Fish In the Afternoon

So she spoke, and in her heart aroused yet more the desire for lamentation; and she wept, holding in her arms her dear and true-hearted wife. — Homer, Odyssey (modified)

Yes.

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7.30.24:

Hello Sweet Pea,

I guess I intend to give you this notebook at some point. Today is the end of our first summer together. I dropped you off at the airport about three hours ago and have been trying to keep my hands busy ever since.

After finishing every chore I could come up with, I’ve been researching for your engagement ring. I’ve decided white goal with at least one carat. I’ll wait for you to pin more ideas, but I’ve already zeroed in on past, present, future rings that have three stones to represent each.

It’s crazy to think of how I woke up in your arms this morning, and now our summer is officially over. I wish I felt like I’ll have the funds by Christmas, because I’d just propose then instead.

The house is so empty without you. I didn’t tell you, but this is what I was looking forward to the least. It was our family being together that made this place so special before.

I’m so proud of you. It will be a tough road but we’ll succeed together. Missing you feels like missing a limb.

Your future wife,

Katie

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What is a soulmate? Its spoken origin is Coleridge:

To be happy in Married Life… you must have a Soul-mate as well as a House or a Yoke-mate; you must have a [Spouse] whom before the Altar… you can safely… conscientously vow to love, honour, and respect.

The origin of the concept, however, is Aristophanes in the Symposium, who speaks of the primordial syzygys, joined together and broken apart by Zeus:

Now, since our nature had been cut in two, each half, longing for the half of itself, would go back to that, and throwing their arms around each other, embracing in an effort to grow back together again, they were dying out… because they had no wish to do anything without one another.

He continues:

So, love of one another is inherent in humanity from those past ages, reconstituting our ancient nature, endeavoring to make one out of two and cure the [wound] in the nature of humanity.

The wound: the separation of beloved and beloved, searching searching to find one-another again.

[When one] encounters the very person who is the half of [herself], they are wonderfully overcome by friendship, affinity and love, and are scarcely willing to be parted from one another even for a short time. These are the ones who continue with one another throughout their lives, although they would be unable to say what they want from one another for themselves… the soul of each evidently wants something… which it is unable to express, yet it does have a sense of what it wants, but words fail.

The ground beneath all of these is commitment — the vow. Soul-mates are those who commit to one another, who vow their lives to one another, to dwell in a world of co-creation. Reborn from Hades and separated at birth, the soul-mates follow the thread of fate to find one another. They fall into love, embracing unknowing to enter the world of another, to say: I do not know you, but I want to. And in knowing, their love alights, each ‘I love you’ repeating and transforming the initial affirmation, saying ‘Yes’ to the journey of being-with-another, moving towards the fated one, when we humble ourselves to the beloved and say: here I am, here I go, with you forevermore, to life, to the future, to the world we make. Or, more eloquently, to say:

I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

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8.30.24

Fifteen hours until you’re in my arms. I’ve been up since four. I’m far too excited to sleep. Too much to do. You’re asleep on a call right now. You’re absolutely adorable when you sleep. I love all of your sleepy noises. It’s early enough that the crickets are chirping, but I’m slowly watching the sun rise in your room and mine.

I’ve been thinking about what the purpose of this journal is. The idea of having a record of us, or at least my point of view is nice.

I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. Your road is one I need to be on.

I’m glad you’re sleeping so peacefully. Tomorrow, I’ll pull you in close, kiss your forehead, and be able to tell you how dear you are to me.

❤ See you soon, Sweet Pea.

9.6.24

I fully anticipated writing during your visit. We were never far enough apart for me to. ❤ I’ve started stashing engagement money and I’m going to include a ring sizer when I ship you some clothes soon.

It was really lovely to see you light up when you saw me. I was so anxious until our eyes met. A wave of calm came over me and by the time you hugged me, I felt like I’ve never been without you at all.

You are the light by which I travel through this and that. ❤

9.8.24

It’s so silly and fun to have a moment with you and immediately think of this journal. You told me “you don’t just deserve poetry, but you are the greatest poem to me” and I melted. I feel so grateful to know I’ll spend my life with someone who loves me the way you do.

As I was in my puddle you sent “Filling Spice Jars As Your Wife” by Kai Coggin and now I’m not sure I’ll ever be un-puddled again.

