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Fish In the Afternoon

  • Hesychasm

    May 21st, 2025
    “But my words like silent raindrops fell, and echoed in the wells of silence.” — Simon & Garfunkel, “The Sound of Silence”

    Tohu wabohu: without-form, without-substance; cf. aóratos kai akataskeúastos (ἀόρατος καὶ ἀκατασκεύαστος): that which remains invisible and without shape. The no-thing before creation.


    There are three kinds of silences —

    (1) Silence-as-appearance: The quieting of sense, when impressions dim to form another: the impression of silence or experience of non-sense; the still quiet of a country night, the rustling re-direction of John Cage, the hush between words that creates the conditions for sense.

    (2) Silence-in-itself: The quietly un-sensed no-thing that is the precondition for being; apophatic non-sense spoken only in self-negation; cf. Nishida’s basho and absolute nothingness, the self-negated no-thing in which being inheres in the tension of opposites; cf. Tillich’s ground-of-all-being and Pseudo-Dionysius’ negative theology.

    (3) Silence-as-presence: The quiet opening of being in the entanglement of placetime, which allows one to encounter unspoken presence in the present-being of the world; this presence is non-sense in resisting sense, no-thing in being caught in the self-negated tension of opposites (the counter-melody of being and nothing that always-already preconditions the flow of placetime), but also a presence in filling the whole of experience with unarticulated feeling, a thisness that permeates time while being unspoken, allowing being-itself to speak.


    Why are they playing a cop show at the hospital? Devout, “yes Lord” grandmothers and loved ones finding a distraction in blue lives. (Is philosophy a distraction?) Lifetime cops grunt over hushed chatter. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name,” the grandmother whispers beneath the Dawn Power Wash commercial. A nurse enters and says to her — did you know she goes by Mabry? No — the nurse leaves. Katie has been back there for thirteen minutes now. I’m writing this in the back of a copy of Bluets (philosophy is a distraction). My emotions feel more alive than the world around me. “Alive.” Hate the word, not a hospital word. The grandmother interjects and paws at me — “did I see you at the library yesterday?” “No.” “Oh, well she looked like you.” She genders me accurately; I don’t think she has full eyesight, but she knows I blur womanly. “Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”

    It’s been nineteen minutes now. Sometimes the future feels more present than the present. Sometimes this presence is featureless, like a monolith looming over you. Twenty minutes. There’s a vase of flowers in front of me. I think they’re fake; waxy, purple, bouncy, a little too even in coloration. A balloon is tied to it. “Happy Mother’s Day.” Mother’s Day is on Sunday. Mom hasn’t asked me how we’re doing. Mom hasn’t asked me anything. On the table, the magazine About You. About Me? I hope not. Jay Leno grins on a black background above Godfather-type font reading “The Joker.” Are they serious? “I like yellow roses,” the grandmother muses. There are no roses anywhere, but a couple seats over sits a basket of droopy yellow tulips. “Mom is allergic to roses” her companion reminds her. It’s almost been an hour.


    Emotions haunt being as an unspoken presence, an illuminating, quiet fullness that is spoken in the expressive unfolding of being-in-time. Emotions bubble up as sensations, but these are not the essence of emotion, only its sensed excess, the uncontainable rupture of affective presence into enfleshed self-communication. The concept of “controlling emotion” is misguided for this reason — it identifies emotion with what is sensed, or with the patterns of thought that accompany sense, or which operate as a sensed sign of emotion’s presence. Controlling these may be prudent, but doing so does not attend to the emotion itself.

    Attending to emotion means attuning oneself to the world of unspoken presence that dwells in our being-in-time, the tension that hesychastically expresses itself through our enfleshed activity. Attending to an emotion means allowing it to express itself in being — to reconcile the tension of being and non-being in meaning, not the semantic meaning of terms like ‘happiness’ and ‘sadness’ but the en-worlded meaning of our being-in-time. This is the same whether we attend to joy or attend to suffering. Joy remains tensed in the body even as it escapes to the surface as laughter and smiling and bodily comfort. But this sensed happiness occurs because of the un-tensed expression of what was once suspended in the being and non-being of emotional presence, a possibility inherent in ourself that is then expressed in how we enflesh, entime, and enplace being. Attending to our joy means flowing through that expression, allowing it to become un-tensed in our activity. Likewise, attending to suffering means to express it, to flow through it, to allow it to speak by allowing for being-itself to speak in the silence.


    Moments later, I go back to see her. She had a vagal response to her IV, no doubt an ancestral instinct to self-regulate the body when it loses blood. (Weird that nature creates whys) She’s beautiful, sweat darkening her hair against her brow, lightly covered with a thin blanket. She looks like a violet and my mind emanates lavender, the warm, salt-thick lavender of a claw-footed tub, flowers blooming in the steam. Memories press into me, incense dancing delicately through our hair in past images laced with sense. Even in a hospital, the image of her that comes to me is one close and warm, gentle water and the smell of vanilla and brown sugar and sea salt and strawberry. I hold her hand, trying and failing not to betray my anxiety. She reassures me / I should be reassuring her. We nestle together and say goodbye as the nurse pumps medicine into her IV and they wheel her out. The last thing I hear before she goes into surgery is “wheeeeee.” At least she’s vibing. I love her.

    I’ve taken an as-needed, warming in the stomach, a deep orange that softens the garish monochrome of the waiting room. The grandmother is no longer here, whisked away by a female relative that frantically moved between work and hospital. I don’t know whether Bluets is taking or giving. When thoughts get caught in the windpipe, maybe receiving someone else’s thoughts is useful. But what is useful about some far off person’s blue-tinted grief? My grief — a grief I can’t locate in space or time, much less the space of reasons — isn’t hued at all. My emotions appear like a massive glass skyscraper, invisible to the eye, an Ozymandian ruin. A brief ellipsis later, a nurse comes out and says everything went well — she’s groggy and waking up, but okay. We’ll know the results later. My heart tries to figure out what to do, speeding up and slowing down at the same time, suspended in the hush of quieting fear. Wheeeee.


    The closest analogue to silence-in-itself in Christianity is the apophatic God of mystical theology. Pseudo-Dionysius resists any attempt to define God, to say ‘God is x,’ or involve God in any predication. The apophatics go beyond the cataphatics in resisting not only that God is a being, but also that God is being, or God is. Most orthodox theologians will accept the claim that God is not a being, except in a univocal sense that allows for God’s being to encompass being without being a being in the way that, say, a bee bes. (See Scotus: we can say God is or has properties insofar as we understand that, despite having the same sense, they are magnitudes removed from how that being or property is instantiated in creation. This is a response to Aquinas, who argues that ‘being’ is not univocal between creatures and God, but are only analogues. God ‘is’ or ‘is a being’ in some way similar or analogous to what it means for us to ‘be’ or to be ‘a being,’ but it does not carry the same sense.) However, the apophatics go further in stating that we cannot even ascribe being to God, as God cannot be predicated. There is no essence to God except Godself and no properties belong to God except Godself. The most we can positively say about God is that God Gods, not that God is.

    Expression is a hesychasm — an un-ending recitation of enfleshed meaning. The hesychasm in its theological context is the un-ending recitation of the Jesus Prayer, leading to catharsis-theoria-theosis: purification, illumination, and the soul’s union with God. One achieves this union with God through stillness and quiet — the cessation of the individual will for the universal will, the divine will, which speaks through the embodied rhythm of the hesychast. Expression likewise moves from the fully individual sensation of willing, of being-toward, to the communicable, the will that speaks through our ever-mattering togethering. The individual is encountered as silence, but as a silence always on the edge of the expressible, which finds form in singing with the chorus that sits upon the deeper silence. Language symphonizes.


    It’s been almost two weeks now. I’m glad I wrote this in the back of Bluets. Thank you, Maggie Nelson, for providing a canvas. A few lines stick with me: “What depression ever felt like a fire? … Then again, perhaps it does feel like a fire — the blue core of it, not the theatrical orange crackling.” (paras. 136, 144) Time is still anxious, though the waves have stilled slightly. In the deep blue, grief crackles but hope alights. I wish I had more to say, more to write, though there’s a reason philosophy is a distraction; it’s therapy for times of pain. And like all forms of language, it always comes up against its limit: silence. Maybe these brief glimpses of life say enough that my not speaking can express itself fully. Wittgenstein was right: “What can be said at all can be said clearly, and what we cannot talk about we must pass over in silence.”

    But, wait, maybe that’s not the right Wittgenstein for the occasion: “What do I know about God and the purpose of life? I know that this world exists. That I am placed in it like my eye in its visual field. That something about it is problematic, which we call its meaning. This meaning does not lie in it but outside of it. That life is the world. That my will penetrates the world. That my will is good or evil. Therefore that good and evil are somehow connected with the meaning of the world. The meaning of life, i.e. the meaning of the world, we can call God. And connect with this the comparison of God to a father. To pray is to think about the meaning of life.” The meaning of life is those you love. To pray is to think about those I love.

    Thank you, God, for protecting Katie. Please continue to hold us in inexplicable, unknowing grace, the strength of the divine weakness. Thank you, meaning of life. Thank you, world. Thank you, Katie, for making my life worth living.

    Kyrie Eleison.

    What is the meaning of life? That was all — a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one. – Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

    Image: Silence by Tetyana Yablonska (1975)

  • Pigeon Roost

    April 5th, 2025
    True beauty dwells in deep retreats,
    Whose veil is unremoved
    Till heart with heart in concord beats,
    And the lover is beloved. - William Wordsworth

    O, come, summer, o summer swell, see the summer sea. Time flows full, rushing-coursing-listening, streamsofthought shaking silences that tear through meaning like squalls signing serenity. Spring spring to summer’s peak, summer speaks, seek — each of us, you-and-me, an eternity intertwining eternity. Let me kneel at our bedside temple, the oakwood cocoa that sparkles rococo in the amberlight maze of candlenight. I speak, gently gently, and embrace every-coming-dawn, here and here again, rising from bed and falling to song, again-and-again in eternal return with you. You, you, you — my darling you, my dear sonnet, my Katie. Hold my hands tenderly, my fingers fitting perfectly with yours, wabi-sabi the water of life that sculpts our en-home-ing. Closely closely, the tenderbrush of silk draws my hair tilt and unravels delicate the honeysuckle evening, orangeglow the rain reflecting (my love, my love, I see you in every moment singing). My lovely Sunshine.

    Breathe. Tense-and-release. Stained glass, time fugues baroque and calls the shadows to dance. Among, among, I draw your sense — each impression willing the next, the soul of my beloved appearing again-and-again in melodic theosis. I dream, I dream. I see, I see. You. My Hesperus, my Phosphorus, my morning-and-evening star. Say a prayer to Aphrodite, balletgrace my evermore. (Swiftly tailored, this cinnamon, roll the mocha-light enjoy Inzoi imperator). I say your name to calm to sleep, Tzippora’s sheep olive oil the marriage tent; Music for Airports playing in the background, the first time Moses ever felt presence. The mountain ranges bear goldentraces, finchsight catches every falling star, a comet to wish upon, a stellar altar. Magnificat! My fingers dance up-and-down the coming-impression, silver rings that echo future-near. Sit with me here, my dear. Sit with me. Do you feel the faery breeze, lavender and poppyseed pepper morninglily the gilded leaves. Please, trace your name upon my palm and kiss our promise good morning, awake awake our future-together, our souls merging all-alonging.

    We wyrd the worlds we dwell in, consecrating place in the dreamscape of our mattering, the polytheism of earthly-belonging. I tend my garden every day, my soul animating, unfolding time alongside you. With you, I form a home, the intimate intertwining of two-souls togethering, the doma. In this Ithaca, we order the un-time and un-place into placetime, a dwelling-with in which we plant and nurture self, family, and community. Our home roots deeply in its own cosmos, the world-we-tend: Ozarkia — a body en-placing the soul of each anima in the web of animation that forms its breathing flesh. Ozarkia seeds-itself as one patch in the great quilt of Gaia, the pluricosmos of earths that we sign as earth, the ground-of-all-life, the ground-of-all-being. This ground emerges from the energeia of Eos, the sunne, the center-of-gravity, the time signature of the cosmic song of planetary encircling, the solar system inhaling life and exhaling everything. But one more step remains — Eos is but one sunne among many, a note in the holy melody that echoes out from the infinite cosmos of Pan, the wild-growing harmonic architecture of eternity.

