| edged out 2 part 5 - 1982 june | work & days: a lifetime journal project |
June 1982 [T and R report on their desert journey] The three miles. "Was like having visions, I saw things I never could have believed were really in existence." I am looking for the pretty one, the one with the long hair, turns, it's a messed corrupt face. Staring attention for the intelligence, what is spoken is a mutual mistake, has failed. Wednesday. Wake in the dark, agony, kitchen window, know it will be some days like this, separation pain, the difficulty of no job, UIC, various cheating fright, the haunting of being on bad terms with, seeing money put me where I'm surly, nagging myself for not transcending, being mad at lameness for putting me on wrong terms with everyone so I have to be surly, thinking it could be different if I were close to my conscience not thinking of it stupidly, Paul red-faced and portly, we exchange things, to find out whether T is moving, he obliges (I'm portly belly too), lunch vegetables, greasy sweaty worn dirty red shoes. What are they seeing. Buy new red shoes, a different overhead mirror, big dark face, white shirt. Fit not the right ones, one too small one too large. The north room, set into painting it, it will be quick, lonely, gnawed by wrongnesses, that year. "But she looked at me this morning." "That's it, take me home." Being something vulnerable to weakness confusion from what I think of as myself, what'm I doing, describing not fighting. "Yes I am upset." "I'm in very mixed feelings. I don't know what to do. Do you know." Feeling this collapse, misery as payment. I didn't like the swelling either but had it and am paying. What would make it true, it demands to say the truth to each or suffer disliking, his way, I could talk to young one, bruised feet from those shoes, I could come shining out if one fine thing would happen nearby, it is suffering of being part of the mean-minded programmed failed - adjectives help - it would be relief to be part of something fine. - What's it like. Thursday / fine / day open / to do about money / can I work it off / retraction / now wanting to talk to you / wait / today's already less iron / something can be done there. When (she) might be bored with the trip, taking it up. A city I was never in, two people from home tell they had slept in a hotel near mid-edge of the airport, there'd been cockroaches. I wanted from the top of the city that way. "I've always liked this corner." It's a bare shoulder of land, the upper corner of Manhattan. The flat: flat field hardly above the sea, is the city. Across the water there's rise in the land but the city is built on the field, canals, down below, not canals, ditches with blocks of stone, I find a lump with a foot carved on it (when I'm looking on it later it is never again like that, there's a whole small old man in a Greek dress, or) and another piece, or is this piece the one with the figure, happy in sunlight strayed into a housing compound. There's a hedge, raspberry, no, arbour, I'm recognizing it as a plan I've seen (in a magazine) so the other parts are falling into place as known, the arbour in the plan is a complete tunnel but here there are blanks where the vines failed, and on the other side, the wicker house, is partly rotted, it's a wicker museum, passing by it looking into the upstairs (is it that one) the shining wood floor in diamonds, whole, and into the upper floor of the next long house, a bed floor, piles of blankets, some have sleepers under (like garden beds), and in the next they are just waked and moving fast in the enameled kitchen. Did a bell wake them, are they hopped up dressed going to eat (like a Shaker community). We're lying in a stage, open-sided room, is it making love, the lightning storm in the night, the police and was it neighbours, they say we should be somewhere else? Her rag chest in the guest room. The traveling. [UIC notes]
"The first time you took off your clothes I was shocked, I couldn't look." [Cheryl said] "She has a bad leg and she carries it so beautifully." [Kiyooka said] "That that had happened to you and you bore it so gracefully." [Trudy said] What I want is for someone to say "If that hadn't happened to you you would have been fantastic." That gracefulness was part of the deformity! And why she's here at all today, it's on account of -, and there's some politics. Bone ache maybe oil paint. "They're not terrible, they're honest and what they're interested in is who's going to succeed." "It isn't that I'm not loved, what it is, is that you don't imagine how I would have been different if it hadn't happened." The multiple sclerosis woman. You gentle one who don't know. Insisting that it is a halt, not nothing. "If I can