You love in a way a girl would hardly dare dream about. I think I’m going to send some flowers today. ❤

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A year ago, I wrote you a poem:

You ember my heart, my honeylove
Chamomile and rose petal and apricot
Mulling gently in the warmth that grows
In the hearth of our world

I sip freely from the well of time
And fill myself with your presence,
Holding tenderly each moment
That tulips the garden of our togethering

My sunflower, my answered prayer,
We spread a quilt across the night,
And picnic under the fairylights
That decorate the ocean hued sky

Hold me close and feel my breath sway
In 3/4 time, waltzing cinnamon
And allspice and clove and white gold,
Unslipping the nightgown of my spirit

As we yabyum our souls like sky and earth,
Futures pearl in the indents of our bodies,
Constellations dancing
In the cosmos-deep waters of our love.

We awake together being-in-being,
Wedding bells chiming pearl and ivory,
Soulmate and soulmate, bride and bride,
And whisper to one another our truth:

Forever yours, forever mine,
Forever Katie and Penelope.

I wrote it jigsawed in an airplane seat, leaving our home after an October visit. In that ellipsis between earth and sky, I wanted to sing ‘Yes,’ to humble myself before you and speak a present-future. As tends to happen, only poetry could speak that yes.

Next October, we’re getting married, and that ‘yes’ is echoed again, not with written poetry, but embodied: lovers before the altar promising to one another the yes of their hearts. The ‘yes’ that says without speaking:

Forever yours, forever mine,
Forever Katie and Penelope.

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11.25.24

It’s been a rough few months but you’re as wonderful as ever. Now I know my wife’s name is Penelope. I love you.

We’re working on our relationship timeline over Discord:

1. 2030 — Pregnant
2. 2029 — Student Teaching
3. 2028 — Graduation
4. 2027 — Wedding Labor Day???
5. 2026 — Penny Moves Home
6. 2025 — Engagement (I didn’t tell you this part)
7. 2024 — ❤ ❤ ❤

We discussed weather and decided September is good for an indoor wedding and our outdoor evening garden party reception. We’ve been together six months. I love you.

12.7.24

More proposal planning underway. As of right now, I think I’ll ask in New York if we can pull it off. I’m imagining a big night out for us. Maybe if we get a chance to go to Broadway or right after seeing the tree together. We can go to a nice restaurant and come back to our room decorated. I know I’d have to do it quickly as you read me too well and I want it to be a surprise.

I’m waiting to see how this summer goes with your transition before making any big moves. I just want you to feel like you look like you when I propose. You’re so perfect at every stage, and I can’t wait to grow old with you. We start our first Christmas together in four more sleeps and I couldn’t be more excited. Everything is wrapped, your stocking is full, and I’ve been collecting gingerbread house supplies. We’ll make hot cocoa and cry over Christmas movies and kiss at midnight on New Year’s Eve.

I love you more than words can say, Penny. ❤ I can’t wait to make you my wife.

1.5.25

Our visit is coming to another end. It’s as everything I dreamed and more. I love you. You’re making my breakfast and I’m crying my way through this entry. We’ll be okay. I can’t wait for Valentine’s.

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In Cratylus, Socrates asks: do names reflect the nature of what they name? Is ‘cat’ a squeal that names a cat, or does ‘cat’ sign the cat-itself? Socrates concludes: names are contingent, not essential, but they ribbon themselves close to the thing-itself. ‘Cat’ says cat because ‘cat’ carries the history of cat-ness, the naming of cats. The true name is the thing-itself. Magic is knowledge of true names.

In the Odyssey, Odysseus obscures himself from Polyphemus as Outis, nobody; but, he slips and gives his true name, allowing Poseidon to find him. We receive and give our names throughout our lives. For Mill, our names say: this thing here. It shows without telling. But Frege replies: names mean. We express the thing we name in naming them. Contra Russell and a la Wittgenstein, this expression is not a description, but a form-of-life. In naming, we say: this is a life-form, this is the form the life-form takes. Names dance histories that peach language with time, tongues ticcing the orange-pink of being-itself. We say. And this saying situates, it -withs. You-and-I appear now-and-again as intertwined worlds. We name and say: this is this to me. This is this because it says: here I am, here I was, here I will be. We name ourselves the name we give, because the name carries our histories and so carries ourselves, the namings of us and them, this-here-now again-and-again. And every word names.