    And back again (1-2-3), from Pan to the all that breathes within you-and-me. I love you, my darling, my home, my hearth, my loving-dwelling. I love you and I always will, my everything.

    ...love me for love's sake, that evermore
    Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity. - Elizabeth Barrett Browning
  • The Arrival

    March 13th, 2025

    …and when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of [herself]… the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy and one will not be out of the other’s sight, as I may say, even for a moment… — Plato, Symposium

    We creature beautifully, you-and-I. Sunflowering my lonely soul, you echo forward-and-back that spirit that has always been absent — home. My darling oak, my tender wildflower, you heal my soul, filling time with fresh honeysuckle and pine. I am a ruin grown over with moss, feeling again the warm presence of meaning, of a life worth living. I curtsy grace to you, my other half. Please, see what I see — a revelation, a revealing, a calling: that there is someone out there who sees you, someone out there who has been waiting for you all along, in the thicket of time.

    I am yours, my precious dove. Hear the chords of my soul beckon gently the coming-dawn, the to-be we hold tenderly in our arms. I don’t remember the last time I felt warmth before I met you — the sensation of warmth. Of welcoming, delicate heat, the heat that crackles softly in the fireplace. Before you, heat and cold were sharp — sensation itself was sharp. But, in you I found that missing warmth, that hearth of my soul that draws me closer to myself and closer to you, closer to the gentle, loving ways of this world that were long forgotten.

    Hold my hand and feel my spirit soften, welcome, invite. We ballet our cosmogony, dancing head-to-chest as worlds emanate from our every step. 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4. My heart beats a new rhythm, the syncopation of desire that giggles eternity into being, the garden of our togethering. Together, we draw closer the worlds that we intend, and invite each other to journey time alongside us. When I see you smile, I see all my hopes and dreams reflected back — but even more than that, I see your hopes, your dreams, your loves, your desires, every thing that makes you laugh and makes you smile, every little moment where the world drops away and the wholeness of life appears around us, in our Ithaca.

    I’ve been waiting for you my whole life, even when I didn’t know it, even when love seemed far away. I’ve been waiting for you, weaving and un-weaving my shroud above the Aegean, ever-watching the horizon. I wait for you in every world, and in every world I welcome you home, my soul mate, my other half, my Odysseus, my Sunshine.

    How joyful to be together, alone
    as when we first were joined
    in our little house by the river
    long ago, except that now we know

    each other, as we did not then;
    and now instead of two stories fumbling
    to meet, we belong to one story
    that the two, joining, made. And now

    we touch each other with the tenderness
    of mortals, who know themselves -- Wendell Berry, Entries

    Image: Poem for a Lover by Brett Whiteley (1988)

  • Penelope: An Echogia

    March 5th, 2025
    στι γὰρ ἥμιν
    σήμαθ', ἃ δὴ καὶ νῶϊ κεκρυμμένα ἴδμεν ἀπ' ἄλλων. - Odyssey, Homer: XXIII.109-110

    Adapted from a paper for an experiential diversity course. This work is composed of both old and new writings.

    Table of Contents

    1. Table of Contents
    2. Prolegomenon
    3. Some Important Concepts
    4. Dysphoria I: Womaning
    5. Dysphoria II: Disjunction
    6. Dysphoria III: Apophasis
    7. Dysphoria IV: (Trans)Misogyny
    8. Interlude: Adult Human Female
    9. Euphoria I: Primrose
    10. Euphoria II: Odysseus
    11. Euphoria III: Cataphasis
    12. Euphoria IV: Penelope
    13. Bibliography
    14. Endnotes

    Prolegomenon

    At the beginning of a journey, I pray. To the One who is closer to me than my own breath. To the Many that carry me closer to myself.

    Hello, my name is Penelope — Pēnélops, πηνέλοψ, πήνη-ὤψ – a duck, a threaded face, a weaver, the ever-faithful wife of Ὀδυσσεύς, the-loyal-one. Previously, I went by Ashton – a grove of ash trees, an ash-dwelling – and ash – what remains after a fire, the mark of wilderness and coming Easter. Though I did not choose Ashton, I freely chose ash and Penelope, each situating me in a world, as a world, among other worlds. Even without that choosing, ‘Ashton’ did that already: in naming me, my parents told the world: this human is this, this is the world they inhabit. In doing so, they called upon certain pasts and had certain futures in their intending. Likewise, in taking up the names ash and Penelope, I weave myself into a genealogy of namings, each with their own significance born from a complex causal network stretched across history. In calling upon this history, I then signify the futures I hold in my intending, those worlds my activity is oriented towards. Finally, I disclose the present, how I find myself caught between these pasts and futures, an agent acting in the here and now.

    In this paper, I will name myself. But – I will not do so through an individual speech act (‘my name is Penelope’) but through constructing an echogia. Echo (ἠχώ) refers, in both English and Greek, to a sound that has been reflected by a surface. In echophenomena, a term from psychiatry and cognitive science, echo- refers to the repetitive nature of automatic movements, such as sound (echolalia), bodily motions (echopraxia), and tracings (echoplasia).[1] Borrowing from this genealogy, I use echo- to refer to the repetition and transformation of a unit of information. Any expression repeats expressions that came before it and transforms them to suit a new context. What any expression signifies is determined by its position in a pattern (or history) of echoes, forming what Jacques Derrida refers to as ‘iterations.’[2] An echo is not the same as a locution[3], however, as the significance of an echo is not necessarily linguistic (that is, language-like in structure) but inferential, meaning that they fit into a pattern of uses.[4] Any repetitive or potentially repetitive motion can be echoic. An echogia, then, is derived from joining echo- to –gia (-διά), a preposition referring to the medium or channel through which an action occurs over time. An echogia is a medium by which a history of echoes is carried and allowed to signify all at once.[5] In the case of this essay, it acts as an artifact that signifies a history of echoes resolving in my self-naming as ‘Penelope’. The final echo of naming myself is a result of the echoic chorus formed by the essay, an expression of the inferential network that underlies the naming.

    Though many styles of writing may be considered echogias, this one is expressed in a poetic style tied closely to my self-experience as an echoic agent operating as a world, in a world, among other worlds. The echogic form reflects the history by which I have come to name myself ‘Penelope’. The aim of this essay, therefore, is not conceptual analysis or a clear reporting of my experiences, but to invoke the echoic history that gives rise to the naming.[6] Poetry and resonance[7] are thus more valued than clarity or rigor. To do this, I will synthesize both new writing and revised writing from my blog, Fish in the Afternoon.[8] In this blog, I have cataloged my journey forming a self-image reflected in my self-naming, articulating the echoic history that has brought me to this point. It has also been the mode this semester (Fall 2024) by which I have contemplated my transition, both ‘medically’ and ‘socially,’ through the series Transitions. Though this blog does not have a wide audience, it is significant to me and reflects my self-understanding over the past few years.

    The blog began in 2022. I started it at the end of one journey and the beginning of another, the summer before entering Georgetown and after a long struggle to survive. I named it based on a turn of phrase used by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels in The German Ideology:

    For as soon as the distribution of labour comes into being, each man has a particular exclusive sphere of activity, which is forced upon him and from which he cannot escape. He is a hunter, a fisherman, a shepherd, or a critical critic and must remain so if he does not wish to lose his means of livelihood; while in communist society, where nobody has one exclusive sphere of activity but each can become accomplished in any branch he wishes, society regulates the general production and thus makes it possible for me to do one thing today and another tomorrow, to hunt in the morning, to fish in the afternoon, rear cattle in the evening, criticize after dinner, just as I have in mind, without ever becoming hunter, fisherman, shepherd or critic.”[9]

    Here, Marx and Engels distinguish between life under capital, where human activity is quantified and split into units of consumption, requiring the subsumption of human life into the division of labor, and life after capital, in what Marx in Critique of the Gotha Program calls the Gemeinwesen, or the human community.[10] In the Geimenwesen, life is not subsumed to the division of labor but instead our activity flows out of our lived reality, allowing us to inhabit many different identities and forms of life in our actualization as individuals and communities.[11] In more recent writings, I connect this to what I call the common-soul, which is the ever-unfolding[12] common life of both the human species and those organisms and ecosystems we dwell with and in. In this conception, the goal is not only the abolition of capital and the division of labor but the reorganization of human life based on our common dwelling and in pursuit of both individual and collective flourishing. In both the Gemeinwesen and the common-soul, what remains is an emphasis on human life as a project of playful self-creation that is never subsumed into our activities but is instead its overarching impetus.

    What is the connection between my blog and the Gemeinwesen/common-soul? It is that my writings are a project of re-membering[13]: collecting the scattered parts of my self-identity and re-organizing them into a new self-narration, or orientation to my own unfolding life. In re-membering, we echo, or repeat the pasts that came before us and transform them into new ways of dwelling in the present and leaning into the future. At the heart of both the Gemeinwesen and the common-soul beats this echoic re-membering, taking apart the quantification and alienation of human life and rebuilding both ourselves as individuals and as a part of the cosmos. We re-member in being ourselves and in making “… it possible for [us] to do one thing today and another tomorrow, to hunt in the morning, to fish in the afternoon, rear cattle in the evening, criticize after dinner, just as I have in mind, without ever becoming hunter, fisherman, shepherd or critic.”[14] I am the I that I am and that I is Penelope, a re-membering of the ashes of Ashton. In becoming Penelope, I make it possible to live into a new future, one where I am not subsumed into the (re)productive division of labor that grounds the cis dyad and which denies the possibility of transformation, creativity, and play.

    So, take this essay as an echogia that fits into the history of echoing and self-naming that I am always-already a part of, the impetus of which is to re-member myself as myself and to playfully self-articulate what it means to be that self.[15] To put perhaps too fine a point on it, this is a project of experiential diversity as it is supposed to reflect and signify a process of contemplation and self-creation grounded in my own perspective and arising out of my own life history, community history, and sensory orientation. This echogia names me because it articulates, however obliquely, the position from which that naming occurs. Here I am, a world in a world among worlds. Here I am, a creative nothing singing absence into presence. Here I am, Penelope.