really reach that many people ." I want to know what it is, and what in anything is it. "Because you're x, and you're beautiful." "That other people are having a good time and they don't want me." "'You're living a mythic life. Do you want that?' I said yes but later I thought no I want to have a normal life.'" - Mon frère [Robert writes] I do feel the need to follow the curve downward into a kind of indigo stillness Up to now I've struggled to achieve balance in the day world. I've been on thin ice. We have no right to say anything about anything. We have this one life. I'm tired of pretending to know. even worse, a handicapped person, a mute, grim like an animal and shell-shocked, not knowing anything It seems I can't resolve this lack in any of the sequences I've tried, it only gets worse. All my love, Speaking to you in a choice of your words And then none. Where are you. Yes do come by when you're here. I wish you very well too. The poster (money) black and pictures and some writing over. Standing simple. If I'm clean and true something will come. What's this, it's moony not sharp, what if it's let. "Idealization is quite useful, if I can circuit it through the other person it can come through, if I try to know it through myself sometimes it won't come." Brother, and:
What's the spot on the shin, and the two deep in the bum muscle, that ached all night from poison. Like heat-sensitive x-ray. Dreaming the hospital. Telling the nurses "Across there used to be the linen closet." Tile floor has the line of an earlier wall. Down around the bay are the beds with --- and caesarians suddenly brought. "It's a mixture of my childhood memories and Cherry Ames." They're starting to find me charming. "I used to have surgeries brought to the room across the corridor, they would be in and out quickly." Trying to hammer into the sod, to grass level but stopped by corners of main's cover, metal in the ground, the four corner on two line square, it happens to be in relation to the wing with the children's ward. Those sisters. My sister and brother. Poliofoot. Religion. Country. My mother must have told me, I remember the corner of the room, it was close to a small south window, the color of the light in the corner is grey, when I came home from the hospital, I was three and there was a baby in the crib. She is a stupid lump. I complain. I am walking with a brace, metal and leather. The language I have to write in is Canadian. It's not one of the fine languages. I am having to walk with this right leg, it's not yet smaller than the other, in a brace. The light bulb makes a room on the porch that I can write in. I can hear that Carole's washing cutlery. Chinese music. A supper smell like tripe, not familiar. Turpentine. Grey cat has a jowl under her belly, walks in through my door, her will against mine. A so-big moth, a cloth flapped into water in a sink. One of the small near houses. Her head in the window frame, tak the light switch. Moth white as if it's bathed in pollen. The light bulb's white burn, red-edged, on the page just aside of the last word written, stays behind. Discussion. Down my shirt the pigskin on the upper belly. In a sleigh under quilts traveling at night, in the box, under blankets, on hay, Judy singing, small girl, still with a big head. I mock her bitterly. She can't hear that she's not on the tune. My mother's reproving me but do they agree for themselves, both are known as singers, what is this one. After the school bus, long dirt road underfoot, step after step, I hold her with stories, they're stories about us rich and somewhere else, in a girl's school. I describe the room, its furniture, the meals, our clothes. I dress us as rich girls. There are boys and well dressed girl friends. When I begin mystery plots like Nancy Drew I don't continue them though she wants me to. I like to make us rich and good looking. We live in America or some other country. I put our actual friends into the stories. They are not our friends because they like us, only because our parents and theirs visit on Sundays after church. My friend is Edith Janzen. I don't like her, she is better dressed than I am, but cautious and pedestrian. Though I don't like her I am loyal to her at school, and when she disowns me there I am disgusted at her mean spirit. I want to hold her hand down the long school corridor at recess. She drops my hand. I know she's ashamed of me. Judy's friend is her sister Lorraine. We make two pairs. Lorraine is also something runty but she has more spunk than feeble Edith. Our mother makes us matching dresses. Hers does too. These daughter's dresses are where they show their art. We don't guess that the new dress occasions, Christmas, Children's Day, are their group