[greetings from foggy addis ababa en route to kigali. rough red eye neck-wise but all the babies were quiet…]


A thing becomes a thing when it’s described (scribed away from what it isn’t), and the act of description (through it’s addictive capacity) risks making us  subject to the limit of what’s described. Describing trauma or fascism, the mind that makes the script conforms itslef to the closed qualities of each; we may drive oursleves to claustrophobic excitement, seeing nothing but the trauma or Force, inadvertently reducing our vocabulary to “trauma” or “Force”, our repetitions (amounting to rehearsal?) affirming their authority and making more of the same.


The alternatives (?) are – to describe in constellation – a “thing” isn’t a thing in itself, it’s dramatic – in relation to its society/background; and to bring and hold the mind to the moment prior to description (poetry)


Borges again (getting me through the airport lags)… “Another Celtic legend tells of the duel of two famous bards. One, accompanying himself on the harp, sang from the coming day to the coming of twilight. Then, when the stars or the moon came out, the first bard handed the harp to the second, who laid the instrument aside and rose to his feet. The first singer admitted defeat.” [Guyaquil]

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