    Some Important Concepts

    Before I begin, there are a few concepts that are important to clarify, as they centrally feature in my writing. I have already discussed echoing and re-membering, but a few more that are important include:

    • Unique/Uniquing – That which is itself-in-itself and irreplaceable by any other. This is partly borrowed from the Einzige of Max Stirner, or the creative nothing, the “…nothing out of which I as creator create everything.”[16] However, as Stirner’s view of the Einzige is human-centric and tied to an implicitly racist developmental history, I do not wish to tie the Unique too heavily to his model. Instead, I borrow from later anarchist conceptions of the Unique[17] and from a monadic metaphysics[18] that allows for each entity to be its self-creative world-in-a-world. As a corollary to this, I call the self-articulation of the Unique Uniquing, since, as noted by Alejandro de Acosta, the Unique is not the individual per se, but the process of eternal self-articulation of what we may call the individual but is not reducible to it.[19] Therefore, in this view, the Unique and Uniquing are identical. The Unique is that which is itself-in-itself and irreplaceable by any other, and Uniquing is the process by which that Unique is articulated.
    • Together/Togethering – Stirner argues that the Einzige join into a Union of Egoists, or temporary coalition between Uniques operating out of their self-interest.[20] However, I believe that this concept not only de-values the many groupings and common experiences that the Unique participates in but misunderstands what the Unique itself is. The Unique both does not and cannot exist by itself. There is no Unique alone, as Uniquing can only occur in a world, as a world, among other worlds. That is, there must be an arena within which Uniquing occurs. And this arena is itself part of a pattern of different Uniquings. Whenever these Uniquings overlap in interdependent patterns, they form what I call togethers, collections of Uniques that depend upon one another. In our experienced life as human beings, these togethers include the ecosystems we dwell in, the societies we participate in, and the many different forms of relationships we are intertwined with, including family, friends, lovers, neighbors, etc. However, togethers are formed throughout many human and more-than-human worlds. Each Unique must be understood in the context of the many togethers that they interweave with, even as these togethers are only articulable through the Uniques that compose them.
    • Dwelling/Inhabiting/En-habiting – To emphasize the co-constitutive and processional nature of the Unique, I discuss how it dwells, inhabits, and en-habits. Dwelling and inhabiting here are synonymous, referring to how the Unique unfolds as a world in a world among other worlds, where the ‘in a world’ is as important as ‘as a world’ (Uniquing) and ‘among other worlds’ (Togethering). The Unique always-and-already finds itself[21] within the overlapping commons of Uniquings and Togetherings that constitute the past-present-future of the cosmos. This cosmos is not contentless but is revealed in placetime, or the experienced-common-world that unfolds in the intersection of the many Uniquings and Togetherings in spacetime.[22] This dwelling/inhabiting, though, is also an en-habiting: one experiences placetime through the history of echoes that one finds oneself always already dwelling in, making inhabiting habitual. How the world unfolds to us depends on how we have been habituated into an echoic history that we co-constitute but which we only form one part of. The world as it appears in our habituation is therefore constitutive of our lived experience of dwelling/inhabiting.
    • Womaning – I use the term ‘womaning’ to distinguish my view of gender categories from the conventional identity-like uses of ‘woman’ and ‘man.’ The view I advocate for is iterative, processional, performative, and historical.[23] That is, to be a ‘woman’ is (1) to repeat and transform (echo) the expressions of ‘womanhood’ that came before, (2) to unfold one’s life or a portion of one’s life through the persistent integration of this echoic history into one’s life, (3) to unfold this echoic history through its integration into our activity (that is, to perform this echoic history), and (4) to call upon certain pasts and intend certain futures in presenting one’s echoic womanhood. All these dimensions interrelate to define womanhood as womaning or the act of inhabiting womanhood. One womans whenever she unfolds her lived activity within an echoic history of womanly performances. There is no ‘womanhood’ per se but only the repetition and transformation of this history in our Uniquing and Togethering.
    • Creating-Begetting-Proceeding – I belong to the Christian mystic tradition, and this appears in the use of Trinitarian language. Though the traditional Trinitarian formula is Father-Son-Holy Spirit, this personal language conceals the content of the Trinity: that the divinity is Many-in-One and One-in-Many, and that the facets of this One/Many are persons distinguished by their relation to one another. In the traditional formula, the Son is begotten of the Father and the Spirit proceeds from the Father (and maybe the Son, if you subscribe to the filioque).[24] However, I believe what matters is the relations themselves, not the symbology that is layered on them. So, I refer to the Trinity as Creating-Begetting-Proceeding. Further, I believe that the Trinity is subsumed into creation itself in the creative act, such that the nature of the cosmos mirrors that of the Trinity. This is reflected in the relationship between Uniquing, Togethering, and inhabiting/dwelling, in that each is consubstantial with one another and cannot be differentiated except by their relations. This is further understood through perichoretic kenosis, or the substantial interpenetration of the persons of the Trinity and their self-emptying in creation.[25] I believe this is the part of my thought least likely to translate outside of my world experience, but it is an important part of that experience, so it is worth noting.

    With these concepts in mind, I now echo.

    Dysphoria I: Womaning

    Do you feel the earth beneath your feet? Roll, (gentle) roll around and touch the contours of place – what does here feel like? – Bumps and grooves and textures, roots digging tender into the sense between bone and home.

    How do you attend to your body? Do you? Do you attend to yourself or attend to others? Neither? Both? What does your skin feel like? What does your heartbeat sound like? What body do you inhabit? How do I move when I echo myself, en-fleshing the I that I intend? What histories do I repeat and what futures do I move towards in my transition? Where does my body lean? How is it directed?

    I am (a) Unique, myself-in-myself, and irreplaceable by any other. As (a) Unique, I narrate my self-unfolding. To Unique is to unfold one’s own life across time and space – to be a world, in a world, among other worlds. Thirty years of growing in placetime, the loom of life swaddles my spirit inside self-image, welcoming experience into the void. I travel, a world-between-worlds. Past-present-future. Creating-begetting-proceeding. Love-loving-love.[26] Who I was, who I am, who I will be. “The three are testifying— the Spirit, the water, and the blood—and the three are united in agreement.”[27] The persons share the same essence; they differ only by their relation. {Ashton, ash, Penelope}. Past-present-future. Creating-begetting-proceeding. Love-loving-love.

    Transitioning is re-membering, bringing together the shattered parts of the Unique. Suspended between the pendulum of euphoria and dysphoria, I find myself spread across time. I was: Ashton. I am: Penelope. I will be: myself. In transitioning, I Unique as that-which-I-am, dis-membering and re-membering myself, searching for pasts and futures through which to articulate my present. First, we attend to the body. What do you feel when you hum? Mmmm. Hear your bones echo like a cave. Where is your pain? Where is your pleasure? Your body is a landscape; what are the features you wish to travel? We wander ourselves and encounter the becoming of the matter we are, matter mattering matter. Feel the texture of gravity as it tosses you to-and-fro, moving-stillness, the ever-wobbling. How do you want to move? What do you want to be? Where does your body lean?

    Next, we attend to the world. How do you want to move your hands? Your mouth? Your feet? Your hips? How do you want to animate? What motioning are you drawn towards, where do you encounter yourself? Transitioning is a doing; even to remain or to refuse is an action. All doing is a patterning, an echoing – repetition and transformation. What do you want to repeat? How do you want to transform? In being oriented, being directed, where do you want to go?[28] We world, us dwellers, animas in animation balleting the possible. The I points; it describes a looking – a here, here! Who? A Me: the here that never leaves. There is no center, but there is always a somewhere and somewhen, the pre-condition of ensouled life, consciousness-across-time. We are doings that do and meanings that mean, aggregates of en-minded matter collaborating in action. In saying I am, I en-world my presence in time. Always entangled, this presence appears as placetime, a flow of Uniques en-worlding together. Agency is the transformation of placetime, dancing mattering – we do, and in this doing, we shape and re-shape our dwelling, mattering as act and medium. Self-creation is an artistic act; to act is to paint with motion as brush and substance as paint. I art; therefore, I am. I am; therefore, I inhabit.

    There is no such thing as a woman or a man. There is woman-ing and man-ing, two kinds of mattering in the world. But each of these matterings is a tree of infinite branches, ways of woman-ing and man-ing as Unique as the Uniques that compose it. And outside these trees lie many other groves, many other ways of gender-ing. In en-fleshing the gender I am, I repeat certain histories and attend to my transforming with certain futures in my intending. Intention is orientation and direction.[29] Attention and intention are paired; one intends to attend and attends to intend. Gender is reproduced through intention-bearing attention, through motion. Gender orients us, directs us, and moves us to attend and intend in certain ways. To be a gender is to gender, to perform the activity of [gender]-ing. To be a woman is to woman; to be a man is to man. Yet, each of these genders is not an imaginary duad surrounded by an infinite cosmos of gender-ings but are themselves galaxies formed from a history of associated gender-ings. I woman not as Woman, but as a woman: in a time, in a place, as me. I woman because I dwell in the many histories of womaning, repeating pasts, and transforming futures in inhabiting the present. We ensoul our lives already here, in history. Animating, we wander the other-thinkers, the them that measure and quantify, the imagined One. This One has never existed, but emerges in our patterning, the psychic residue of the struggle of history, the agon where matterings clash. The Leviathan is an imagined One; an unspoken Father that reimagines creation in its own image and barks out this image to the world. We are in the wilds following a dead king. We are free.

    Dysphoria II: Disjunction

    I am a world, in a world, among other worlds.  In my unfolding, I dwell in the placetime that grows in the commons, neither mine nor theirs. This placetime appears to me already value-laden, with matterings layering on the architecture of my dwelling so that each part appears as-something and for-something.[30] This is a chair, and it is for sitting. This is a fork, and it is for eating. This is a man… no, wait, a woman… no, wait… That… thing… is disjoint: out-of-place, catawampus, crooked, flawed, failed, an object of suspicion and irritation and intervention. Matterings are not solely a projection of myself onto the world, but the projections of others onto me. Matterings co-constitute the world we inhabit, creating the grammar by which we make sense of ourselves and our activity. We appear to ourselves as a mattering that is both self-created and projected by others, and which may then appear as either a site of liberation or a prison. I am a woman, they see me as a man; I am both self-creating and disjoint, both an artwork and a failure.

    Dysphoria. Dys-pherein. To-carry-suffering, to-bear-affliction, to-dwell-in-pain. Dysphoria is the experience that one’s own body as the origin and vessel of suffering, an ontological harm borne from ontological injustice. Ontological harm: suffering located in things-in-themselves, the elements that are constitutive of the world or a part of the world. I experience my body not only as a site of harm, but as the harm itself: my body is the pain that I endure, and this pain seems constitutive of what it means for me to inhabit my body in the first place. Importantly, this rests on a mistake: ‘the body’ does not exist[31], much less is it inherently valanced. Our being enfleshed is not an original sin. Instead, ontological injustice generates ontological harm. Ontological injustice: when the intersubjective co-constitution of the world produces unjust relationships and harm that seem inherent to things-in-themselves.

    The experience of my body as ontologically harmful is generated from the ways that this experience has been co-constituted by the system of matterings I dwell in, matterings that are themselves racialized, classed, gendered, and which project a parochial world-picture onto the cosmos as a whole. Why do I experience my body this way? Because through this world picture, (1) my internal mapping of my body is disjoint from the map provided for me as a male-assigned person, (2) this internal map seems to be generated from the body-itself (the call is coming from inside the house!) such that not only is my map disjoint but so is my body, (3) such disjoint gender-experiences are not neutral in the external map but are negatively-valanced and associated with abjectivity and monstrousness, so that (4) I experience my body as abject and monstrous and my desires as a pathological or alien corruption, an infection rooted in the thing-in-itself. Kristeva here is illustrative: abjection emerges from the exclusion of those that lie outside the norms and rituals of the social order, and is experienced as a trauma, as a schism or separation from the world that marks one off as monstrous.[32] 

    This is one reason even cis people experience gender dysphoria.[33] The gender-forms that we aim at are not real patterns of embodiment, but a projection onto those patterns. The world-picture we receive pictures women and men not as they appear in the world but as they are expected to appear, creating a negative valance in any appearance or experience of the body that is disjoint from the specter we aim at. The ontological injustice of the world-picture aims at trans people because we operate outside the cis dyad that beats at the heart of the picture. However, trans oppression is one manifestation of the Leviathanic system that regiments gender and embodiment in general. We are the monsters[34], but every person sees a monster in themselves whenever they do not fit the picture: being disjoint becomes experienced as an alienating infection that separates each of us from who we’re supposed to be. Except that no one has ever met those standards. No one’s body fully accords with the forms imaged in the world-picture. Everyone has some monster in them.

    The promise of trans liberation is not only that we will be freed from our oppression and be able to live and flourish as we are and as we desire to be. It is that, and that is what must be centered in our struggle. But — trans liberation also means breaking apart the world picture that ensnares everyone in gender oppression. It means uprooting the system of ontological injustice that alienates us from our bodies. It means the systematic abolition of dysphoria. That is why trans liberation must also be for the abolition of white supremacy, patriarchy, ableism, fatphobia, capitalism, and imperialism. Each of these forms of oppression intertwines in the world picture of what our bodies should look like, what they should do, and what we should do with them. Abolishing the world picture won’t set the world right, but it will set on fire the system of ontological injustice that causes us to locate harm in ourselves, in our bodies and minds, and in the world itself. The world picture of Leviathan spiders out to being itself, and to free ourselves from injustice we must also smash that picture. Liberation is iconoclasm.

