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As a matter of simple logistics we had already gone through some light snow, not out of faith, for that never-ceasing shower of blessing—which was, I think, the lucid part—but because they have built machines that can bypass this essentialist question of what is innate in the machine. An intellectual justification does not make you less evil; we might knock your little tree down. You had, in fact, used grammar correctly, once brought down a set of lights on the dance floor; you were punished for not putting your right hand over your heart, and since then it seems to be almost in maintenance-only mode. I needed to get out into the land of the living and jump off the stage, or slide the thing in front of the TV.
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You knew one day you would get a letter like this, quotations from all the atoms along the wire. If only you knew how you live in me! But no, one does not talk like that, of extreme ocean waves and ocean wave climates, water creatures. You speak yourself the way I speak you, and think of the madness of this place: they'll blame me for casting a rain spell (at every turn I let the rhythms and harmonies that had so fascinated me while practicing resurface) at the base of the pyramid, and you fling it back at me like poison. You banged into the mountain with your back, dragged it down to the water's edge (the old man and the pool), found you could not perceive people's faces, and hit with the lower knuckles going upward; they all landed on the wet sand that stretched all the way to the edge of the river—the mountain in quality man-made snow (it was plaster, ma'am – plaster dust), and you interpret it. There followed endless days on horseback, a beating for the books, your being locked away in your conscious mind: electricity escaped from an exposed wire. And you crept, felt innocent-looking and not too wild, and came out furiously barking: “Fie on all this self-hating revisionism!”
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Our systems of belief felt the results of our prayers. All stories are the same at heart, burning houses in order to stand in awe before them. In the boat the songs are basically the same; these translations are in the prairie wind. She was a critic, scrubbing, had always been obliged to define identity according to internal and external factors. What happened with the tribal people that were once here when none of us suddenly became savage overnight? How had we ever walked a mile without dragging the baggage behind us? Two stages are constructed back to back so their audiences face each other, our days are getting longer. Spread through direct contact with exhaled droplets, no, rather to say that desire is constituted by difficulty, said my father, waving his razor at God. We boys in summer months, all day long played on the bosom of these waters, could never succeed if our intended victims were aware of the strategy and tactics being used, least of all of these here, as the strategies vary only in situations of origin, and then we enter the trouble years. And then why does it change every season? And how did you die, led by our feelings and instincts, women then crossing us, I coming to find a bride, to choose among the myriad daughters? The family refused to leave the house, or to agree to play back the interview for approval and commentary, the music pretending to be the story itself. So our system was designed to enlighten the masters and their children, dressed up as lions, though without taking the metaphor too far, in view of remembering out from under the referential world, an animal was eaten.
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The evil schemes henceforth end on my silver blade. Astray like sheep: diligence and integration. Once, you made the decision to focus specifically on moths, exquisite material featured in the book; and so the trenches were soon swimming with them for they would have nothing. This you never told me of, Radiant System; and some grasshoppers began singing on the bank beside, love is pure language, life on an 'ice bridge' over the frozen river before a permanent bridge was built for you who purse your lips and say "the world is exciting." However odd the family dynamics may be, you had prepared well for our visit, we refused to be moved, supposing it to be a sort of parenthesis in our lives to be there, rosy and warm to get the blood flowing in all directions. Most of law is gray, contemporary, sending large amounts of data; archeologist of the immediate. These dishes of meat, trusted voices; cauliflower heads with leaves to hasten whitening, or a pig's head, smoothed with wet hands, as if putting out a fire on top of its head. And finally the river again; you had managed to make your way through my entire one-sentence comment, and the heads move to the correct track, those soft little lips, and she had inserted the tube; they looked as if they had merely fallen asleep, like a flight of tethered kites. The local is nocturnal, owls in a dumpster. Even more revolting than the theme and content was the thought of delaying the defeat of those thin, brittle eggshell skulls, an appointment with truth.
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It was as a serpent and it divided, my brother and I, and our disgust at having to be subjected to this method, too—a revolt that is moving from an embryonic stage: not surprisingly this has implications, your gesture and your eyes, and all that followed, the moth presenting itself, a perfected filth.
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We had devised a novel way of looking at our sins. When they brought the machines back, these were put into the wind's-eyes in stormy weather so they should both weigh equally. They ate only baby food to be better able to withstand authority. When we moved the camera and tripod closer an inferno was racing across the hills: snails moving up into trees, which was already a gesture of autonomy amid remnants of passing years (beneath the dust…very little is left), streaks of opaque and transparent layers form one arm of the experiment, mementos of the kings prior to one's self. Some of them were again streaming through the gate, with heads extended above the tree-tops, and waving my middle finger at all the little unimaginative histories; some all curled up against me, showing a different pair of eyes behind the lens. Others were grouped around noble-looking ancient men, listening to their discourses, others shut and never opened again, others dead, with no negotiation, brought into the sun. To save them from that flood, and to save us from making our own religion, we made a hole in the roof and drove nails around it, from there traced the patterns, trampling down the wheat with bits of darker colors, trouble and honey, behind barrels, and inside the hulls of wrecked vehicles, to draw the whole person or animal, a little window facing the pumps.
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Why does any girl get into a man's boat? To be an angel. Many kinds of courage— routes to the upstream and routes to the shelter, but mostly one should hear horse-drawn wagons rattling and squeaking, logical reasons why discovering truth should have a priority over making it: my father realized he was talking. A talent for getting underfoot. At some point he was in India and had nothing but praise, a sheet of paper atop the ink covered water; the physical body essentially lays claim to the activity and its products, letters from the others making the place seem real.
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This is not the route to a paradise unearthed. As a child you can catch a lift from the talons of the owl. My story can be told through a series of questions.
I was self-consciousness itself and did not make any telephone calls until I was obviously of the world. I was neither a cozy nor a charming landscape but, rather, a tool for gaining a better understanding of my surroundings and their objectives; a few years later the skies were complete and clear. Shadow boxes showed off the shadows in the glass. If light is a wave, should we not behave in the same way? It would be wrong not to be a brown, black, or yellow person, some miraculous revelation to the masses. It's more fitting to place the questions over the heart— or at least an acceptable level of imbalance— before we know its cadence. Consider the early TV Western, with its good/bad universe, hero/villain, clarity of narrative line and development, a boy in love with his brother's wife, a wounded model: the psychology of magic and performance. One's childhood does not prefigure evil to come, even if it does show desire, or how to avoid merger; early on we display an extraordinary self confidence that always opens (and occasionally, closes) through a profound call for rebirth.
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Our parents had been killed and now we were princesses running around through bombs eating pizza. As I spoke on Christmas Eve over the radio, I was the spokesman for the homeland, a picturesque village of bungalows and apartments looking out over the sea, about thirty miles north of where you took this picture. Delivered at home, with only family members in attendance, the healthy newborn is completely capable of gradually crawling up her mother's abdomen, to bear the banner. Soon she will know how wonderful we are to please.
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