1.10 Fire Hands
We Begin in Humility
If I were to tell you that wind sits between slits of your ribs, you would tell me that the sand was then made of the marrow beneath my feet. The marrow beneath my feet is made of sand. Sand makes marrow feet.
I know that the breeze has a lot to do with both of these transgressions.
How Am I Not Myself is a constant material investigation into knowing exactly How I Feel Without The Other.
Yes, it is a world filled with sorrow.
I cannot read the news anymore.
I cry before thinking.
My throat feels like a trap.
My trap feels like a throat.
Feel like a throat trap.
Trap the throat that feels.
I don’t know how to put into words the weight we cannot capture in cloth. There is a small distance between the leaping figure and the steady earth, are they flying away or running away? Are they holding or being held? Is it ok to be simple in gestures towards the wind? Why can’t I simply say the words that tell you how weight cannot be captured in cloth? How much can I hold in my empty hands?
Sin peso que es la ternura de carne besando aire?
I know that skin is stretched and tethered but I also know that that history is fraught with terror. I am sick to my stomach these days in knowing the weight of skin.
I am sick to my stomach in knowing
The weight of sand
Weight of wind
Weight of distance
Weight of empty hands
Weight of gesture
Weight of tears
Weight of arms stretched out toward a blue sky
Weight of words
La enferma te cuenta sin saber el cuento
Is the figure unfurling towards a hungry mother or fleeing from an angry flock?
Does the figure lick their wounds in heavy quivers or expel spastic shouts to their drunken livers?
Is despair a worthy object to hold? To look at it through metaphor and playful salutation? Can we make a parachute out of its weight? Carve new worlds that destroy the state?
How long do we have to wait?
No te puedo decir como sufrir solo que tengas un hueso hacia la luna
We End in Marrow Winds