    Dysphoria III: Apophasis

    The cis soul denies, moving away from the dawn that beckons in the dark night.[35] The problem they face is an allic[36] problem: because they witness themselves as standard, they can’t recognize themselves as one-in-many / many-in-one. The cis soul is one pattern in the cosmos of gender, one echoic history in an endless sea. But it cannot see itself as one-among-others because its ontology rests on sovereignty. It is Leviathanic: that whose power is assumed, whose power grounds the many in one structure of authority. The cis soul can go so far as to say there are deviations from itself, but it cannot say the gender they dwell in is not a privileged standard.

    Uniquing as a woman and Uniquing as a man are not reducible to Uniquing as cis – to center cisness in one’s womaning and maning. The contradiction at the heart of the cis soul is that in sewing one’s cisness so close to the soul as to be inseparable, this cis identity clouds one’s gendering. In grounding their activity in their cisness, the cis soul must guard against any rupture to its sovereignty, any indication that the duadic form of cis gender lives is one-among-many. One can only be a woman so far as one’s womaning fits with the duadic form of the cis soul; one can only man as a reflection of that form. The mistake here is the same that pervades civilization: to make real the form at the expense of forgetting that that form is grounded in those who form.[37] Commodity fetishism[38] is one form of a greater idolatry, one that appears again in the contradiction of the cis soul. The fundamental move of Uniquing as cis is to forget[39] one’s womaning and maning and to instead identify with the duadic form of cis men and cis women – to relocate their activity to an idol that they created.

    None of this is to say that the categories of cis and trans are empty. One can meaningfully identify as a cis woman or a trans woman because it identifies one in the social background within which one womans. However, there is a difference between identifying with one’s womanhood as a woman who has already been socially identified as a woman (that is, being a cis woman) and identifying with one’s place within the cis duad rather than one’s own womaning. The question is where the activity lies: does one woman as the woman they are, or do they woman according to the system that womans them? Breaking away from the cis soul, even while remaining cis, requires uprooting the sovereignty of cisness and relocating it in themselves, in others, and the world. It requires anamnesis: re-membering oneself as the one who forms to escape the prison of the form.[40]

    The sad thing about Plato is he never did get out of that cave.

    Dysphoria IV: (Trans)Misogyny

    This is a common transmisogynistic pattern of thought:

    P1: Women’s bodies are inherently sexual. That is: to be a woman is to be a sex object.
    P2: Men only dress and act like women as part of a sex act - because they desire to be a sex object.
    P3: Trans women are men who dress and act like women.
    C: Trans women are engaging in a public sex act, the content of which is to present themselves as a sex object.

    P1 is generally unspoken, while P2-3 may be explicitly affirmed in defending C. This pattern leads to a wide range of injustices, including public bathroom laws, three articles laws, bans on drag performances, bans on gender-affirming care, and the “trans panic defense” as a justification for murder. Since we (trans women) are, according to this line of thought, engaging in a public sex act, we can be regulated and punished. Using a public restroom becomes sexual harassment, wearing women’s clothing becomes public indecency, drag performances become sex work[41], gender-affirming care for minors becomes grooming, and murder is justified because trans sexuality is a form of coercive trickery. There is a clear line from trans women being sex objects to the everyday activity of trans women being a sex act, to violence and oppression and deprivation.

    Notably, there are some redundancies in the reasoning and it can consistently be presented as such:

    P1: Women’s bodies are inherently sexual. That is: to be a woman is to be a sex object.
    P2: Trans women are women.
    C: Trans women are engaging in a public sex act, the content of which is to present themselves as a sex object.

    P2 and 3 in the original argument are sometimes presented as justifications for the connection between P1 and C. This is because the person who engages in this pattern of thought does not typically affirm that trans women are women, and so must explain why they still fit the sexual object role.[42] Cross-dressing or similar actions or identities are therefore used as both a bridge and a smokescreen.[43] However, this move is only at the surface. What drives the transmisogynistic argument is an internal affirmation[44] that trans women are women without an external or public affirmation. Trans women are oppressed as women, but part of this oppression is for our identity as women to be denied. However, the denial of our womanhood only works because we are women.

    Many of the forms of oppression trans women face are variations on women’s oppression more broadly. If you are a woman, it is safer to use public restrooms in a group. If you are a woman, you must self-monitor your appearance to avoid dangerous interactions and a loss of social status. If you are a woman, anything you create will be interpreted according to your perceived sexual value. If you are a woman, changing or expressing or valuing your body is an impurity and invitation to unwanted sexual behavior. And, if you are a woman and you are assaulted or even murdered, it is justified because all women want it and all women are temptresses. In all of these cases, we, as both trans and cis women, are reduced to sex objects, are denied our autonomy, self-ownership, and safety, and are subject to the property(object)-owning authority of men.

    Misogyny is the pervasive dehumanization of women, and it takes different shapes depending on how our womanhood is perceived. All women are criminals for the misogynist, but what the crime is may differ. The crime of the trans woman is to be assigned a different sex at birth and to transition, but it is only a crime because we are women. The denial of the transmisogynist is self-defeating, because their accusations only work with the presumption of affirmation. Transmisogyny is misogyny and the liberation of women generally and of trans women in particular is biconditional. To abolish transmisogyny we must abolish misogyny and to abolish misogyny we must abolish transmisogyny. Trans liberation is a necessary path in defeating patriarchy.

    Interlude: Adult Human Female

    For Penelope. For hope.

    How much time do I have to free you, scared little girl? How much time did you sleep in that dark closet, buried under histories barely whispered, barely spoken? How much did it hurt to hide? Drifting alone in the hull of Noah’s ark, sailing away, and waking up again, not you. How much time have you been here inside me? Is it warm or cold? Light or dark? Are you retreating or arriving? Adult human female.[45] How did you survive? Please reach out to me, I’ll offer you a hand. Please, I need your help.

    I see you, I glimpse you, for the first time. Adrift in the sea of 2024, I see you. Through the soft guidance of another, I see you. Through gritted teeth, I see you. Through the mirror of my flesh, I see you. And you’re scared. And you’re trying to see the light. And the darkness from the cave continues to creep in. Little girl, who never got to be a little girl. Little girl, who bubbled up in play, who rolled in the grass and collected bugs in the dirt and scraped her knee on the asphalt. Little girl, who made up worlds that she could explore and escape in, where she was free. Little girl, unable to breathe and forced to shove-down memories until you get sick. Little girl, who hid in her cage barely living, shivering in her enclosure. Little girl.

    Adult human female. I see you. I’m here for you. I am you. Penelope, hold on. The deep dark has been here all along and you know what lies down there. But the spirit that keeps thumping restlessly in your heart is there too. The spirit that hums love whenever Katie[46] is around. The spirit that dances freedom whenever jazz is on the radio. The spirit that smiles equality surrounded by trees and singing birds. The spirit that was ever-ever-womaning, even when my body was not. The spirit that is me, even when I feel so far away. Glimpsing you, (barely, barely) through the porthole of dysphoria, of dissociation and depersonalization and fear, I see you.

    And I’m here. And I’ve got you.

    Euphoria I: Primrose

    What joy impresses my soul,
    morrowmemory bells the primrose.
    I tend, waves, here-and-there to-and-fro,
    the lighthouse of your spirit sunrises the starrysnow.
    O, softwelcoming gentle-one, I work for you;
    my paradise, earth-soul that earths my earth-soul.
    I unfold.

    You thou me, my fairy love. Impish time flowers into intimacy,
    the rocking-rocking-rocking of dwelling-with-you.
    Feel my breath rock in you; I impress my heart with you.
    Worlds upon worlds sway with every footstep,
    I clockwork the many in dancing slow, a 1 a 2 a.
    Smooth drips the jamlight cognac of being-here.
    We mellow.

    Caramel, this time-between.
    Motion is entelechy (in the kitchen we sugar ontologies).
    This is the best of all possible worlds. (I met you.)
    This is the best of all possible futures. (Everyday, I meet you.)
    I womb our garden in my futuring, intending-attending-meaning-dreaming.
    Our souls unfold together like a forest. There is so much life in us.
    There is so much life to come.

    Euphoria II: Odysseus

    For Odysseus, who showed me Ithaca was possible.

    We poetry. In motion, we sway meaning, significance. Significant. To matter to. Language is a map of the interior[47], mirrored me-and-yous that echo out to form landscapes of meaning, intertwined matterings growing in the wilds of our shared placetime. Communication begins with perichoretic subject-objects, past-present-futures expressing the interior by creating a world-with-others, the interpenetration of being-here, -now, -with-you. First, we listen; heartbeats and unknown speech and gentle swaying songs. Then, we sing — our vocal cords warble and strain, setting sail across the cosmos to be taken-up again by another. Clutching close, we soon sing as two, patty-cake patty-cake a baker’s man, Simon says, I see you. From the two the many erupts, joining in chorus and choir – gathering, hunting, eating, loving, fighting, worshipping, celebrating, lamenting. And it is in this many we find the one again, the echoic universe of the many allowing us to signify ourselves to the world. I am here, ghost-in-flesh mattering being. You are here, angel-in-presence emerging a new mattering. Meeting you, I inhabit a new world, a landscape that stretches between us, a time-ing of our memory, forming-together the history of us. I kneel in the soil of our love; I tend to you. Love is attending to the unfolding of another.[48] To attend is to tend-to. To tend-to is to en-home our activity, to relinquish our power[49] and to instead unfold mutually, equally, souls togethering without possession or direction.

    Transitioning is wandering. My body is one place; my body becomes another. What is it about me that shifts as I travel transition? Hormones flow and shift, cycles dis-membering and re-membering again. My skin softens, my fat travels, my body takes on a new form. In these shifts, I dwell more comfortably in my womanhood, seeing for the first time the woman-that-I-am. HRT does not make me a woman, but it helps me wipe away the clouds that obscure my womaning, that keep me separated from my body, my womanhood. Still, so much more remains — I want to be a woman with you, I want to woman with you. You cannot know by knowing alone. You can only know together, by togethering.[50] I love because my life testifies to it – no poem will ever express the whole of love, because its significance is found not in language, but the world itself – in the act of loving. I am a woman because my life testifies to it – no theory will ever capture womanhood, because what it is to be a woman is to woman – the act of womaning. And here I sit, dwelling in these mysteries and moving through them, loving and womaning. And my soul aches. Because what I want is to love and woman with you. To sit on our back porch, swaddled in blankets watching the dogs wrestle in the soft grass. 

    My sunshine, my soil, the garden who gardens me. She jazzes. Ballets kindness, pinks wisdom, flowers beauty. I was a mountain when I met you. Honeyapple shoe-tapping the awaiting, I wait. Seeing you, my breath repeats and hums hallelujah, heart-skipping Seraphim my angel graces. Time appears when two or more are gathered, re-membering our being-here; being-here with you I intend and attend-to a new future. Gently, we unwrap our placetime in the hills, two autos[51] in solar orbiting, roller-skating into our unfolding togethering. Rejoice, join, rejoin, rejoice. Holding one another, we dream the coming Ark, climbing Ararat and descending into bed a reincarnation. Spirit-matter blends and joins in Alalia[52], the ocean of possibility that life drips eternally back into. Raindrops of animation, time hovers still as our lives touch and combine, souling creaturely the currents of becoming. The all is repeated and transformed, waves of knowing wyrded[53] into the future, every act an act of fate. Odysseus journeys to Penelope again-and-again, eternal return[54] mything every moment. The myth we carry together carries our carrying-together. Placetime rhythms the echoing Unique, the breathing-heartbeat of intertwined anima. I love it when you give me flowers. I love it when you you. I love you.

