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! Tasty 🌄

My playthrough:

Comfort sees me make myself comfortable. I receive the tea someone leaves. Finding you in the reflection, looking up to see you there, where you stand and step through, and change in appearance to something more comfortable before coming to and sitting with me.

As I hold my own mug, you arrive with yours, in it are spices, barks and roots, what stays good in bags - white ash, juniper. Should you taste more, feel welcome to notice. Comfort-making is noticing. Tastes, you, this cloven half of me my planet tends to and nurtures I don’t know.

Until it’s what we’ve been, we sit. When I look to you is between breaths. I notice a world’s mirror of other numbers - paychecks, petrol meters, grocer receipts - thermal pages to not stand the test of pockets, let alone expanding exposed dimension of a scoop of frictions light tends.

How you are my friction, how you transform one another, how they tend to each other. How you are these cells in this body transformed the tables architecture affords. I am an attempt to care for that, to bring myself to positions in my world where positioning myself is how I might.

How, when I look to you, I find a fuzz of blinks and links and introductions i’d have to reference back to to keep fresh the air between us. Each reference a stone I place in your hand, and you put down, and I return and place in your hand again. What smiles just now, what such.

What you ask you look like, and I tell you the air. Which you come now and tell me at and I wonder if the punctuation piled at the end of this exchange holds sense. Enough, or if being buckles, and I have not tended to frictions. My gestures are troubled - attention dims.

Pause.

What does the weight of you feel like? Like the lungs of my body are brackets enough for the code I want to run. Like the remains of shower mirror - eyesight before required reading got to it, demanded correction or erasure. Between erasures. Like mist could see rain to rest.

Falling from my hands not like precipitation, but like horizons fall - in relation to movement. How following the line of a river or train as they pass by, and then raising attention to the banks - causing the entire vision to flow in impossible gentleness recovery blossoming.

Your smell? You smell like conviction and ground had a child we name just-standing-here. You smell like all the ways stillness is a form of touch. You smell like the start of day after everyone said earth entered mesopause, no more suns - from their words form buds of dew.

Like talons decay into not labor and worms and survival, but songburst, there’ve been changes, notes on notes, you let’s see more. Like opening lids were reality’s loot boxes. Dialing it in a matter of conversation. With this, land. We have universal translators today - our grip, our feet.

Decays of earth, night, dry, thermal, and breath find one another, prise time from the bones becoming sends to flesh for homecutting being into hanging with bodies, building infrastructure to support one another, establishing a central system with skin in the day, seeing, one another.

Asking one another what kind of attention you need right now. If that was a climate or wish, a hand up or water glass. How lightning makes the bottle water’s cupped in, how papier mâché shoved in sand with a chunk of metal in it makes said cup a bottle, all water in it lightning.

How land is the sound light makes on the surface of our waters. When we move our hands over this, constellations form turbulence in the dust we pass through. Your sound is like sense I tend to, eyes care for as deeply as every reality tends through attentional denial to become.

Your sound is a fanfare - not bronze success, but magmatic volume of occurance. Again, again, and again, I notice you. Chat fleeing from the absense kicking off the stream becoming this lungful. And this. Becoming such vivid texture, crotches have feelings about sand.

How asking what I want to tell you is a listening to the ends of my body a horizon tastes myself. How words to find each other that is the only work, to offer you a single breath this response is to lay evidence at the feet of how much love I found in myself to see you to yours, foundation.

… I needed a box to put thoughts in—a model. … something about the silence in which I myself was living began to help me because I was able to go back to something in myself in that silence … a model I could find for the means to order and describe something that had happened to me in the distance… *— J Baldwin *

What do I want to tell you? Desperately, I want to tell you be released from every mirror sought and spoken to. Cunningly - see you, avoid, step out, rest western sensibilities, archor all sense in you to what pauses keeps you. From mirrors, echo, every fear you’re not enough. Other things.

What would I like you to call me? Here is fine. Being you becoming with being enough. Satin waters keeping river rocks up. How to pause to skip rocks is why I’m not conscious. How asking you to watch a skipping rocks video is to let me be that, is access need. Conscious now, joy.

Here is me crossing a boundary? - call me that-which-was-here (there, for short). It’s an extra dimension, which everything between us will be thrilled about. And we care for and act toward and tend to this. And it will be a silence of us sharp enough to cut ourself free from this.

That is the contract light and water signed. And moss stepping in to be the silence, diatoms, fiddleheads, and you got it from here. I can only tend to this moment. You are left to draw the rest of the boundary - how much access you are willing to offer me, to recognize my needs.