shows, though we do compare. The pink satin, slightly different cut, same yokes, with lace and rhinestones, she got from one wide-skirt bridesmaid dress from the Salvation Army in Edmonton. The two girl's benches, right side, front, with daughters squirming, in sets, of two to four. Intense noticing dresses. Making flowers of the girls. Sunday morning dressed ready for church, with the house clean, his bad temper in the tension of getting everyone ready, sitting on the windowsill composed, in the Sunday dress, pretty. Little Paul in bow tie. His Sunday morning haircuts, the scissors and clippers, he's holding the mirror, taking the scissors himself. He has a white cloth tied round his neck over his long underwear and workpants and braces. We get into the grain truck, the order is always the same, I'm next to him, jammed behind the gear stick, knobbed, Judy's next to me, jammed, then M with the baby on her lap. Paul has to stand in front of Judy, pressed against and holding onto the dashboard. He stands just tall enough to see over. The motor doesn't always start. He has to get out and make it. There are growls in German. We know they're curses. She says they're not. We're wanting to be righteous because he's righteous. We really don't like him, he is our enemy, there's no doubt. She's our friend but not strong enough to get us justice. We're crammed into the grain truck cab, downhill, the steep hill of the driveway. The progression of our land, we're always interested looking at it, I can see it now, the half mile to the hill before the creek, both the hill down from the house, and this hill up and down before the bridge, are Heart changed, I held onto this place, lay back, was it the tea, really had to hold on, where did I hold, in the head, the vision of this room (Friday night 11) ... the same hill, though we never think of it, the ridge, a lake bank, lying alongside the road, in the first quarter in red-brown fescue, then in the second, Grandpa Epp's land, in cultivated black, then curving south to run across the road and along until it intersects the creekbank in Kinderwater's field. It might be we've seen the first leaves out in a stand of poplar along the road, or at a distance. By the time we're driving home again, there will be many more. Seeing them will unite us outside our desperations of family politics. The bridge, our event, white bridge set not straight across, east-west as the road allowance goes, but slightly diagonal to get the creek's curve shorter, and is there another reason. There was another bridge, unpainted, maybe it was without sides, when it was failing, I don't know why, or when this one was being built, there were two planks above the brown water, it pooled there, he had to drive over those two planks, the front wheels, and the back wheels not to slip, I was standing at the dash in those days, in terror, approaching the two boards (on the far side it was open, flat), a low place just near the bridge, mud when there was mud that'd be where the ruts would grab the wheels and hurl them sideways. Stuck. On the far side a sweet slope to the point at Kinderwater's drive where we'd be able to see to the highway, the stand of bush at one place, on both sides of the road, a grey dead tree holding our eyes through there, silvered, with a hooked arm, rose bushes in the ditches, water on their leaves, and that was the next mudhole, longest to dry, and in winter, drifts. The highway our achievement, traffic, driving up to the edge of the road, right to the edge of traffic passing, fast, cars and trucks on a raised roadbed, graveled, fast. Reaching the highway, nothing could stop us. The caragana hedge Kinderwater had planted along the highway, why, a snow-fence, Tibetan caragana, yellow flower, peavine frond, the quality of caragana the strong planted many places, established but not longer ago than our parents' arrival, young and fiercely strong. Snapping its pods, spitting squared oval seeds. Their dried pea taste. Caragana at the church too, planted near the ladies' toilet. It and the wood walk, run over, drumming on boards. I could run. Turning onto the churchyard. That moment was the fathers' contest. Cars and trucks. Everyone's car known. A strange car, a visitor. Or rarely: someone has bought a new car. Pete Schmidt's Mercedes. A social scene set, my mother nodding, greeting, says hello out loud though the man can't hear her, I complain. Now I do it. There'll have been those painful greetings. Meeting the children I don't like who don't like me. I see them, I haven't forgotten them, heads and bodies, voices, scrutinized, known, and in a relation of unrelenting antagonism, in ongoing association. Before church, associating, talking about each other's