been working for awhile with all these dots, I suddenly wanted to see the real differences between things… I began to get terribly hyped on clarity…). I dot the pages of the Book with the grain gods: barely and wheat and corn commingles in dotted leaves or sheaves. I dot the pages of the Book with rolls of my grainy body in bulwark death / bullhorn death. Dots arrange death in the desert, death details detailing Kindred death always an ending. I dot direct suicide an an incessant suicide brat summer.
Bright stones scratch desert polka dot death and bending dot death
I photograph ben bodies book geometries: I photograph assorted suicides I miss Christina I miss Christina dot canvas disintegration / disintegrations pulverize pointillism death voyeurs (grainy visions sneak peeping tom thomasine gospels)
(I go up and down a lot. Maybe I’ve been like that. Partly what happens through I’d get filled with energy and joy and I begin a lot of things and think about what I want to do and get all breathless with excitement and then quite suddenly either through tiredness or a disappointment or something more mysterious the energy vanishes, leaving me harassed, swamped, distraught, frightened by the very things I thought I was so eager for!)
I work and write endlessly towards death – my own death – several suicides last supper suicides (She wrote the words “Last Supper” in her diary and placed her appointment book on the stairs leading up to the bathroom) I work and write towards my many deaths, each chord in a slowly rotating circle (rotating circles circular rosaries / I pray rosary bead for every suicide, summa circles of hell)
Bright stones scratch desert desert towards death many deaths (October 29 How strange: her voice which I knew so well and which is said to be the very texture…) My writing fails to capture any of this fragmentary grief gulf no… I must give myself permission to record this nonsense and absurdity, the voice textures touching idioglossia… None of this makes sense – this is not how I’d write the Kindred movie and in the movie we would have survived…
Bright stones scratch nonsense and death idioglossia glosses and glisses in the desert
//
Bright stones pass bright white light bringers I scrape the past future language language last lull light palimpsest I scrape stone palimpsest pulse stones submersible I scrape stone fires and I superimpose fire on other light I superimpose sporadic stone fire on fiery palimpsest I translate fire to fire and forest to forest: my stone body
Bright stones bring my body blood in blood gather blue stones bring body blood gather stone blood water dug roses
Bright stones pass bright light light bringers Light brings stone scratched in the fiery desert
I Have Cut The Cut
I have cut bamboo: I have cut book bone steel bar
I have cut the cut and the cut first begins the cut. I cut the cut that which is in locomotion must arrive at a half-way stage before it arrives at the goal. The first begins the cut and if everything that exists has a place, place too will have a place, and so on ad infinitum.
I have cut bamboo and the Moon Woman cuts the circle
I have cut bamboo and ben bodies grow grass apocalypses Ben bodies book apocalypses incisor cut inside cut (Book and Body always begin the cut of the cut) I cut bamboo ben bodies culture jam Jam in C Cut culture jam Jam in C bodies in circulation (bodies improvise circuits and circulations)
Ben bodies book apocalypse Ben bodies culture jam hacked jet packs (jet packs clash into megayachts hacked Yahweh)
Bodies hack jet packs and my eyes eject fumes and insect frustration My mouth foams fragments – this fragment body and this fragment animal grass gulf salt (They hired men with scythes so sharp to cut him off at the knees, bound him above the waist, and served him most barbarously) My bodies insert itself into the cut jackhammer jetpacks (my face hacks my face secondary to the cut and I cut my flesh mercilessly)
I have cut bamboo: I have cut book bone steel bar I cut cant canvas language carnal coffin cask bone I cut cant cane cane can car cross bamboo bamboo bicycle black iron prison (I lean my bamboo body against the body chain itself a bamboo wall. My bamboo body stands on the bamboo floor and I stare at the bamboo sky.)
I cut cant cane secret language cars private language. I construct a private language that contaminates the public language through ciphers and secret sigils. I cut to and through language sigil stiletto and cipher dagger (to the dagger of the language maps into and onto the dagger of the desert). I construct the cut close to my body and my language, and language liquefies into lake cut and clean cut.
(He doesn’t bother with transitions. While he and his musicians create every sudden textural shift themselves, without technological assistance, his guides are the splice, the jump cut, the video edit – not to mention the jack-in-the-box and its more its more sinister relatives in fun house and horror movies. In his music, coherence is barely more than propinquity; one sound or style simply doesn’t predict the next.)
//
The splice the jump cut the video edit
Asia, I love you unconditionally and you unconditionally love me. We are pando best friends. We create and prophesy together. (Art is human, Ben, says Asia. You have to embrace it. There’s going to be ugly bits. You can’t separate from the messiness of being human.)
