A Panpsychist's dream

"Away from the immense, cloistered in our own concepts, we may scorn and revile everything. 

But standing between earth and sky, we are silenced by the sight. . . "

Song cover // Thomas Lamb, Saatchi Art. 

Song cover // Hu Jundi, Chinese (b. 1962), "The Story of a Girl and a Crane"

(hammockmusic)

“no help for that” by Charles Bukowski, from You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense, 1986.

there is a place in the heart that will never be filled

a space

and even during the best moments and the greatest times

we will know it

we will know it more than ever

there is a place in the heart that will never be filled and

we will wait and wait

Citizen: “Some years there exists a wanting to escape...”

BY CLAUDIA RANKINE

Some years there exists a wanting to escape—

you, floating above your certain ache—  

still the ache coexists.

Call that the immanent you—

You are you even before you

grow into understanding you

are not anyone, worthless,

not worth you.

Even as your own weight insists

you are here, fighting off

the weight of nonexistence.

And still this life parts your lids, you see

you seeing your extending hand

as a falling wave—

/

I they he she we you turn

only to discover

the encounter

to be alien to this place.

Wait.

The patience is in the living. Time opens out to you.

The opening, between you and you, occupied,

zoned for an encounter,

given the histories of you and you—

And always, who is this you?

The start of you, each day,

a presence already—

Hey you—

/

Slipping down burying the you buried within. You are

everywhere and you are nowhere in the day.

The outside comes in—

Then you, hey you—

Overheard in the moonlight.

Overcome in the moonlight.

Soon you are sitting around, publicly listening, when you

hear this—what happens to you doesn't belong to you,

only half concerns you He is speaking of the legionnaires

in Claire Denis's film Beau Travail and you are pulled back

into the body of you receiving the nothing gaze—

The world out there insisting on this only half concerns

you. What happens to you doesn't belong to you, only half

concerns you. It's not yours. Not yours only.

/

And still a world begins its furious erasure—

Who do you think you are, saying I to me?

You nothing.

You nobody.

You.

A body in the world drowns in it—

Hey you—

All our fevered history won't instill insight,

won't turn a body conscious,

won't make that look

in the eyes say yes, though there is nothing

to solve

even as each moment is an answer.

/

Don't say I if it means so little,

holds the little forming no one.

You are not sick, you are injured—

you ache for the rest of life.

How to care for the injured body,

the kind of body that can't hold

the content it is living?

And where is the safest place when that place

must be someplace other than in the body?

Even now your voice entangles this mouth

whose words are here as pulse, strumming

shut out, shut in, shut up—

You cannot say—

A body translates its you—

you there, hey you

/

even as it loses the location of its mouth.

When you lay your body in the body

entered as if skin and bone were public places,

when you lay your body in the body

entered as if you're the ground you walk on,

you know no memory should live

in these memories

becoming the body of you.

You slow all existence down with your call

detectable only as sky. The night's yawn

absorbs you as you lie down at the wrong angle

to the sun ready already to let go of your hand.

Wait with me

though the waiting, wait up,

might take until nothing whatsoever was done.

/

To be left, not alone, the only wish—

to call you out, to call out you.

Who shouted, you? You

shouted you, you the murmur in the air, you sometimessounding like you, you sometimes saying you,

go nowhere,

be no one but you first—

Nobody notices, only you've known,

you're not sick, not crazy,

not angry, not sad—

It's just this, you're injured.

/

Everything shaded everything darkened everything

shadowed

is the stripped is the struck—

is the trace

is the aftertaste.

I they he she we you were too concluded yesterday to

know whatever was done could also be done, was also

done, was never done—

The worst injury is feeling you don't belong so much

bandcamp

“I just don’t feel you’re trying hard enough,” one friend says to me. How can I tell her that not trying has become the whole point, the whole plan? 

(Lucy Claire)

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