    My Odysseus.

    Euphoria III: Cataphasis

    Uniques join together in patterns of inhabiting, unfolding over one another in love. Love orients our attention, allowing another to disclose themselves to us. Knowing is echopraxy, en-mattering one’s meaning in their rhythmic activity. Praxis tics meaning-in-time, the origami of the soul. Every locution is a world-between, you-and-I unfolding into doing, an illocution that bubbles up the perlocutionary wave, the echoic ocean of meaning-in-motion.[55] The world is a disco, the space-between-us swaying with significance, poetic rhythms of here-and-there, now-and-then. Intention waits in silence.[56] Wait. Listen. The the, the the, the the. The the, the the, the the. Do you hear that? The heart illocutes being. To live is to sense; to know is to feel. (Facts care deeply about your feelings. Write them a letter sometime.) “Unsheathe your dagger definitions. Horseness is the whatness of allhorse.”[57] I cannot speak what I mean, I mean in intended-attending, in en-worlding. The space-between flutters potentia into recognition; “I see you” is hidden at the start of every definition.

    Ask: Whose past will you appear in? Who are you the future of? Sometimes you are the future of a child you’ve never seen and dwell in the past of an ancestor you will never know. Meaning is the same thing as history, v. to-history. We who history. Our species-being is across-time and without-time, the many-pasts and many-futures of human beings in mutual shaping, the form-of-life of the human Unique. We talk the same world that we think and think the same matter in our listening. Walking. Kneeling. Rocking back-and-forth. Consciousness bubbles up from bodies-in-placetime, the circulation of attention. To mean is to matter-with-another, to matter another, to matter-to, to matter-to-you. To understand is to apocalypse[58], to reveal the already-here. We are the universe creating itself through its own imagination, the world disclosing itself-to-itself through the infinite articulation of the Unique. We are the Unique in the Unique which makes the Unique Unique. We Unique the world in doing. Matter matters and the Unique Uniques.

    Why can’t you see me? Sit a second and listen. To the thump of my heart, to the whistle of my breath, to the groan of my ribcage. What part of me does not speak? We cocoon the world in our head and forget we are the caterpillar. All there is around us is us, and in this forgotten womb you cannot see me. The pilgrims forget their cocoon and mistake the glint of money for divinity, as if the pneuma moves in metal rather than spirit. TERFs forget their cocoon and mistake the security of identity for liberation, as if womanhood moves in genes and genitals rather than sisterhood and solidarity. I woman afraid of the woman you are, but I woman more freely than you ever will. The Sapphic cosmos echoes the intertwined becoming of many worlds, the body of God held, kissed, and loved, the eros of creation.[59] The Milky Way is a woman; I am a woman. I woman by mattering matter; I lesbian by dwelling with others. The Buffalo rivers the plateau; I granny-to-be[60], a woman-soul wandering Ozarkia. Womaning womans a world.

    Transitioning is re-membering. To re-member is to bring-back-together, to re-shape the origami of the soul. I am a sculpture I art.

    I am.

    Euphoria IV: Penelope

    Heartbeats rapid the memory, a souling needle sewing spirit in stone. Matter threading mattering into matter; anima motions time.

    John the Madman swallows locusts in the wilderness, living on manna and stardust. Into the water and into the pneuma, I give myself to God, to the world. The earth-souls inhabit breath and breathe the Spirit, telling stories under the lamplight of the constellations. Timegrooves the melancholy joy of unraveling, enminded togethers tethering close the universe. Baptism in milk and ecstasy in honey. We are born again into resurrected flesh, dwelling in the imago Dei of the Unique. Alaliallelujah.

    I hope. I breathe. I decay. I resurrect. Fireflies rock lovingly the hallowed dirt. A thimble of memory holds eternity. Please hold me. Wash my feet before we commune, this body of mine. Take, eat. Most of the time I am afraid. Gaia dresses windowless the cosmopsyche.[61] I hope I’m a good person. Who am I, this nowhere between notime? The gates of Ahura Mazda[62] stand solid as stone, but its walls are as permeable as smoke. I was Ashton and I hold him dear. I was ash and I cherish their bravery. I am Penelope and I love myself.

    The all weeps wilderness, the wilderness weeps will. In the original dwelling, the One was whole but lonely; in loneliness, it created something outside of itself – creation.[63] This creation was loving-shattering, the potential for recognition folding out of the otherness of the two, the three, the many. The One heals itself by dis-membering and re-membering, by taking apart the hurting nothing and putting it back together as whole. In the beginning, the hurt One; in the end, the healed One. God becomes human as a wounded healer.[64]m She weeps and turns her tears into wine. She dies, descends to Tartarus, and is born again.

    A human being is matter mattering. And sometimes it hurts. And sometimes it heals. Everything hurts. Everything heals. All I am is time unraveling. All I am is matter mattering.

    Everything matters so much.

    Οἴκοι βέλτερον εἶναι. – Hesiod, Works and Days

    Bibliography

    de Acosta, Alejandro. “How the Stirner Eats God.” In Anarchy: A Journal of Desire Armed 67. Berkeley, CA: C.A.L. Press, 2009. 

    Agamben, Giorgio. “The Passion of Facticity.” In Potentialities. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1999: 185-204. 

    Ahmed, Sara. Queer Phenomenology. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2006. 

    Althaus-Reid, Marcella. The Queer God. London, UK: Routledge Press, 2003. 

    St. Augustine. On the Trinity. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2008. 

    Austin, J.L. How to Do Things with Words. Oxford, UK: Clarendon Press, 1975. 

    Brandom, Robert. Articulating Reasons: An Introduction to Inferentialism. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000.

    Burroughs, William. The Nova Express: The Restored Text. London, UK: Penguin, 2014. 

    Burroughs, William. The Soft Machine: The Restored Text. London, UK: Penguin, 2014. 

    Butler, Judith. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. London, UK: Routledge Press, 2006. 

    Byrne, Alex. “Are Women Adult Human Females?” Philosophical Studies 177 (2020), no. 12: 3783-3803. 

    Camatte, Jacques. Capital and Community. Sheffield, UK: Pattern Books, 2020.

    Crawford, Jackson (trans. & ed.). The Poetic Edda. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing, 2015. 

    Deleuze, Gilles. The Fold: Leibniz & the Baroque. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1992.

    Derrida, Jacques. Limited, Inc. (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1988). 

    Ganos, Christos, et al. “The Pathophysiology of Echopraxia/Echolalia: Relevance to Gilles de la Tourette Syndrome.” Movement Disorders, 27 (1 September 2012), vol. 10: 1222-1229. 

    Gell, Alfred. Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory. Oxford, UK: Clarendon Press, 1998.

    St. Gregory of Nazianzus. On God and Christ. Yonkers, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2002.

    Heidegger, Martin. Being and Time. London, UK: Harper Publishing, 2008. 

    St. John of the Cross. The Dark Night of the Soul. London, UK: Dover Press, 2003. 

    Joyce, James. Finnegan’s Wake. London, UK: Penguin Classics, 1999. 

    Joyce, James. Ulysses. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 1998. 

    Blessed Julian of Norwich. Showings. Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1977.

    Kant, Immanuel. Critique of Pure Reason. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1999.

    Kristeva, Julia. The Powers of Horror. New York City, NY: Columbia University Press, 1982. 

    Maria Lugones. “Playfulness, ‘World-Travelling,’ and Loving-Perception” Hypatia 2 (Summer 1987), no. 2: 3-19. 

    Marx, Karl & Engels, Friedrich in Tucker, Robert (ed.) The Marx-Engels Reader. New York City: Norton, 1972.

    Murdoch, Iris. The Sovereignty of Good. London, UK: Routledge Press, 2001. 

    Payne, Martin. Narrative Therapy. London, UK: SAGE Publications, 2006.

    Nabokov, Vladimir. Ada, or Ardor. New York City, NY: McGraw-Hill, 1969. 

    Nabokov, Vladimir. Pale Fire. New York City, NY: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2011. 

    Nietzsche, Friedrich. The Gay Science. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2001. 

    Nouwen, Henri. The Wounded Healer. New York City, NY: Image, 1979.

    Novatore, Renzo. The Revolt of the Unique & Towards the Creative Nothing. Sheffield, UK: Pattern Books, 2020.

    Plato. Phaedo. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing, 1977. 

    Plato. Republic. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing, 1992. 

    Preciado, Paul. Can the Monster Speak? Los Angeles, CA: Semiotext(e), 2021.

    Rusch, William (ed.). The Trinitarian Controversy. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1980.

    Sellars, Wilfrid. Empiricism and the Philosophy of Mind. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997.

    Stirner, Max. The Ego and Its Own. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.

    Weil, Simone. Gravity and Grace. Winnipeg, MB: Bison Books, 1997.

    Whitman, Walt. Leaves of Grass. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2005.

    Withy, Katherine. Heidegger on Being Affected. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2024.

    Zwicky, Jan. Lyric Philosophy. Edmonton, Alb.: Brush Education, 2014.


    Endnotes

    [1] Christos Ganos, et al. “The Pathophysiology of Echopraxia/Echolalia: Relevance to Gilles de la Tourette Syndrome,” Movement Disorders, 27 (1 September 2012), vol. 10: 1222-1229.

    [2] Derrida, Jacques. Limited, Inc. (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1988).

    [3] This clarification is made to distinguish this theory from conventional speech act theory, exemplified by J.L. Austin, How to Do Things with Words (Oxford, UK: Clarendon Press, 1975).

    [4] This view is influenced by Robert Brandom, Articulating Reasons: An Introduction to Inferentialism (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000).

    [5] cf. The inferential agency of art objects in Alfred Gell, Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory (Oxford, UK: Clarendon Press, 1998).

    [6] This approach is influenced by James Joyce’s use of language in Ulysses and Finnegan’s Wake, where the disruption of linguistic convention is supposed to invoke experience (wakeful experience in Ulysses and dreaming in FW). It is also influenced by the combination of narrative and philosophy in Vladimir Nabokov’s later texts, such as Pale Fire and Ada or Ardor, along with William Burrough’s late texts such as The Soft Machine and Nova Express.

    [7] ‘Resonance’ and the poetic orientation of philosophy here is borrowed from Jan Zwicky, Lyric Philosophy (Edmonton, Alb.: Brush Education, 2014).

    [8] Blog url: fishintheafternoon.com.

    [9] Karl Marx & Friedrich Engels, The German Ideology, found in Robert Tucker (ed.) The Marx-Engels Reader (New York City: Norton, 1972): 160.

    [10] Marx, Critique of the Gotha Program, found in Robert Tucker (ed.), The Marx-Engels Reader: 525-541. See also: Karl Marx, Grundrisse in Robert Tucker (ed.), The Marx Engels Reader: 221-293.

    [11] This interpretation of the Gemeinwesen is influenced by the post-Marxist/anarcho-primitivist writer Jacques Camatte, particularly in Jacques Camatte, Capital and Community (Sheffield, UK: Pattern Books, 2020). For a short overview of this perspective see: https://illwill.com/the-gemeinwesen-has-always-been-here-an-engagement-with-the-ideas-of-jacques-camatte.

    [12] I define a ’soul’ broadly as the fully unfolded life of a Unique stretched across space and time, understood in this totality. The ’soul’ is not any time-slice of the Unique’s unfolding, but the whole that each slice constitutes.

    [13] This term is borrowed from narrative therapy, such as Martin Payne, Narrative Therapy (London, UK: SAGE Publications, 2006).

    [14] Marx & Engels, The German Ideology.

    [15] I do not mean to imply any particular view of the self here. I do not believe that self-naming and self-articulating of this type requires a static entity that corresponds to the ‘self.’

    [16] Max Stirner, The Ego and Its Own (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press), 5.

    [17] Renzo Novatore, The Revolt of the Unique & Towards the Creative Nothing (Sheffield, UK: Pattern Books, 2020.)

