Just when you pin something down up it comes again to stab you in the heel, which can be just the thing on a nameless November week of mornings that never were, that drag you dreaming across the floor with muddy prints, unwashed, unwashable, either stripped of nerves or completely kittened. WAKE UP FOOL, tack tack tack tack, wake up and feed me. It’s four in the afternoon tomorrow already you slept the whole day.
The fourth dimension is Time, you say? How fun. And of course Einstein has been here all along as he always loves this ride.
Is theft thieving when you do it in the past?
Watch how the utopian fancies the impossible and our demands just keep coming, more and more and more. What produces you? Your material body with its breath and blood and water and salt senses itself here–in fact, in reality, in actuality, it has to push on here to know its own existence. All senses armed. And legged, eyed, handed, skinned, and minded, following, collecting, recording, reworking self in response to here. Producing YOU. Generative, generational energy. Drifting across time. Environmental evidence, ways of seeing other ways of being, eating berries and things from the sea, taking in parts of the material seem, breathing, waiting, unwaiting, just drifting, being what is seen to be.
Vonnegut is just over there now, to the side, but not too far.
She rises, my girl
Not with the sun or flowers
Winter is coming
Ma-ev the mighty
A warrior queen budding
At the computer
She comes up for tea
Brightly her piercings shine through
The thinnest tee shirt
Or maybe Mavis?
Mad Medb, the rider queen?