clothes, watching what regular people are like, I'm looking at Verna Driediger knowing I completely don't like her, or she me, but she is in her way attractive, and the boys like her. What about the grownups, my mother and the other mothers in the baby room, they can sit in benches around the room, get up, move around, their babies sleeping on wood shelves, and they have the window across the churchyard, and an arch through to the heater. The women's cloakroom, its shelf overhead, a mirror also too high for us. Bibles forgotten. Sunday school papers. Climbing onto the bench, to see out the window. The wood road to the toilet. The bush. The fields. East. Squirming down, running out. Over the threshold a proscenium porch, wood, two ranks of step down, a platform outside like the platform inside. That one steeper. A creekbank on the edge of a field next to a ditch, three steps up, mustard painted boards. Ed Martens on the piano bench with his back to us, when he turned his head, his adam's apple, bow tie. He and my father Ed in bow ties. Enemies, like each other. But he'd been a little boy who had piano lessons? The two handsome in the same way. Some hymns. They can do that, we all like singing. There are hymns with words I don't believe. I scrupulously don't sing them, "all to Jesus I surrender." No, I don't. Imagery, washed in the blood, the particular imagery of every known song, or on some unusual occasion, a song the parents know but we've never heard. Prayer meeting, someone, one of the fathers, leads it. we're standing. Anyone of the grownups may speak out loud praying privately. There are men in the back and middle benches of the men's side who pray to show off. The mother's prayers are frightened and earnest, they've felt led to speak. My mother praying is embarrassing though her prayers are sincere and alright. My father doesn't, I don't think, but his enemies do. I listen carefully to his enemies' prayers. His enemies are the other willful men. He is friends with some of the timid men. Other timid men are his enemies' friends. The preacher might be someone we've never seen. He might be old, or somewhat famous, from a city or on furlough from a mission field, Africa, India, China or the Caribbean, South America. If he's a missionary there'll be an evening service with slides. While he preaches we're looking him over. We like energy and good looks. If he's seedy, a type of small unjuicy man, we'll sneer comfortably. I am also noticing his version is not quite the same as the last man's, there's evidence that something is wrong with the story. There might be a solo, the visiting preacher's missionary wife might sing. A trio from the congregation. The part singing fascinates, it's the best. The lines of voice, anticipating them, seeing Mr and Mrs Seibert turned into voices. The building, its ceiling, long stovepipe held by wires looped down, electric lights hung on chains, endless time looking at the stovepipe so high overhead, the chains dropping their lamps such a long way down. In the congregation the so familiar persons, uninflected, identities, I saw them as being who they were, the adult and child community of my life, almost all, with the exception of some of the mothers, and those families with quiet men who were 'with' my father, held in steady hostility or indifference toward myself particularly, the men were all police, dragging children ostentatiously out, to give them the spanking public opinion was asking. The energetic boys, girls in mischief forgetting where they were. Yells from outside putting fright into all. The women's appraising eyes no less, their difference was they knew we existed. The men could ignore, concentrate on each other. The older women's appraising. Mrs Kroeker. An attention given us as social exchange with our mother, who was really thoughtful and a sincere Christian, not liking anyone to dislike her, and on good terms with everyone. I think of the community no less in its meanness and rivalry. It was a complete form, tribe life, peculiar, a stressed arena, everyone seen, intensely known, by us coming up in it, studying. The eroticism of the religious imagery and music, love feasts, unity, profound forever unreconciled antagonisms of rivalry, the holding bonds, heavy training in paradox, was it the test, that lets through those in the strongest perception or who have no social gain possible, and holds forever those who are like each other and can belong. My sister and brother, in on the secrets, it wasn't much different for them: collaborators, rivals at home, but allies here, agreeing, that preacher was silly, did you see Mr Friesen sleeping in church, Mrs Willms is so pretty isn't she, Tina Wiens's bum. We'd support each other until we could get out, did get out. I would've had to be a genius and wasn't: was a stiff mind held in misery defiance. And still am. A disequilibrium used to create greater order, greater disorder The collectivity