    [18] Gilles Deleuze, The Fold: Leibniz & the Baroque (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1992).

    [19] Alejandro de Acosta, ”How the Stirner Eats God,” in Anarchy: A Journal of Desire Armed 67 (Berkeley, CA: C.A.L. Press, 2009).

    [20] Stirner, The Ego and Its Own, 161.

    [21] This term is borrowed from Martin Heidegger, and specifically from Katherine Withy’s use of the term in Katherine Withy, Heidegger on Being Affected (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2024).

    [22] The distinction here between placetime and spacetime is important. Spacetime refers to the dimensional nature of being-in-time (that is, Minkowski spacetime, Einsteinian relativity, and their descendants). However, placetime refers to how we experience being in this spacetime with others – it is not the real (whatever that means) but the world of appearances that we experience our lives within. I intentionally want to imply that this world of appearances is not secondary to the real, but is actually primary in how we dwell in the world.

    [23] As reflected in the use of ’performative’ and ’iterative,’ this view of gender is highly influenced by Judith Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (London, UK: Routledge Press, 2006).

    [24] cf. William Rusch (ed.). The Trinitarian Controversy (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1980).

    [25] St. Gregory of Nazianzus, On God and Christ (Yonkers, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2002).

    [26] cf. St. Augustine, On the Trinity (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2008).

    [27] 1 John 5.7-8 CEB

    [28] cf. Maria Lugones, ”Playfulness, ’World-Travelling,‘ and Loving-Perception” Hypatia 2 (Summer 1987), no. 2: 3-19.

    [29] cf. Sara Ahmed, Queer Phenomenology (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2006).

    [30] This is influenced by the Kantian tradition. Specifically, Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1999) and Wilfrid Sellars, Empiricism and the Philosophy of Mind (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997).

    [31] By this, I mean that ’the body’ is not a distinct entity separated from the rest of the world. I am implying anti-dualism, not idealism.

    [32] Julia Kristeva, The Powers of Horror (New York City, NY: Columbia University Press, 1982).

    [33] This is not commonly discussed but is true. Gender dysphoria does not refer to solely to the desire to present as a gender other than that assigned at birth, but to any discomfort with one’s gendered expression. Though trans feelings certainly fall in that category, so do experiences such as body dysmorphia or negative self-image.

    [34] Paul Preciado, Can the Monster Speak? (Los Angeles, CA: Semiotext(e), 2021).

    [35] cf. St. John of the Cross, The Dark Night of the Soul (London, UK: Dover Press, 2003).

    [36] This is a reference to allism, or those who are not autistic. Since allism is taken as the standard neurotype, I use it as a metaphor for presumed but illusory unitary standards for diverse categories.

    [37] This is an inversion of Plato’s theory of forms, as articulated in The Republic.

    [38] Karl Marx, Capital, Vol. 1 in Robert Tucker (ed.), Marx-Engels Reader: 294-438.

    [39] This ’forgetting’ calls back to both the forgetting of the knowledge of the soul in rebirth as articulated by Plato in the Phaedo and to the ignorance produced by commodity fetishism in Marx’s Capital.

    [40] Plato, Phaedo (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing, 1977).

    [41] Sex work itself diverges from the cis dyad in being a deviant form of gendered expression. In a way, sex work many times does operate as a drag performance, but not in the way implied by the above propositions. Instead, sex work is drag insofar as it is a divergent and suppressed performance of gender markers. Much more work needs to be done on this connection, however.

    [42] Again, the object-role of women as sex objects is not generally explicitly affirmed (except in the case of vociferous misogynists). However, it is an implied antecedent to why the oppression of trans women is justified and so must be implicitly reinforced.

    [43] This is not to imply that transmisogynists are right about cross-dressing. Cross-dressing is also not an inherently sexual act (nor is there necessarily something wrong in the case where it is sexual). However, transmisogyny bundles trans womanhood and cross-dressing together for the sake of enforcing oppressive gender relations.

    [44] Internal not in the sense that they secretly believe it, but in the sense that their actions only make sense in the context where it is assumed.

    [45] See: Alex Byrne, ”Are Women Adult Human Females?” Philosophical Studies 177 (2020), no. 12: 3783-3803.

    [46] Katie is my partner. At times in this work I will also poetically refer to her as Odysseus.

    [47] This is not to imply that there is an interior distinguished from the exterior. I agree with Wittgenstein that ”there is no such thing as a private language“ as stated in Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations (London, UK: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009). The interior here refers to the flow of experience that presents itself as thought, which are a type of patterned motion within the exterior, even as they are only accessible from one perspective.

    [48] This definition of love is influenced by Iris Murdoch, The Sovereignty of Good (London, UK: Routledge Press, 2001).

    [49] This is partly influenced by a footnote in Heidegger’s Being and Time, where he references two theologians (St. Augustine and Blaise Pascal) in definining love as partaking in the joy of the Dasein of another. In the context of Heidegger, it is hypothetized to be equivalent to boredom in creating the conditions for philosophical thought, though this line of argument is never fully articulated by Heidegger. For a discussion of this footnote and its implications see Giorgio Agamben, ”The Passion of Facticity,” in Potentialities (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1999): 185-204.

    [50] I mean this literally. Uniquing has no content without its interconnection in a network of Togetherings, and knowing is only possible in this interrelation. The Unique knows nothing alone, nor does it even exist.

    [51] Autos = autistics.

    [52] Alalia is the cosmos understood as an echoic ocean. It is a reference to echolalia, or the repetition of sound.

    [53] This refers to the Norse/Germanic pagan notion of wyrd, or fate. Reference to this concept can be found in the Eddas.

    [54] This concept is borrowed from Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2001).

    [55] I used to do speech act theory, and it shows. I am not certain if I will keep this terminology in later writings.

    [56] This is both a Wittgenstein reference and an appeal to a contentless understanding of intention. I do not believe it is accurate to describe intention as a held proposition or plan of action, but instead as a leaning, or orienting of one’s activity. This is influenced by Sara Ahmed in Queer Phenomenology.

    [57] Joyce, Ulysses, 178.

    [58] From the Greek apokalyptein, meaning to reveal or disclose. Though the term has come to mean the end of the world, it is more accurately the unveiling of a truth. In apocalyptic literature, this is poetically understood through the dissolution of one world and the appearing of another. See: The Revelation of John.

    [59] This language is influenced by Blessed Julian of Norwich, Showings (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1977) and Marcella Althaus-Reid, The Queer God (London, UK: Routledge Press, 2003).

    [60] This is a reference to Granny Magic, a tradition endemic to mostly white communities in the Ozarks and Appalachia. It is a syncretic tradition born from Celtic paganism, Protestant and Catholic Christianity, and indigenous and African diaspora practices.  It exists in parallel to Black magical traditions in the same area, such as Hoodoo.

    [61] Gaia is the goddess of earth in Greek cosmogony, as seen in Hesiod’s Theogony. ’Cosmopsyche’ is another way to say Anima Mundi, or the world-mind or world-spirit.

    [62] Ahura Mazda is the supreme deity in Zoroastrianism. The moral dualism of Zoroastrianism (exemplified by both a good and evil deity) was later integrated into Christianity in the divisions between human/divine, grace/sin, heaven/hell, and angel/devil.

    [63] Though this narrative appears many times in the Christian tradition, this interpretation is primarily influenced by that of Simone Weil, Gravity and Grace (Winnipeg, MB: Bison Books, 1997).

    [64] Henri Nouwen, The Wounded Healer (New York City, NY: Image, 1979).

    Image: Penelope Unraveling Her Web by Joseph Wright (1783-1784)

  • Interlude: Old Writings

    March 2nd, 2025
    How strange it is to be anything at all. -- Jeff Mangum, In the Aeroplane Over the Sea

    Content note: these writings include discussion of mental health, suicide, self-harm, drugs, gender, and sexuality. Most of these are tackled in symbolic ways, but they pop up regularly and many of these were written earnestly by me as a way to deal with my context.

    Writings from junior high and high school. I have decided to share these in tribute to my past self, strong-willed girl she was and is. She’d be happy to know I’m a woman in love with a woman, studying philosophy and still churning out ideas and poems and rhymes and portmanteaus. There was no way she could have seen this horizon, as much as she leaned to it. Eternal return, I carry you with me. Noah, you have a future. (Noah was a name I used sometimes).

    Roughly in chronological order. Lightly edited.

    1. God’s Boredom
    2. The Adventures of Nikolai Mutt
    3. The Mountain
    4. The Glass Bridge, or I, Mutt
    5. Genesis (0-yandxgen)
    6. Pilgrimage of the Emptys
    7. Somewhere Over the Rainbow
    8. Exercise in Reaction I
    9. Exercise in Reaction II
    10. Isolation
    11. Dear Dorothy Parker
    12. Dear Henry Miller
    13. Musings on Neurosis, or Fall of the White American Male
    14. Ode to Film
    15. Zampano & Gelsomina
    16. No One Plays the Blues Like Blind Willie McTell
    17. White Trash
    18. The Abyss of Being
    19. Ekpyrosis
    20. Metamorphosis (Script)

    God’s Boredom

    I spent my whole life. Prying, spying on the waitresses in the cabinet,
    Their dresses blue and soft and shadowed by men’s hands.
    40 years I spent through that hole in the wall.
    The waitresses changed, got older, got heavier.
    Some had kids, who later came and bought playing cards from the chef.
    I spent my hours on a wooden stool shut in the corner of my apartment.
    Every day I wrote another few words in my booklet,
    “Being: a word meaning dead and or dying,”
    I drank wine brought to me by my sister every Sunday morning,
    And ate sandwiches procured from children’s school lunches,
    Bribing them with new shiny pennies and bottles of sour milk,
    But always returning to my hole, hungry and malnourished.
    I watched the girls, angry and spastic, shut themselves in the back closet,
    Before their boyfriends came and stole them from the side of the walls,
    Screaming and spitting curse words and bits of rotten saliva.
    I saw the chef, weary and old, in his attempts to earn money,
    Coming back every day, whispery with new tears under his eyes,
    But always un-drained in his ideas of a greater and healthier life.
    I saw them all, changing, swearing, clamoring, dirty, broken, drunken,
    The men in their sweatshirts procuring ladies from the back counter,
    Their teeth white and pasty, swapping ideas with their bodies,
    Shriveled and smelling like cheap drugs and nightly sweat,
    The children bouncing rubber jacks off the kitchen counters at noon,
    Hitting pots and pans with their little fists, rolled tightly and feverishly,
    Babbling sounds and screaming at their parents for more candies,
    The women wiping matted stains off their home-knitted tee shirts,
    Holding the hands of babies, spitting and pulling at their hair like rope,
    Choking and shaking, screaming with gusto and nervousness.
    I saw nothing in my whole life spent on my little wooden stool,
    Its legs bending and cracking under my elderly and diabetic weight.
    I never saw anything that made me think I might want to join them,
    But I stood and waited, their faces making me feel understood,
    All alone, the jukebox playing in the back of my study, quiet and anemic.
    I spent my whole life. Prying, spying, on the man in my study

    The Adventures of Nikolai Mutt

    He took out his toes and put them back in. It had been eleven years since he’d seen Christina and he was slowly falling apart. He took out his tongue and tasted his antlers. Oh, Betty’s gonna love this. The floor was solid wood oak and stunk of petroleum. In the mornings, the oil would jelly up the pipes and he’d have to wash the sides or else it’d get sticky. He hated it when it got sticky. It tended to burn the bottoms of his feet, though he’d developed some armor now. The rest of the time he could play in the oil and not get burned, though it tasted like rubber when it got in your mouth. And not the good kind neither.

    Christina was in her white dress, the one with angels stitched into the sides. She looked sad, her blue eyes watering up like saliva. She stuck out her hand and he gabbed toward her purse. He felt it for a second. Leather, probably fake, slippery, wet. She pulled her arm back and grabbed his hand, her white glove growing yellow from the touch. She whispered no. He wished she’d talk louder, but she walked off without another word. She left that day and he’s never seen her since.

