I had a dream once where I picked up the thigh bone of a deer & rubbed it into the palm of my hand-so that my hand was like a socket. I knew this was where she felt the tingling urge to run I could feel the echo of it in that sense dream. The urge to flight resided in that dry bone, lived there in the fit of it. We are creatures of flesh shaped by chemistry & physics & joy & desire. What ravages us? The force of denial, interruption, indulgence or transcendence hones us. We live in vessels that are brittle fragile resonate resilient- it just depends on the angle of the blow really. We know intuitively that we are that we live inside our flesh-call it mind or soul or consciousness but where? This self is always shifting location in the body & in the frailties of memory. The relentlessness of time leaves us sure that this moment is the authentic one & the past, well, it's us & a stranger too.

So I have these little vignettes. They are nostalgic dirty & spun between the pseudo specificity of the science book & the translation into metaphor- reconfigured on a flat plane like text but dirtier. They are stuttered open, spread out like a story like a joke where you can only remember the sense of the punchline & it is not quite right. You wonder hey is that mine? What you just told me, is it mine? Is the moment of hearing- telling-showing-remembering mine?

We are creatures of damage. We are creatures of radiance. We think we're so smart.