Yes. ‘Yes’ names. In everyday speech, ‘yes’ names affirmation; it commits us to a world, even if this world is only one where I want tea instead of coffee. One asks: cream or sugar? And one replies: we are here now, I see you: both. But ‘yes’ is always existential. We stake ourselves on the truth of our yeses, dedicating ourselves to a way-of-being that en-worlds our affirmation. In times of possibility, our ‘yes’ may say: I uphold justice by my truth, I intend a future by my truth, I give my life for my truth, here I stand I can do no other than abide in the truth. And on Mt. Sequoya, on July 25, my ‘yes’ said: to you, my darling, my beloved, my Sunshine, I give my life. I commit myself to you, in every phase, in every season, in every rhythm that comes and goes. I affirm our love through shine and shade, storm and steady skies. I affirm our love before all the world, and give myself to the truth I find in you. You are my soulmate, and I dedicate my life to you. Every breath, every motion, every thought, every moment in the great garden of being. I love you, and to you-as-you-are, you-as-you-were, and you-as-you-will-be, I say: Yes.

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5.21.25

Hey, so crazy news, but I have cervical cancer. You already knew that because you have been lovingly caring for me in a way I never thought possible. I’m so grateful for your kindness. This horrible experience has a silver lining in showing me who you are in crisis. I couldn’t ask for a better life partner. We bought our anniversary journal today and it reminded me of this little project. Right now I’m hoping to propose before the end of the summer. You are so much more than just my girlfriend and I want to give you the ring and proposal you deserve to prove it to the world. ❤ You also don’t know this but I’m literally planning it with you. Hopefully our “Photoshoot” before the end of the summer will end with an engagement party. Surprise 🙂

6.8.25

I went ring shopping for the first time after my tattoo yesterday. I had made an appointment stating my gay intentions and with plenty of photos and notes. They hadn’t looked at any of it and gave me a homophobic salesperson. I still gathered information and will get you the ring you deserve. I’m sad today and it’s so odd to not be able to tell you why. I’m journaling while we’re on Facetime before your permit test. It’s almost like being able to tell you. I guess it is telling future you. Hi fiancee Penny, I love you and I hope the ring and proposal is all you ever dreamed it will be. I’m going shopping again once you leave for your test. Today will be better than yesterday because I’m working towards all my tomorrows with you.

P.S. I pulled the card Fertile Void ❤ and you pulled the Bud.

6.23.25

Can you tell I figured out my favorite pen? It’s pink and strawberry and the ink is scented. In other news, everything is in place. Your fiends, my friends, the location, the ring, your siblings. I guess we do still need your outfit, but I have many options in mind. The closer we get to July 25th (surprise!) the more I keep thinking of why I want this. It may have only been a year, but you have shown up for me in ways I never could have imagined. Even miles apart, I know that a life with you is one filled with love, laughter, and adventure. There’s no situation where I don’t want you by my side. I want to give you the promise of our life to come to carry with you through your last two semesters. A physical representation of the bond we share and the home we’ve made. I want you every step of the way. I love you, Sweet Pea. I can’t wait to ask you to marry me. ❤

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I’m writing this in a bath you’ve drawn for me. Strawberry soap bubbles, salt, sugarcane wax, incense, tea, and an Oracle: Held: Sureness of the Soil. Support. Community. You read me our Oracles. Mine: …

When times are turbulent, to keep ourselves steady, we need something to hold on to. When things are crumbling around us, we must find something we can count on that won’t budge. Deep roots to hold us steady when the winds of change come blowing. A supportive community around us.

Yours, the Child Within: Inner Mother. Innocence. Gentleness. Tenderness:

We can be so hard on ourselves, expecting to heal according to a schedule adn beating ourselves up when we make a mistake. The rose wants us to release all hardness from our bodies and all hurt from our cells. To find a way to soften. To remember that no matter what has happened, is happening, or will happen, we’re all innocent children of the stars and the Earth. The flowers are here for us. They’re a safe, soft place to remember. They want you to nurture the child within.

You asked me to marry you two days ago. I said yes before you even asked. My heart said yes before I even knew you, when I was just a little girl, drawing my future family, giving-form to a future where I had someones to live for. My heart says yes every morning, every night, every before, between, and after. My soul-mate. Soul — from sāwol — spirit, being — from *saiwalō — perhaps strength, perhaps ocean, perhaps desire — that which being flows through, that which wants. Mate — companion, partner, fellow sailor — from ġemetta — who you journey with, who you share a table with, togethering. Soul-Mate — my companion in being, the home of my spirit, my life-partner, my wife, my Katie. We live our lives backward-and-forward, the future gifting meaning to the past just as the past presents it back. The little girl I was dreamed of you before she knew you, but it was always you. The one who is the half of myself, whose image overcomes me with friendship, affinity, and love, who I continue with throughout my life, and whose soul is rest for a want I can’t name — the desire for my other half.