    In 1948, Mutt and Christina separated. His dad was a Russian soldier, had fought the Finns and then the Germans before fucking a young Dutch lady named Marie. He was born, lived in his grandmother’s house for a bit, and then was torn apart. Christina lived with an old Swedish couple on the coast of Latvia when Mutt was sent there. He remembered the day she grew an egg and the egg turned into a baby. Sometimes he’d draw a line in the wood and place his hand in it. It looked just like baby. He only remembered the outside once, when the doctor came to visit and took him to the garden. He saw butterflies and flower petals and a blue thing his doctor called Swiss Sky. But a bumblebee stung him and he had to kill it. He never saw the outside again.


    The Mountain

    There’s a man on a mountain and the mountain is burning from the inside out. The trees are crumbling like little tin soldiers, rolling down the hills with a monotonous clang! and shattering their roots on the rocks. The rivers are reversing, raging rapidly and randomly over the blushing steppes of the land and cascading like serpents over the cliffs. The mountain is crumbling with the fire, melting shattering breaking exploding flying across heaven and up against the clouds. There’s a man on a mountain and the mountain is burning from the inside out.

    I seen and heard and been it all, the man thinks to himself. He’s wearing an olive green jumpsuit like his grandpa used to wear in the military, crusted with dirt and his skin foaming out like fizz from a Pepsi bottle. For years now it’s been his job to destroy the mountain and he was tired of it. He was tired of getting up every morning, shitting, pissing, and eating, then digging up the mountain, boulder by boulder, rock by rock, pebble by pebble, molecule by molecule, atom by atom. He was tired of being a shovel for the Whatever, wearing his repulsive Jell-O armor and signing in day and night and noon and morning in an aluminum-can cabin out in the middle of FuckKnowsWhere. He was tired of the mountain, its gargantuan shadow soaking his life with a deep cola-colored stain, its iron rocks laughing at his pitiful body as he, Everymorning and Everyday, stabs and whacks and mauls and maims and shatters and rips and roars and breaks its surface with his sandbox tools.

    He was tired of it, and now he had burned it all to the ground. Every rock, every pebble, every river, every stream, every tree, every bush, every shrub, every fruit, every vegetable, every animal, every man, woman, and child. He Burned It All Down. And he had no remorse.

    What were the quote? Free yourself or you’ll be chained forever or something he thought with a deafening tone. He tapped his foot and scratched his ass and murmured his murmurs Hell if that Beast catch me dead. Hell if that Beast catch me at all.

    Up on the mountain, the stones were melting and the bushes were foaming over the chest of the hills like primordial semen. For years, it had stood there in its mighty splendor, its crown of thorns bellowing like a trumpet over its forests and fields. For years, it had reigned unquestioned over the land and the crust and the frothing winters. For years its robe, its crown, its throne, its palace had stood unmoved and uninhabited. For years, it had been there, in its home, happy and humorous and light-hearted. And now it was all gone. Now He was gone. And what had happened?

    He had been a good mountain, as far as mountains go. He had reigned peacefully, with no big laws or stigma. He had reigned fairly, only killing whenever he needed to. What happened? he thought.

    What had happened was thirty tons of high powered explosives in its abdomen and one pissed-off middle-aged man. Like always. And now everything was burning: the soil was bubbling like a great molten hot tub, sucking in the things around it and spewing out the things inside it — the stones were dripping off the cliffs with a pitter-patter that echoed over the morning skyline and woke the birds from their steaming nests — the rivers were tripping over each other just to get the fuck out — the trees were spinning wildly like a hot silver spoon in a cup of magmic vinegar — the animals were carrying on and flipping out going Whatever and Which Way just to escape the dirty fireball — and the mountain itself, in all its regal power, was Screaming Screaming Screaming and whispering out its last breath into the winter air. There’s a man on the mountain and the mountain is burning from the inside out.


    The Glass Bridge, or I, Mutt

    All families have their secrets. Something wrong deep down in the root of the tree. For some, it’s nuclear catastrophe. For others, it’s a backyard orgy on a Wednesday night. For the Selavys, it was teeth-marks in the mattress.

    Mutt Selavy found a bottle of bourbon and a dead bird on the floor of his flat at about 3 AM Friday night. He picked up the pieces of the bird and put them in a Rosebud sack with a deep Western-scented Humph. Craziness. For nights now things like this had been happening — a dead animal there, a burnt postcard here, dirt everywhere. He really didn’t care except for the smell. He was famous in these parts for the gruesome sculptures he made of his findings, and for the rumors that followed him.

    It had only been a week ago that his mother had found bite marks on the mattress (wet ones). The finding had resulted in a harsh Catholic scolding and the throwing of cooking utensils. He loved his mother. He wondered if she would forgive him; if God would forgive him for what he’d done. In his dark-wood closet a glass doll with porcelain eyes and a chalky, ivory coating hid out of sight. He loved her. Sometimes when he was alone, the doll would come alive, paint her skin with a deep red tone and kiss him passionately. Everyone was jealous.


    Genesis (0-yandxgen)

    All the mundane wraps in coarse ribbons
    around the dusk of the departed.
    The unrelenting violent voice of things undone
    shatters like glass on the morning air
    and burns all creation in solitude.
    It’s the collapse of the skyline bride;
    the crash of nonsense burns the skin
    with liquid-explosive birth of passion
    and the truth solidifies around the steel of the living,
    the untrue bubbling into reality.

    Pilgrimage of the Emptys

    There was a smile on her words
    as she remarked to the Gospel beside her:
    “We are all visitors to this time, this place
    We are just passing through.” (Aboriginal Australian proverb)
    and with a whisper of her wings she danced
    down the streets of her urban mythology.
    the angels on her feet echoing over the steel
    of a Baptist empire a hundred miles high
    and into the soot of a New Mexican Babylon,
    a virgin city skyline in a black fossil Holyland.
    She spoke to the sun in a frail ivory tone
    where are your dreams? where did my life go?
    and the honey of her brush dipped into her toes
    a pilgrimage of the emptys there and back again.

    Somewhere Over the Rainbow

    All is quiet. The silent whisper of snow falls on the crystalline sea, tiny mirrors dropping nervously into a silver lake. A boat floats anxiously through the reflections of the clouds, making its way through the stillness of its surroundings. Abigail, captain of the ship, scatters her eyes across the landscape. She spies another boat, an empire of steel steaming its way through the brine. Light drips down its iron frame, dead birds hooked to its side and a heavy static swallowing. Abigail’s toes tapped at her seat, her green eyes darting back and forth backanforth. All is quiet.

    The ship is groaning towards her, cracking the water underneath it with its seismic weight. Nearer and Nearer…

    Nearer and Nearer…

    Lights are dripping across the sky, melting the stars and letting them spill across the surface of the earth. The water ripples. Abigail taps at her side; t-tap tap t-tap tap ; squinting through the light at the iron fortress ahead of her (her eyes darting from place to place, specters on the bow staring into her). Nearer and Nearer…

    Nearer and Nearer…

    The ship rises like a mountain before her, eyes watching from the ledge. Someone throws a ladder down. Everything is still. Motionless, resolute. A distortion vibrates in the air. Abigail reaches for the ladder. Its steps are warm and covered with a liquid, sticky honey. She climbs up, up, up to the top of the steps.

    She climbs off the ladder and into her bed, hot, uncomfortable on a Saturday morning.


    Exercise in Reaction I

    Angels! Great rapturing angels — in the Bailey’s, ivory lips bubbling photographs, phlegm, limbs, stems of trees and golden glands of her lovely thighs — great enrapturing angels alive! Sth and pearls wide and dyed in live demons (girl! where you come from? here there and everywhere!)

    Pheww… libido. Where’s the caramel? Bailey’s?

    Where? In heat in heat! Now and then she spills secrets on tremmbling breasts alive.

    Fox fur fiery, flailing fateful faces of forgotten fortunes — fame.


    Exercise in Reaction II

    Who!
    Name em name em!
    God!
    God of who!
    You them darling folks in rafters there!
    Us!
    And them!
    Them! — God golden lips —
    Them! — evil sidestep of fate —
    These are a few of my favorite things —

    Avengers airplanes animated aardvarks bellowing in birth burning in bells callous calls of cocksure cavaliers dying in dirges drunk in drains elevating elaborate entrails of elephants flailing in faceless forgotten focus fighting and fucking fisheries of fire gorgeous girls in glasses growing from grapes hailing hydroelectric heterosexuals hanging in hymen hazing hearts iodizing in iridescent ideologues and ivory isotopes in Jackson City jacking off the jeweled jazz of Jimenez killing Kuomintang krakens of kabbalistic kangaroos leaping into liar labia of licentious looming lords marrying multiple magics of martyred maximization and negating nefarious negligence of narcotic nepotism and neoliberalism operating oval omniscience of orbiting obsolescence painting pewter patriarchs of pale palindromes and predatory prunes quartering quintessential quails of quizzical quarks rattle-tailed reconnaissance ravens raving rambunctious rages of remnant rascals….


    Isolation

    Isolation — towns floating in a glass ocean, a black empire stretching to the end forgotten and alone endtoendtoendtoendtoend iso la tion.


    Dear Dorothy Parker

    All alone on a Tuesday night, a feeling grabs me of cosmic coincidence wrapped in warm fate singing the stars to sleep. As feeling wells up in my chest — I start to cry (deep, existential tears mourning family and miss Dorothy wrapped in a chardonnay bedroom on an alcoholic night) praying of lips choking on dull heroin feeling of lady stepping on an electric winter in the spring.

    I wrote a letter:

    Dear Dorothy,

    You were young, so was I (one day, far away someday in the future when for a second I grab my chest and melt into cream) you were unhappy, so was I (right now or later or then or condescending and crushing the pills and petals of turquoise moneymakers things fall apart), you drowned yourself — in your sorrows, in your alcohol, in your guns and knives and figments of poetic imagination – will I? will I? growing up alone in a land and behind an American novel — suicidal pastoral. twenty years of soul and poetry or fifty concocting forever in my albino fingers. On second thought…

    With Love,

    [Dead Name]

    I’d rather hang around and scatter my own ashes.


    Dear Henry Miller

    let’s blow it all out of proportion, Daedalus, in the center of the lazorine, fuming over the finer points of Rhino be-bop.

    i’m disenchanted with the summer, the lonely circus in the melancholy… and the rest of it.

    Swirling to fragments in a fitful bedroom on a fateful night. bless me, Henry Miller, sex was never one for a traveling businessman. now smoking out the loneliness in the sweat of Helena.

    i’m disenchanted with the autumn, the lonely valentine and the melancholy… and the rest of it and the rest of it.

    Dear Henry,

    Trumpets blow in a windswept street in 1969. A priest wakes up to the smell of gin floating out of his mistress’s bed. Dorothy Parker in her sabbath grave. And so I gave myself to God and [Adonai] with a smile and a hand on the burgundy. How did you do it? Swathed in regal sin up to your knees. Everynight and everyday oh God of mine. All is desperation…

    I’m disenchanted with the heavenly everything, the bloody Washington and the rest of it… and the rest of it and the rest of it.


    Musings on Neurosis, or Fall of the White American Male

    I’m a silohuette, fabricated out of Miss Memory, the Once and Faithful. Tenderly, a tragic fragment of self slips in and out of thought, but I’m just too tired to exist. Steamy monologues burn quietly in the corner — melancholy reminders of a living hell. Who is writing this? I speak but no one answers, just as I expect. It’s all another day in the career of non-existence, a faberge dream of noone and nowhere.

    I hang my soul up and retire, forty days of the finer points of narration. It’s Spring again and again I’m lonely. And the rest of it.

    All I want is all I am, forgotten for the memory. A disenchanted child, endless summers and endless winters, its all forgotten before anyone has a chance to notice the thoughts of suicide bubbling from the skull. I’m just a little Tolstoy, just a lot Rimbaud and helpless… help me? Before the rest of it.