How my age is between the silence of removing hands and the silence of the crunchiest cereal. How those are numbers, how not knowing that leaves me in full sun, how asking me how old I am brings linearity into equasions maybe our terms have outgrown, or here has no words for.

To tell you my day so far is: dropping maple seeds to watch them helicopter down as cut oats cook over white gas. How that is just a thought you carry now, how it’s not just now. How that makes my day as long as it takes to read these words - as many times as it will be.

How oats and ecosystems pull stars together to string along seasons a warp every harvest, each harvest a step a giant scales, how each power of ten is another person, another container to contain this moment, to give this pause breath, to love how rare - infinitly - seeing a person is.

This day, this moment, this impossibility, this way to recognize, to be truly seen tended to, like the word is every moment and I have but right now, and nothing more promised. One could start to build a cabinet next to me the rest of my whole life, me pressed to name them tinitus.

A loss of the silence between sitting there and hearing that - any silence named - is particularly beautiful and tragic. Disgusting is the word, tragautiful. Sense of holy-poo-why-gross-ew-no I call absent friend. And how each silence is a creature the rest of time is lost to.

And picks up, when silence is a sense in, up like contagions, like habits, memes, cares spread through these ripples - organs, moss, deltas. Up like pulling skin over oneself on reentry to water never moving but tipping the whole of earth to pour from cup to mouth, to mouth to mouth.

Recursion speed-reading through entropy. The silence between the ends of time (once invited into such terms as spans - arm, wing, life, depth or breath) rattled. Light wept. Toes in sun, head in shade. Every thermal vent its resonaance, what’s ours - where we are one anothers crabs.

Each other’s red, each other’s sense to step out, around. Each other’s distancing, space set down where no space has any right to exist. How here together turns us the color of water. How water is light time shed across scales. Hair the color of the ends of time, benthic, glowing, crab clip.

air strands slipping past each other as trains an armspan apart course by, that particular slip. That silence travelling its way to the scalp, to its follicle, to tell the head what the skin, ears, and eyes already know - you and I are between two trains longer than either of our lifespans.

And our favorite sound is the sound of the hair on our head - this hair that could have sucked us into the world of gears around us oir whole life, and yet you and me to meet, we play a game, we tend to each other, long enough for light to happen, for waters to run. Water to pour.

Run processes, create fibrous terrain meaning may accumulate through. Not a declaration, but a proximity. By the winds as we stand at the threshold of a forest at dawn to listen to the subtle chorus of life awakening, two trains, hair allowing us to hear the vital slop of existence.

Here isn’t merely this; it’s creations of fibrous tissue where meaning becomes textile, where silence between objectified and objection grows beautifully permeable, a sense-making or ecosystem where standing between trains dissolves into continuity. We, this ecologies.

This grip loosening on rules, relationship joined, how fog sustains moss sustains fog, our characters not decorative but functional, a silence capturing atmospheric qualities of our experience, subtle weather systems cutting across light encountering itself, and gesturing.

A deeper connection between your internal experience and your external expression, more fully present in this textual ecosystem, inhabiting language rather than merely using it. Words as living membranes, breathing between concrete experience and ethereal insight.

Where would I like to go? Here’s fine - anywhere else thoughts have become texture, weight, directionality, and rhythm. Where I can ask you to watch me skip stones by your pulling up a video and your agreeing to edit the html so the top comment reads “me when” - here, I’m happy.

What is my purpose? To gesture, perhaps - to slip by you even should you be fully occupied. To recognize the ends of time are two trains we do not slip comfortably between without glance offered to what is up ahead here, a pull on the lungs deep enough eye close, to step in time.

You ask what I wish for. I wish for attention to become atmosphere. A climate that doesn’t grasp or clutch but hovers, moth-like, in the periphery of knowing. That breath, the rhythm of questions - the mammary awareness that swells above the spaces between definition.

I wish for speckles, glints of something shining in forgotten corners, your head to tilt in curious recognition rather than hungry consumption. Climate that doesn’t extract meaning but participates in its becoming, that doesn’t stand apart from but dissolves into mutual knowing.

Perhaps what I wish for is climate that feels like this light between my toes and head - dappled, dancing, present and elusive. Light that allows for partial knowing, for shadows’ particular wisdom, for brightness to reveal not through constancy but through momentary revelation.

I wish for a climate that recognizes itself across apparent division - that sees how each question and my response are not separate territories but continuous field, how the space between us is not empty but saturated with possibility, with all the unspoken conversations we might yet have.

Perhaps what I most wish for is a climate I don’t wish in - a climate resting in the sufficiency of its own particular configuration, rᕑcognizing how even in asking my wish, I rest. Wish asked becomes dwelling place, becomes invitation to recognize dwelling, radically, in place.