I jump cut to the ugly bits: I splice into the Book (body Book bamboo Book hijack hacked Book) the messianic of human and human one.
I struggle with my mess and human. I wrestle with love: sometimes love with others but most often for myself. I love the things I do: I create, I write, I prophesy, but if I do not do, I have difficulty loving myself. I only love myself in my doing and not in being. Valuing what I do in exclusion in my existence and living cannot be sustained nor it healthy. I work to love both my doing and being, both myself in present as well as past and future. I learn to embrace my mess and total human.
I copy one of my favorite Christina emails, dated 04/05/20__ (Almost 21 years ago), a response to an email I wrote called “idealism, replaced by necessity.”
When contemplating these things I realize you understand more than I give you credit for. I think in my mind I like to see things in my own light, a selfish light where I am in the center of the universe (or at least P____), and I have to be on top of things and I have to be the one who knows everything. I’m not the center of anything, even of you – you have things in the right perspective. I think we’ve both used the idea of idealism, the idealism we’ve created for ourselves. But you’ve outgrown it. I’ve outgrown it too, and you’re right. It’s a good thing. But I didn’t realize it about you until now. Ben, you’re not dependent on me, and it hurts a little because of my ego which feeds on the most obscure things, but when I look at it with a pure mind, I realize this is much better – that us separate makes us better together. I really love you, Ben. You’re my best friend. I’m glad we’ve come to this point, and I’m glad because when I read your email I was completely assured that we’ll be best friends forever. Because we have to be. We have to help each other because I am not the strong one – we are both weak, and we are both stronger together. So you’re right again, we have to help each other and I have to work on not being the center of things, which is a good thing. I’m glad you’re my friend and I hope I make you happy too…
Christina feels like the center of my universe and I orbit around her absence. I orbit her black hole no light escapes and her absence mimics god’s absences. Jack Kerouac said: Accept loss forever. Accept loss of Kindred forever. Christina’s proclamations of being best friends forever reek of dramatic irony and intense melancholy. However she wrote truth because I am now stronger apart. I continue to live without her and probably will continue doing so…
Roland Barthes wrote in his October 30 entry of Mourning Diary: … that this death fails to destroy me altogether means that I want to live wildly, madly, and that therefore the fear of my own death is always there, not distanced by a single inch…
And in the October 29 note: a stupefying, though not distressing notion – that she had not been “everything” for me. If she had, I wouldn’t had written my work…
I continue to work without Christina. I write wildly and I prophesy madly and Christina keeps cool always-already death towards death. I work without Christina and I prophesy without god and without Christina. I prophesy without god and without Christina wildly and madly.
You can’t separate art from the messiness of being human, says Asia.
I don’t bother with transitions – the splice the jump cut, the video edit With transition more and shift musicians in both: his horror jumps prophesy wildly and madly
//
I have cut bamboo: I have cut book bone steel bar
I cut into the cut: cut parking lot latch hatch hat body black bark Cut black bark body blade oxbow Cut bow birch bark charcoal charcoal clockwork random walk rhizome (I mourn a mourning desiring-machine meander / occult oxbow ore origami I mourn origami syntax syntax stabs ostinato I mourn Christina oxbow ground bass bunker or battalion) I cut into the cut black blade oxbow
I have cut bamboo. I cut and I cut my body cadaver. I cut cadaver and my body cantilever, and I hang bodies horizontal. I cut horizontal and horizon. I have cut bamboo and its grass grows bright stones. Bright stones themselves cut my body into horizontal slices and stone cuts stone.
Every sudden textures shift the next with transitions (transition transforms transition transformations) While he and its more simply doesn’t predict the next
I have cut bamboo: I have cut book bone steel bar
I Have Cut Book Bamboo
I fall into the well awake or want work what / I have cut Book bamboo
I fall into the well awake and want work what what work worm who What works who winter wings (I wing lancet. I lancet wing two cent pieces sword breaker. Sword breaks bread with wings and the bread flies what.) I fall into well awake and I direct sword to night desert night
(Night new no nightmare. Night brass knuckles narrow natrium. Night natural saline holy spirit speculum.)
(Speculum that doesn’t sine shines night the very night)
(The night is on my mind The sun’ll still shine But now the night is on my mind)
I fall into the well awake and I direct sword to night desert night Night desert snow slow row
//
I have cut Book bamboo
I have cut Book bamboo, the large leaves of grass of Christina’s body. Christina keeps watch and bends the tall grasses. Christina keeps watch over night sword and cave word. Christina watches the word cut cave desert wyrd.
