I love that "cement" as a theme is echoed so differently across the issue. That the fixed-ness of cement has been circumvented by the process of translation.
Since I write all my work in a notebook as first drafts, there was a strange second where I recognized the words of my poem but not the handwriting. I loved that moment.
I also love these leisure poses against the backdrop of cement-making sounds. They sound like mechanical echos to me, some sort of unidentifiable thing and maybe a Gundam. B. Wijshijer said it best and I'll agree. There's something to be said here that I can't articulate right now about how the inheritance of "tradition, sensuality, labour, and filth combine to create a monument that questions its anchor." I think immediately "yes!" and also "set sail!" But we'd sink, wouldn't we? The idea of a monument making sacred brutality and nostalgia (the brutality of nostalgia? those lies), the echoes of Ariadne.
Fuck white supremacy. Fuck capitalism. Fuck patriarchy.
Please, I always want to be metamorphosing.