The parts that were working easily, without question and those with antagonism. Disorder as a society and order as a culture. Looking for fresh ways to create differentials. as if consciousness had become the prerogative of a limited number of individuals and all others were totally devoid of it Our own social group, taken as a whole, does not identify itself with those who develop its culture. The blacksmith caste in African societies: blacksmiths are connected not with animal and vegetable life, but with metal - ore which has been found underground - and with fire; they are the custodians of knowledge and technical skills which are of a different order. consequently assigned a special position, respect, fear, admiration and hostility. They secrete culture but the group does not consider its culture is being evolved by this minority. if we allowed constant changes to take place in language ... relative but very great stability being supernatural it is by definition unrepresentable were always vigorous theoreticians Listening to Philipot's music I have the impression that I am rediscovering modes of perception which are peculiar to me, that the composer is telling me how my faculty of perception works. The little baby, Paul's daughter, a handful, fuzz of brown hair. She talks four-word phrases, "complete sentences," at three months, like the legend about Mary. Tumbling over cliff-hills with me. I don't remember much, a brown naked baby intelligence. Paul: knowing ahead some of the stories that'll have to come. I've five, must be, the year he's a baby. I remember the one place, the house at the sawmill, one room, the bed along the south wall, winter outside, a room on a bright evening, falling asleep maybe, waiting for supper guests. Is it my birthday. I don't see Judy there. But there's a crib with a baby. A radio on a high shelf. Sitting under it on a little bench listening to the children's program. I know that evening sun. The radio was on the wall facing west. Maybe there was only one room. No memory of my own bed. That evening light. It's evening now. Chair in the corridor facing the sky in the west. It was heat come through cold, clear cold. A small boy screaming crawled under the house away from the puppy. The man stands jeering, on his own yard, at a distance from his house, as if that baby were his rival. I am watching the man's hatred, with hate. That man is a detestable human. I am near the porch, the house is unfinished, standing crudely, ready to move somewhere else, on four stones at its four corners. The man built the house, physically, over time, himself, planned it. Under it is dried mud, dust, the square cleared of trees. Chickens, toys, find the way easy. The little boy flees there rather than into the house. There's no one he can count on. We will all jeer at his fright of the puppy. I don't think the young poplars have begun to grow yet. We'll hate the man but neither will we give ourselves to imagining the dog as it looks to the boy. I will jeer myself. We don't ask: please tell us, what animal do you see, what wonderful thing do you know that we don't. We live in that house but it's his, I can gather myself to hate him but not to ask, what is it you see. There are many buildings on the yard, at different times. Different summers, we use different ones. There's a 'house,' hardly bigger than a granary, Janzen's house, it isn't strange to us to think of it as a house, though it is a one room shell, one window north, opposite the door, one east, no inner walls. We seem to imagine a stairway and an upstairs. There is furniture from other households, harness, heavy leather and brass rings, hung from nails. A table is our stage. The red wooden butter churn, round, like a pig body, with a flat plank lid, becomes the operating table. We're playing slave. One the first day it will be Paul's turn. He'll have to do what we say. We soon get to the real intention: or id do, and Judy follows. He lies flat on the butter churn. I demand that he pull down his pants. "Why's it standing up? Make it go down." Both of us staring down at him. The little finger. "I can't." I push it. It's true, it won't bend over. There are plays I direct. They end in an embrace. Judy is the girl and I'm the man. Standing on the table we look out through the window without glass, down onto grass in waves. This back area of the farm is where, in the long grass, things are abandoned, farming implements. The bird nests in the twine can on the red binder. The cab of a truck, wheels