The first thing I ever wrote for you came from a question: do we plan or wander? You came into my life as a Swerve; not something random, but unexpected truth. In every world, you are the one I return to, even when I do not know your name yet, the one whose fate is tied with mine like a handfasting knot, weaving-together soul-and-soul. The Swerve is inherent in who we are together, that which brings us back again-and-again in eternal return. It is the thread that loops through the rhythm of time sewing our souls into a cosmic quilt. Truth is soil for the world one dwells in; we are the soil of our shared earth. I tend, you tend, we tend, attend attend attend again-and-again, to mend, to make, to create, to:

see our love in every atom suddenly
and every cell... finally exhal[e],
and perhaps that is the wind

To:

safely… conscientously vow to love, honour, and respect

One-another. To attend to each other’s unfolding as the being-we-are, independently together. To say: would you fall in love with me again? And know the answer will always be yes. Again-and-again, Odysseus and Penelope, in eternal return.

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07.25.25

It’s incredible to think I’m saying good morning to my girlfriend and goodnight to my fiancee. You’re sleeping in and I’ve been awake since six double-checking that everything is ready. To be honest, I’m so excited to not have a secret anymore. The stress is all happy stress but it’s been an experience not being able to share this huge event with my greatest support. Right now, I’m fairly certain you don’t know this is coming, but you’ll be able to tell me for sure in eleven hours. I know what I want to say but I’m not sure what will come out of my mouth in the moment. You are the love of my life. You are my soul-mate and I’m so blessed to be the person you choose to be with. I hope this proposal is the proposal of your dreams and that you know I tailored it to be that. Today is our first big step toward the next fifty years together.

XOXO from your wife, Katie.

07.25.25

Will you marry me?

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Yes.

You are my wife
and it’s like I have been waiting
my whole life
to say those words,
and I feel held in a way
I have never felt before,
to look down at my fingers
dusted with ginger and thyme
and see the gold of my wedding band
glint and shine in the warm low light glow,
I am yours
and you are mine,
promised on Zoom in our garden
of giant zinnia and hummingbird vines,
sung out in the morning song of bluebirds,
this union that ripples love out to the world
and infinities back into us again
love—
in the fine powder of these spices,
ground up essence of oregano and basil,
I see our love in every atom suddenly
and every cell in me finally exhales,
and perhaps that is the wind. -- Kai Coggin, "Filling Spice Jars as Your Wife"

Image: Cupid and Psyche by Antonio Canova (1793)

"In the beginning was the Word
and the Word was with God
and the Word was God." - John 1.1 (CEB)

God is original recognition.

The no-thing becomes by being-with: {0,{2,1}}. 
Absence was infinitely and never was; a full emptiness. 
Being begins with time.

Time is difference. Difference originates sameness.
Dwelling is being-in-time in both sameness and difference,
one and many. 

The spark of time is the being-with that we name God: the world-soul.
The world-soul is Trinity in reconciling difference and sameness,
one and many.

She dwells perichoretically in being-itself, intertwining,
interpenetrating, interweaving personality,
the soul of the world-soul: originating-begetting-proceeding.

The origin of time is also the origin of place;
placetime is received by the self-emptying gift 
of the original being-with.

Kenosis: to give oneself. Creation is the gift of being-with,
the recognition that things the no-thing: perichoretic kenosis.
Dawn treads o' happysaunter, songs sing serene as being is partnered.

In the beginning was love, attending to the unfolding of another:
the original recognition of being-with becoming
the creative attending of unfolding creation.

Originating-begetting-proceeding.

“Thus it may be said that not only the soul, the mirror of an indestructible universe, is indestructible, but also the animal itself…” – Gottfried Leibniz, Monadology sec. 77

Image: Bird-nesting by Philip Wilson Steer (1898)

The ornament of a house is the friends who frequent it. – Ralph Waldo Emerson, Domestic Life

Home is not a place, but an en-habiting.
En-habiting: patterns of dwelling-in-the-world that cohere into habit.
Habit: playing the melody of being.