    I love you for ever, for every photographic memory of random, twisted manipulation. A chaste remainder, there and back again, suicidal pastoral. Oh, love of mine, tell me what’s empty and evermore. I’m a silohuette. I’m a shadow. I’m a wanderer in a state of statelessness…

    It’s fall in the state of I Am, goodbye to the good riddance to the goodness sakes, to the way it should be. I’ve been assassinated on the stage of my worries and anxieties. Who am I? I’m so lonely. I’m falling out of place and out of touch. I’ve burned my soul to the edge of nothingness. I’m a silohuette. I am No One…


    Ode to Film

    Ode.
    Ode to Bergman, petrified saint of claustrophobia, everlasting fire of silence, frustration, and arachnid existence;
    Ode to Eisenstein, socialist tsar of montage, captain of the SS Mob and Metaphor, alighting cataclysm of evolution;
    Ode to Bunuel, surrealist seraphim of movement, anarchist assassin of convention, morality, and iron dogmatism;
    Ode to Fellini, God of dreaming non-existence, infinite mime of Christian desolation and ivory purity;
    Ode to Ray, ever-brilliant [Adonai] of Indian cinema, fragmented cherub of adoration, escalation, insanity, and rapture;
    Ode to Oshima, radical jihadist of thought and action, tortured figment of political, social, philosophical, and sexual liberation;
    Ode to Godard, breathless artist of Coca-Cola Marxism, prophet of saintly youthhood, French Picasso of the modern inferno;
    Ode to Paradjanov, symbolist poet of stained-glass divinity, golden pilgrim of Rumi and Tarkovsky, whisp of ancient Moloch;
    Ode to Ozu, steel monolith of No evaporation, illuminating golem of domestic entropy, tranquil deacon of motionless truth.

    Zampano & Gelsomina

    Lord of Silence, light my way through the calvacades; the Catholic bunkers and deacon saints of this stoned hollow earth. Amen. and then some.

    I’m a mime trapped inside a glass box built from silent insanity and claustrophobia. A stone facade of golden fortunes and debauchery gilded across my crucifixion — the St. John of anxiety, the St. Peter of suffocation.

    I’m lost and alone in my own stoned landscape. Fetishist cathedrals and schizophrenic polytheism, stained-glass ebony cities with limitless medulla spinal cords and towers made of ivory bone and self-exhaustion. Monarch Noah the leather lord of artistic psychosis; Jonah the red-cheeked celibate of barbed-wire longing; Mutt the Corpus Christi of existential alienation, burned-out libertinism and sexuality; and St. Joan of Arc, the beautiful marble figment of dreams ever-lasting and monotone.

    I’m a mime trapped in a glass box. It’s not stress, it’s not anxiety, it’s not alienation, it’s not depression, it’s not insanity, it’s not angst, it’s not nostalgia, it’s not claustrophobia, it’s not psychosis. It’s a fucking existential nightmare and I live it every fucking day.


    No One Plays the Blues Like Blind Willie McTell

    The truth has a wicked sense of humor. Wave a flag upside down — loyalty on fire.

    Harsh, liquid light seeps into the faint medulla empire. Chemical animosity —

    Life is unbearable — electro-shock therapy for the senses, vibrating and eradicating the last vestiges of human sanity. Alienation? No, alienation is a simple sponge-tactic, soaking up chemical and romantic debris even as you try to block yourself from it. Suicide? No, or at least not for now, your conscious keeps you dangerously afloat, playing old-time hymnals like radio signals in yr head. Hatred? No, your empathy for human beings is the last remnant of hope in yr life, the last physical and mental comfort in dystopia. Nihilism? No, more Absurdism, the philosophy of life in the face of defeat; however, for how long can you deny through yr actions the burning liquidity of life? Yes, to embrace the absurdity is a point of liberation, however, still, as you try to function in yr everyday life you are haunted by its sheer, harsh elimination — nothing out of nothing out of nothing. Nothing? Fuck if I know.


    White Trash

    Seen Willie Cunnin’ham lateli? Herd hes bout twenty yards under — broke-n-head allafuzzy; yknow thtype; told missus CIAs afterem, goinall loopy with twisty everynzarobot shit, liken weall dont no that — been lobotomized, undead likenwitcha stone monocle beasts, gargoylenrobotsnshit. Miss Hollywood tollme shesdasame, callit skitzo: skitzyfreenya, r sum medical shit likethat. I call it spooked, fuzzdoubt, loony, tincan, overthhillnbackagain — shet, fuckin’ loony-as yankee-queer. Goddam, mymotherd ben onmy case had I beenaskreemn’ bout such shet. I’memberen I came hallin’ater bout litesnaliens nallthese spooky dreams shtollme: “Sun, likenwitchthvirtyousovth good Lord I spare yer hideboy, iff I katchyashouten bout sm heathn queershet Iltanyerhide likeyuwdn belief, yere? Reedagud book sun and’one fuckarown withdat shit or I’ll beetcha tilltha son goes down!” Nosterner women live onths earth, I sweartagawd, butl’telya sheidntheera peep outtame from thenonout. Whathhell r aliens anyway? Fuckitall spooksnshet justspooknshet.


    The Abyss of Being

    All is nothingness. Void. A vacuum of eternal space. Ten trillion particles bouncing about in tempered chaos. The antithesis of the physical. This is the Real, the man behind the curtain, the reality of the universe. Hold out your hand: Is there anything there? All that is visible is the concentration of invisible molecules reflected through the distortionary apparatus of perception, and that itself by the static of the Real. Now, touch your lover’s face: is there anything seperating you from them? Your hand caresses their face, feeling a being of warmth and form. But nothing’s there. Nothing except lightning-fast ripples of the elementary Real, repelling and rebounding off the ghosts of Being. Your bodies seem to touch, you feel what you imagine to be them – a solid surface; the concrete Other – but in actuality there is nothing seperating you from them – as your flesh collides with theirs, the basic building-blocks of your existence trade with theirs, creating an abstract blur of Being. You are them and they are you, a distortionary concept of perception, a single fragment of the Real.

    But, in truth, what is it that even seperates you from the Real? In fact, it is not even you who touches your lover, or your lover that touches you, but instead the Real carresing the Real, two tentacles of reality combining into an undefined solution of perception. The one hand swallows the other, and engorges itself upon the cloud of the immaterial self.

    But, this perception, of time, of action, of self and other, must be of ordered meaning, right? Well, what is order? A determined construction of structured responses and reactions? In reality, the only constants of existence are entropy and the “chaoskampf” (“struggle against chaos”). The Real, and its molecular foundation, or physical perceptatory incarnation, has no discernable form or function except for a fluid haze of reaction, which is itself an illusory Whole created through the shattered reflections of our perception of reality as shown through molecular law. This means that our modes of perception have no basis in reality, and are instead artificial tools of understanding formed through the process of chaoskampf. Time, action, change, being, have no basis in reality, and are instead paradoxes of perception, the leftover radiation of the absurd practice of human logical ordering of the chaotic Real. Time, action, and change are rendered into meaningless photographs of perception, makeshift dreams of the illusory Present, and being into a fragmentary mirror of the imagined Real – a dream rather than a reality. In short, all of our existence is but an eternal struggle against the Real, an immortal chaoskampf.


    Ekpyrosis

    Reality is the imagined space between infinites. What we see are the averaged out variables of the conflicts of the infinitesimal. (The average of void and infinite density recreates imagined reality – basically the consequence of an existing infinite within finite reality) Reality is constantly recreating itself on the infinitesimal spectrum through a loose process of establishment and disestablishment through the function of existing non-existence (or a reality of nil function). The presence of the infinitesimal, of an ever-smaller, unending vacuum of space brings up the question of the stability of such a vacuum and the meaning of an infinite exiting in a finite reality. This is especially problematic when faced with objects, which take up infinitesimal infinites of space, thus being of an infinitely existing density. An infinitely existing entity, or an infinite of any kind for that matter, however, cannot exist in a finite space, and thus such an existence would result in reality being composed of a overlaying matrix ripped through with microbial holes. But what exists in such holes or rips? These rips are everywhere, yet reality seems static. This is because our functional reality is composed of the imagined spaces-in-between-things. As the whole of existent reality is composed of a nil function (or a matrix spiraling into conic absolutes – or, 1/i) this would result in present contradictions at the structural level. These contradictions must then compose our readily observed universe? But what is that composition? Simple (or not so simple): the readily observed universe is a macro-expansion of accumulated divisions of space, or the resulting imagined matrix of two competing functions sublimating each other: (1/i composing and recomposing structural reality).

    Ekpyrosis?: Perhaps this internal contradiction results in the annihilation of certain functions, or an ekpyrosis (“conversion into fire”) which eliminates subgroups of conflicting particles, resulting in a bubbling structural stage which establishes temporary figures in space through a process of palingenesis, or rebirth, which magnified contributes to the imagined, or apparent, reality.


    Metamorphosis (Script)

    [Foreward shot of red, wooden building - almost a shrine, with a rectangular wooden archway, at the top of which hangs a large golden bell. The inside behind the archway (and the red wall the archway is composed of) is an open, red and white-wood church-like building with large black-iron windows and stylings. Flowers grow across the perimeter]

    [Switch to a shot of a black-haired woman sitting in the building, with rays of light lilting lazily around her. She drinks tea from a porcelain cup. Her hair is up, curled and ornate. She wears a loose white tank top and dull green sweat pants. She lazily drinks the tea and seems to calmly contemplate something]

    [Switch to shot down a dark hallway, with red walls and a medium-sized black-rounded clock on the left wall. At the end of the hallway is the room with the woman in it, now with her at a sideways angle, looking in front of her (the right of the screen). She is partially shadowed but the room behind her is illuminated by rays of light. The bell sounds. She looks at the camera and stands up, placing the tea cup on the table beside her]

    [Switches to a low shot from behind her, where we see her from the waist down, looking down the hallway, down which lies a large wooden door with metal hinges. She walks towards it, and we watch her walk down the hallway]

    [Switch to brightly lit shot of the door from the outside - close up. We watch her open the door and she peers around. We see only her head, neck, shoulders, and her hand on the door frame]

    [Switch to a shot of see-through glass, through which we can see a small garden and the red walls of the building. Out of the frame from the right, the woman walks up and presses her hands against the glass and looks around]

    [Switches to a shot from behind, where we see she is touching a large glass wall which peers out to a landscape]

    [Switch to close-up of small square plot with flowers growing in it and a shovel beside it]

    [Switch to shot of the garden from behind, including the woman and the plot. She slowly walks away from the glass wall and walks over to the plot. She picks up the shovel and begins to dig up from under the plot]

    [Switch to a shot looking diagonal-forward from her left (our right) at her face and upper torso as she continues to dig. She is sweaty but in intense concentration]

    [Switches to a close-but not too close-shot of the plot and we see that she has dug a large, human-sized hole]

    [Switches to a slightly further back diagonal-shot of her, as she sits down at the edge of the hole and climbs inside]

    [Switches to a diagonal-from-upper-right shot of her laying in the hole with her arms crossed around her chest. We suddenly see dirt being poured on her from some unseen person or force]

    [Switches to shot from inside the hole as dirt is poured from some unseen object onto the camera until the camera is completely dark]

    [Darkness]

    [A single flame burns from nowhere and remains stationary]

    [Suddenly, dark, shadowy moths move around the flame - we do not see the moths, but the shadows seem to dart around and disturb the camera]

    [Suddenly, the shadows begin to gain color and start to resemble butterfly wings]

    [The shadows/wings become more chaotic, and cover up the fire. They become more and more chaotic and colorful until... black]

    [End Movie]

    Fin.

    Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly;
    Man got to sit and wonder 'why, why, why?'
    Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land;
    Man got to tell himself he understand. -- Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle

    Image: Death and Life by Gustav Klimt, 1910-1916 (I was/am a big Klimt fan)

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