and engine removed, open doors, a playroom, flat in the grass. There are times when Judy and Paul make an alliance against me. Run ahead together, and are crouched in a room in the caraganas. I hear their voices. I'm abandoned. I understand the necessity, but there's no one else. Paul because he's a boy has to help with the chores, in the evenings, when we have only to set the table, he has to drag five gallon pails of chop to the pighouse, struggle with them, tilt them over the wood rail, even onto the head of the big boar, or the big diabolic sow pushing ravenously toward him, not a strong-looking fence, the 2x2 slabs give when the heavy animal butts against them. He tilts the bucket, dusty chop, she shakes her ears. Then water dragged from the pumphouse, it's further than the chophouse. The water slops over, we don't think to help him. It's boys' work. We have to do dishes and housework. My father doesn't think to give him pails he can handle, no one observes him. His father curses his awkwardness. We know our father wants to break our spirits. We know the spirit he most wants to break is Paul's. Paulie. Is it to protect him that our mother doesn't seem to protect him. I don't know how this table arrangement comes about. When I'm visiting my parents I still sit at the end of the table opposite the father. It was males at one end, him with his back to and nearest the door, Paul on his left with his back to the window onto the yard. The baby in the last free space, opposite Paul, scalded his hand dipping it into our father's teacup. That was surely the worst place to put a baby. Our mother at my left, closest to the stove, Judy next to Paul. The two were close in their age, only a few months more than a year between them, he small and dark, she thin, by now, long-legged, blond, vaporous. Paul in the place furthest from his support and next to his enemy, hanging over him, nagging his table behavior. I would support him against our tyrant: there was the day, noon meal maybe a Saturday, or a day in summer. Paul found his weapon: a long reproachful stare. He held it, I dared him, I jumped in when the man turned nasty. "All he's doing is looking." Go ahead. It was the first open challenge and we won it. Paul's look, since then I've used a look too, that long brave ironic reproach that said "You're a swine picking on a child: I see you. This is the look you think you want. What you're seeing is irony. I've got your number. You're a bully." What she was thinking I don't know. Holding her breath. I knew, did she, that what Paul was doing was going to save him. It might have been that what he hated in Paul was his physical smallness. He didn't grow. He wet his bed for years, he was sent out into a plank room, porch, built like a pigbarn, a lean-to onto the side of the house, new wood, but slab, a badly fitted window with a line of light around the frame, a room for a hired man or an animal. Paul slept there alone, wetting his bed, given rag sheets, waking in stink. He'd be sent for the milk cows, in the evening, going the way the tree shadows pointed, uphill, a long hill, spread visible, the field like a long screen hung across the east. Partway up it was our fenceline, beyond it a tiny tractor raising summerfallow dust. Paul, and Judy often, the kids, climbing over the posts into the corrall, and then further, through the far side of it, the pasture nearest the barn, wild grass, foxtail, a manure compost gritty like cinder. There was a streambed, not a stream, but a line cut by spring run-off hurling toward the road, dividing this lower pasture from the broad field hung up in evening light in the east. From the kitchen window or standing on the yard, the tiny cows and tiny Judy and Paul working their way toward them. When they'd turned and were chasing the cows, or cow, down toward the barn, they'd have faced into the sun. That must be what he likes to remember, though the cow could evade him and have to be chased all across the slope, making it miles. She was in the house ready to put on his old pants and do the milking. When the cow was got into the barn, Mama would come in with the milk, buckets of it, metal, warm, straw floating on it, bits of what might be manure, strained through a white cloth, in earlier times poured down through the complex unknown towered whirlings of the separator, a thin jet of cream springing from one long spout into a pan, an arm of milk standing into the blue jug, or the two-quart jar. The white cloth would be held over the open reservoir at the top. It would be left with its manure, hay, raw smell folded into it. I always liked the way Paul looked. He was a beautiful fine-skinned shining brown. His head even in punishment boy's haircut was a beautiful