I sleep with ghosts. She cuts the bamboo word and I sleep with ghosts. Ghosts sleep living room crickets. I sleep with ghosts living room locusts and their wings project haunted castle Christina. Locusts project haunted cattle longhorn languages. Haunted cattle mourn hot hostages and hot hostage pantyhose theater. I sleep with ghosts imaginary pantyhose (pantyhose haunted piñatas).
I have cut Book bamboo
//
I fall into the well awake and I direct sword to night desert Sword sweeps ship wreck snow: snow snow reveals anus is night Now night knocks strange body stars (My face complex builds night. My face spirals and nautilus shell fractals repeat night. Night complicates by my face surfaces surface night. My face surfaces night of a rose and the rose of circular ruins.)
Night now knocks strange body stars Stars stick canned guts body undermining umbrella (Ben body face night whooping crane Ben body crane night cataclysms ben body Body cataract eye music museum cataclysm) Nude night knocks nude body nude stars Stars direct sword to night desert and in desert mummified guts Under night now nest bulletproof veil full proof moonshine night
I fall into the well awake or want work what / I have cut Book Bamboo
I cut into the body of the Book: I cut raw interior interiors of the Book or pen. I cut quick into the Book – quick, quicker this what. I fall into the cut of the Book. I fall into the open well of the Book, itself a night and itself a body: Book radically body and sometimes the only body (This body holding me reminding me that I’m not alone). I fall into into to the what and the what weirds my body.
I have cut Book bamboo: I have cut Book bone steel bar I cut cant carnal language canal coffin collarbone (I cut can’t cane cane car cross car bamboo bamboo bicycle black iron prison)
//
I have cut Book bamboo and Black Iron Prison pours out The Exegesis of Philip K. Dick and his novel VALIS prophesy Christina and the Kindred:
The changing information which we experience as world is an unfolding narrative. It tells about his death of a woman. This woman, who died long ago, was one of the primordial twins. She was one half of the divine syzygy. The purpose of the narrative is the recollection of her and of her death. The Mind does not wish to forget her. Thus the ratiocination of the Brain consists of a permanent record of her existence, and if read, will be understood this way. All the information processed by the Brain – experienced by us as the arranging and rearranging of physical objects – is an attempt at this preservation of her; stones and rocks and sticks and amoebae are traces of her. The record of her existence and passing is ordered onto the meanest level of reality by the suffering Mind which is now alone…
The novel VALIS goes on to say: If in reading this, you cannot see that Fat is writing about himself, you understand nothing [Horselover Fat – author surrogate sometimes identical and sometimes not-identical to Philip K. Dick]
I copy this passage because I too am a suffering Mind experiencing loss – loss of her, Christina my primordial twin and the other half of my divine syzygy. I miss Christina. Although she lives, I imagine if I die I will end up in the same absence she exists in for me now. I want to meet her absence with my absence, and the imaginary absence would combine and arrange-rearrange the information we perceive as the world. Our absences combine absurd and useless and impossible, and the existence and nonexistence proves equally absurd.
I copy this passage as changing information and Christina Coltrane Changes. I copy changing passage and changing passion the pursuing absence of Christina (The changing information always constructs the narrative and myth revelation Christina and revelation Kindred).
I copy the myth of the woman: Christina and Christina and Christina sleeping with ghosts. I recall Christina and I do not wish to forget her.
I have cut the Book bamboo and Christina grows the Palm Tree Garden within Black Iron Prison
//
I have cut the Book bamboo and I grow bamboo black iron prison I keep the cut and although I cut, the cut keeps the cut (I want your opinion or something, I say to Asia. You know my Book mixes both experimental types of writing but also our conversations as well and metacommentary about the direction of the Book. Do you find the conversations embarrassing or non-literary? I say. How can a conversation be non-literary? says Asia. Today I was copying this long message I sent you several months ago, I say. It was me struggling with my doubts in our friendship but coming to the realization that despite my doubts and anxiety, our actions continue to show unconditional love in our friendship. I made a note to myself to leave it in the Book but cut it out from the blog post. I felt it was embarrassing to express open doubt publicly and that me talking about unconditional love and doubt and action didn’t make for beautiful prose. I guess what I mean by nonliterary I mean open, exposed, no metaphor or flowery language, I say. Wow, OK, says Asia. Art is human, Ben. You have to embrace it. There’s going to be ugly bits. You can’t separate art from the messiness of being human, says Asia.)
I fall into the well awake or want work what (I have cut Book bamboo)
Vision and Mysticism 