(no subject)
(If you will now turn your attention to the screen at your feet:)
Here, we have a body in pain.
Now, watch what happens when we add a little music...
Notice that the subject and her pain are separate points along the same continuum,
giving rise and ground to a relationship:
that of the subject and her pain.
(See how she believes that she is changing,
and that her pain is constant.
Soon, she will remember a white dot
surrounded by black and red bars
A little ball of light is sprouting in her corpus. Now is not the time to ask,
"Where does this light come from?"*
The music is beginning to take her.
She begins to resemble a soap bubble,
rolling over the dark backdrop of the night sky,
the points of stars bent in lines around her mirrored curves.
Light begins to fill her heart, a sprouting glow that incandesces from inside the airy sphere;
soon she will resemble almost nothing in specific,
but a vase will crack as it fills with light and crashes on the table,
sending spiderwebs of light out from the potted roots so haggard over the tiny cracks of life
and the clean mask of one day. It begins in the eyeholes and moves towards the lips.
Now the sun is shining in the navel of the sky.
Instead of crippling under her pain,
freezing the rigid klutz of paralysis,
she moves deeper into the pain. She is viewing the surveillance footage. She is pressing fast-forward.
She is opening the pages of a notebook.
The red, black, and white butterflies collide.
The music moves deep into her pain
and a breathes a center into the crisis,
she is in the stillness of the hurricane's eye;
and from here,
she is invincible.
She begins to dance.
*Finding the source of the little ball of light may shatter her like a reflective, tinted windshield and a large bird of prey.)
I and my pain are separate points along the same continuum,
giving rise and ground to a relationship:
that of my pain and me.
(I believe that I am changing,
and that my pain is constant.
Soon, I will remember a white dot between a red and a black bar.
I do not know how to dance.
I am like a soap bubble rolling over the backdrop night,
little starry freckles bent to dashes on my curve,
an incandescent sun in an heirloom vase.
I should dance across the sunny dome but for this rigid eight-eyed mask.
I should twirl around as notebooks flutter by on skies of red.
Notice, now, how she looks directly into the experimenter's lens. Does she see herself? Does she see herself?
Does she see herself in turning fields of red and black migrant monarchs?
As the raptor inches closer, is she lifting up her feet from the gas or the brake?
Here, we have a body in pain.
Now, watch what happens when we add a little music...
Notice that the subject and her pain are separate points along the same continuum,
giving rise and ground to a relationship:
that of the subject and her pain.
(See how she believes that she is changing,
and that her pain is constant.
Soon, she will remember a white dot
surrounded by black and red bars
A little ball of light is sprouting in her corpus. Now is not the time to ask,
"Where does this light come from?"*
The music is beginning to take her.
She begins to resemble a soap bubble,
rolling over the dark backdrop of the night sky,
the points of stars bent in lines around her mirrored curves.
Light begins to fill her heart, a sprouting glow that incandesces from inside the airy sphere;
soon she will resemble almost nothing in specific,
but a vase will crack as it fills with light and crashes on the table,
sending spiderwebs of light out from the potted roots so haggard over the tiny cracks of life
and the clean mask of one day. It begins in the eyeholes and moves towards the lips.
Now the sun is shining in the navel of the sky.
Instead of crippling under her pain,
freezing the rigid klutz of paralysis,
she moves deeper into the pain. She is viewing the surveillance footage. She is pressing fast-forward.
She is opening the pages of a notebook.
The red, black, and white butterflies collide.
The music moves deep into her pain
and a breathes a center into the crisis,
she is in the stillness of the hurricane's eye;
and from here,
she is invincible.
She begins to dance.
*Finding the source of the little ball of light may shatter her like a reflective, tinted windshield and a large bird of prey.)
I and my pain are separate points along the same continuum,
giving rise and ground to a relationship:
that of my pain and me.
(I believe that I am changing,
and that my pain is constant.
Soon, I will remember a white dot between a red and a black bar.
I do not know how to dance.
I am like a soap bubble rolling over the backdrop night,
little starry freckles bent to dashes on my curve,
an incandescent sun in an heirloom vase.
I should dance across the sunny dome but for this rigid eight-eyed mask.
I should twirl around as notebooks flutter by on skies of red.
Notice, now, how she looks directly into the experimenter's lens. Does she see herself? Does she see herself?
Does she see herself in turning fields of red and black migrant monarchs?
As the raptor inches closer, is she lifting up her feet from the gas or the brake?