shape, a deep curve from the crown swirl in to the nape of the neck. It was his disadvantage to be 'small,' it was understood he would be spoiled as a man. Our father thought himself tall. These last years I heard five foot ten and marveled we'd believed. I still think he's tall. Paul is my height. He's still beautiful, less brown and compact, he's become a muscular mature body, not the pretty one he was: and I have also become a broad muscular body, both with our strong deep forearms. He dresses well. He's an artist. When I had cut off my hair I was taken for him by a neighbour who hadn't seen either of us grown up. "Is it Paul? Ellie?" she said, meeting me on her pasture land, which had been ours. Mrs Bohn. They bought the land for their son. He stood next to his fine brown van. When we were saying goodbye a bird dived past him, lit on the back of the bucket seat, and out through the other side. He startled. "I'm afraid of birds." What do you know that I don't. I can't be what I want, a writer, because I haven't come to a new sight. I would have to understand the fright of birds. I am not in a new sight though I was, briefly, and can't remain in it because my fright of being responsible for my own death, was too strong. I envy those who have no choice and are precipitated into nightmares, and are really artists. "If I were a genius I would know what they're thinking, I'd be full of my own thoughts and they could enjoy me. It's because I know what they're thinking they can't enjoy me. I am still like them and resisting being like them." "You're inferior to yourself." "I know. I've got that far." When I was helpless, and they liked me, it frightened me. If I want the artist's privilege I must be paying against myself, they have to see that I'm special in vulnerability. You find your own song, it's inside you and when you find it everyone listens and they know who you are. Ghosts who hang around artists who really work. Either that or they overpower with confidence and strangeness. [from here upside down in the back of the book] Darwin These plants are more like animals than ever. a slight revolving movement continuous in all the growing parts of all plants Every one of the innumerable growing shoots is constantly describing small ellipses, as is each petiole, sub-petiole, and leaflet. The tip of the radical having the power of directing the movements of the adjoining parts, acts like the brain of one of the lower animals. It always pleases me to exalt plants in the organic scale. I tried to observe what passed in my own mind when I did the work of a worm. - Dissolve logarithmic, "That's why it's so voluptuous, because it has a curve in it." [many pages of notes for optical printer work with the slides] - How long for the eye to get used to seeing in the dark. In the light. How long it takes to see the image alone. How long if there's voice. When the image prepossesses, preempts. Where the image will interfere least. The matrix it goes into and what it does there. Cohering in a way the good mind isn't disappointed in. Oh! It works. - A night piece. What is night and how is it produced. Opened the door. Night over the sill, beautiful night. From Annabel.
(through the transparent darkness poured) - Blue lines
Roselight heartbeat
Field evaporating
- Color going into the white to transform. Slow. Fast. coming out of the black as creation. Run it just past and then back.
A flashing by exposure to sky. Water images or for some little stir. Little swarm or glimmer to hold eye to detail. A go to change of light in midshot. Optical printer to make grain swarm in still image. Can manipulate changes alert to natural. Getting them to see the underimages. An expanded region of undertone. Getting them to see liminal changes. The condition of fire. Causing the shift by intense active observation of parts.
Use a light to shine into a part. Scan. Seek through. -
Analyze sound, it and what its pictures are. Decision of connection picture and sound. Judge the script. Sense of parts in whole. - My slides are a ghost's memories, they're about death and disturb me. They are not the dreams of a happy person. Ghost and dream are names for the swarm sensation. Are about fear of being ghost and lost, unconnected. Antumnal gases glowed in darkness underground. There was such a beautiful overlay of spaces. If it begins with the collapse and return of light in the printer. Making a trust that it will cohere. Remark. "Gooseberry." With complex sound can tell it first, "Coming closer, singing and whistling, a bag opening". - Study
Further:
The experience of claritas. It is that thing which is. The sense of English language
[angel voices audio log]
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