We are worlds, in worlds, among worlds.

We incarnate a world through the interconnection between flesh and other;
the internal appears in the experience of touch -- in otherflesh.
This internal is the appearance of the I, but this I alone remains only a possibility.

The I en-worlds (and is en-worlded by) the no-thing,
the space of possibility that is also absolute nothingness.

The no-thing is the ground of en-worlding,
the given absence that allows nature to en-place itself and so en-world.

'World' as 'reality' is just this: the no-thing.
There is no 'world' in this sense as thing, only absence en-worlded by presence.

The no-thing is transformed into placetime by the indwelling of being,
intertwined beings-in-worlds worlding-together,
the constellation that constitutes this-here-now.

This: is. Here: with. Now: us.

Home is an expression of placetime,
The this-here-now that being-together chords,
Being as harmony.

The home of being is togethering.

The work is done through all, if not by every one. – Margaret Fuller, Summer on the Lakes in 1843

Image: Fishermen By A Lake by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (n.d.)

I was saved by God to Make America Great Again. – Donald Trump, Second Inaugural Address

MAGA — Make America Great Again. See also: palingenetic ultranationalism.

Capitalism is a ritual. Through quantification, comparison, and exchange, we reproduce patterns of en-habiting that re-shape the world in the image of capital. This is reification and fetishization — not propaganda or false consciousness, but the lived experience of simulated value, a Demiurgic realm where money replaces human activity. Insofar as we are engaged in the practices of capital, money has intrinsic value, similar to how, in engaging in the rituals of the ekklesia, the Eucharist becomes the body and blood of Christ. Rituals en-world, and this en-worlding habituates us to perceive reality through the refracting prism of those rituals. Money has value under capitalism in the same way that the throne and scepter have power under monarchy — because in living out the mythos of capital, its symbols are given a life of their own, transforming the world into a fun-house mirror of class domination.

Capital was born long ago, in the primordial soup of exchange and proto-state formation, but it began to move in the belly of modernity, a process of reduction hiding a reality of enclosure and re-territorialization. Modernity is a cult of quantity that slices the world into units of comparison, dis-joining parts from the whole and shifting the patterns of everyday life from the interwoven vibrancy of togetherness to the machinic fiction of the collective and from the sacred multiplicity of the Unique to the interchangeable gray matter of the individual. Modernity first tore into the world in the overlapping apocalypses of the Black Death, the colonization of the Americas, the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, and the Protestant Reformation. As Europe was pulled into the radical potential of peasant rebellions and the haunting specter of the medieval commune, the old feudal order allied with the rising bourgeoisie to construct and weaponize a new machinery of power: capital and colonialism, new names for the old evil of Empire. The European peasants were internally colonized, their livelihoods and culture crushed through enclosure, witch hunts, re-territorialized patriarchy, the violence of the post-Westphalian nation-state, and the lived necessity of wage-labor and debt. Proletarianization is not simply an economic process transforming subsistence agriculture into contract labor, but a psychic violence re-shaping the world of the peasantry into that of the proletariat, the inherently oppressed shadow of capital.

The engine behind this process is capital accumulation, the constantly expanding libidinal beast of extraction, exploitation, and the hoarding of value, one constructed through a process of reduction, quantification, and simulation. This creature is both economic and cultural, with the supposed barrier between the base and superstructure being nothing more than a fiction hiding the development of the social factory. We come to dwell in the world of capital, becoming mirror images of accumulation and exchange, interacting with one another on the basis of property, as zombified bodies commandeered by quantity. Socialism, nationalism, fascism, and liberalism are phantasmic movements that reflect this process, defending and propagating reduced and fetishized qualities — race, class, sex/gender, the state, The People, The Leader, etc. Whenever one fails, another enters to restart the engine of accumulation. Suppose the proles start to take over factories and build councils. In that case, there is always nationalism to divide them along spectral boundaries, fascism to brutalize them and force them into militarized industrial production, socialism to direct them towards defending the state rather than challenging it, and liberalism to accuse them of anti-democratic tendencies. The real movement, which Marx called communism and Bakunin anarchism, but which ultimately has no name, is one that lies outside of the system of idolatry and therefore is forced into heresy. In times of calamity, capital uncloaks itself to reveal itself as death, wielding war, pestilence, and famine as tools of inquisition against every new peasant rebellion. Every reaction comes with a death squad, who use steel and fire to re-gild the Golden Calf and feed the universe to Moloch, prostrating themselves before the blood cult of Empire.

