day 21: someone else’s words

“The plural body…Which body? We have several. I have a digestive body, I have a nauseated body, a third body which is migrainous, and so on: sensual, muscular (writer’s cramp), humoral, and especially: emotive: which is moved, stirred, depressed, or exalted or intimidated, without anything of the sort being apparent. Further, I am captivated to the point of fascination by the socialized body, the mythological body, the artificial body, and the prostituted body. And beyond these public (public, literary) written bodies, I have, I may say, two local bodies: a Parisian (alert, tired) and a country body (rested, heavy).     — Roland Barthes (“Barthes by Barthes”)

**

And I have two bodies (of local and faraway descent): Brooklyn (tagged, stooped, with exposed brick) and water-logged body (dripping, see-through but deeper than feet or eyes can measure) — AH.

day 20: alphabet

The Greeks called trees alphabets. Each one was a step closer toward a meaning. They scraped and dug toward the many layers of flesh behind the wood and sap.

A  is for axis. How the tree is identified.

T  is for the thickness of each trunk, which alerts the one who views it how long it has been around.

S  is for sunburn; trees are sensitive too.

“Of all the tree letters, the palm is loveliest. And of writing, profuse and distinct as the burst of its fronds, it possesses the major effect: falling down.”    –Roland Barthes (“Barthes by Barthes”)

Even in its massive sturdiness. Even when a tree is accompanied by hundreds just like it in a place called forest or preserved park. Even when the strongest of humans tries to chop it down, the tree remains….even when it falls.

How? 

Listen to the alphabet of the trees; they are the best teachers out there. They are the ones who remain even when hunted or burnt.

If you lose your speech, go follow the trail of roots. They will guide you toward remaining.

laceration of language.

How to rescue what has been captured by sight. Call this the dialect of wounds.

“Born of literature, able to speak only with the help of its worn codes, yet I am alone with my strength, doomed to my own philosophy.” (Roland Barthes)

Press meta into footnote. Neuter consciousness and relocate color back into sky.

“Where there is a wound there is a subject.” (Barthes)

Asphyxiate lies which lay like yellow cravings. Expedite bent particles of kiss that stick into the tightened grasp of tooth against tooth.

“Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other.” (Barthes)

Catastrophic cling of doxa or business of a drift. Do not announce, (he announces). Just faint into this discourse of dream.