These demonic forces come together in MAGA, the rotting ideology of American Caesarism. Race, nation, sex/gender, The People, The Leader, etc., all roar back into history to obscure the psychotic transformation of the American state into its necrotic shadow, the cartel. In fear of the opening created by the Covid Apocalypse, which fomented rebellion and a renewed labor movement, the tech toddlers bypass the ancien régime of state capitalism in favor of the patrimonial vision of an individual super-capitalist, the idiotic autocracy of Trump the First. Trump’s more “learned” supporters cover their cowardice with the slop of post-liberalism, garbling nonsense about how he inaugurates a new golden era, saving the US fro the decay and chaos of liberalism. This is the argument given by Michael Anton in “The Flight 93 Election,” where he compares 2016 to rushing the cockpit during a hijacking. It is also the logic underpinning Project 2025 and similar reactionary programs, professing republicanism while inviting Louis Bonaparte to take up residence in the White House. Trump indeed inaugurated a new world; however, it is not post-liberal but hyper-liberal. Trump is the summation of liberal capitalist modernity, a system that was never in opposition to nationalism and fascism (or its servants in the ranks of socialism), but symbiotic with them. He completes the reversal of values from the Unique to simulacra, subsuming flesh into raw power and breath into the accelerating circulation of imaginary capital. Trump is a devil in the most literal sense, a ruler of a self-created hell, a world marked by separation from God, the eclipse of the holy.

The gates of this hell are open, guarded by a flimsy paper Cerberus. The March of History comes and goes, but gives us nothing. Historical Materialism is thrown into the wastebasket of ideology. Abstraction and the Great Books of a collection of bleached cemetery statues will not save us from this creature. Instead, salvation is found here, in the world, with others — in the “real movement which abolishes the present state of things,” a movement of people rather than ideas. That movement has no name, a force that is irreducible, undefinable, and concrete, an ocean of Uniques joining together in playful creation, the death of one world and the birth of another. It is us against the idols and we have nothing to lose, because all the idolaters offer us is nothing.

The stinking puddle from which usury, thievery and robbery arises is our lords and princes. They make all creatures their property—the fish in the water, the birds in the air, the plant in the earth must all be theirs. Then they proclaim God's commandments among the poor and say, "You shall not steal."  - Thomas Müntzer, Letter to the Princes

Image: Three Flags by Jasper Johns (1958)

Life Everlasting - based on a misprint!
I mused as I drove homeward: take the hint,
And stop investigating my abyss?
But all at once it dawned on me that this
Was the real point, the contrapuntal theme;
Just this: not text, but texture; not the dream
But topsy-turvical coincidence,
Not flimsy nonsense, but a web of sense. - Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire

Life’s wyrd, ain’t it?

Our flesh means. Being expresses; ain’t no thing that does not say: I am. Time loops halo through our hair, fresh willowleaves caressing illocution on freckleberry skin. Mary had a little lamb.

I’ve gained and lost, said the humblebee. I blue, I purple. Mind is being-queer, the danceclub of creatures-in-worlds that touches form through thought. The I specials itself red, but yellow-brown the orange autumn we – say it again memory. I gray sculpt my blackwhite, pleasurepain recedes into oceangreen: I can be as I am without pain, without hurt. I can be as I am. I heart.

Hey, it’s me, Penelope. A pretty Penny for your thoughts. And if you have to do something, better do it yourself; good thing there’s so many you’s and many you’s looking back at you as another. Past and present you’s, but also. No — the not-you is the center of you, that which you receive as meaning. Hey, mom, I miss you. Hey, dad, I hate you. Hey, garageghost timely I guess: strangewhisp Noah thinking how-to. I yam that I yam, ma Madonna. Hallelujah, a tomorrow singing hosanna.

I am.

His words were then these as followeth: Know all men, he said, time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions. What means this? Desire’s wind blasts the thorntree but after it becomes from a bramblebush to be a rose upon the rood of time. Mark me now. In woman’s womb word is made flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh that passes becomes the word that shall not pass away. This is the postcreation. Omnis cam ad te veniet. – James Joyce, Ulysses

Image: Titled (Art as Idea as Idea) (Water) by Joseph Kosuth (1966)