This is really quite beautiful. So many things jump out. "the flight of the leaf shaped by its descent" "Clearly Water floated if coaxed"
Thanks. -Peter Ciccariello ARTIST'S BLOG - http://invisiblenotes.blogspot.com/ -----Original Message----- From: mIEKAL aND <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> To: WRYTING-L@LISTSERV.UTORONTO.CA Sent: Mon, 26 Dec 2005 19:53:18 -0600 Subject: buoyancy She said "buoyancy" & all was accomplished. It didn't begin with the dreadful rain, cold & dark. The sermon-like whine of the cold night air accomplished nothing. The writer sat back in staccato, wishing water to break his eyes & knock heads with the plot. If asked she knew the writer, not what he was working on at the moment, but more his overall conscience, rooted as it was in ordinary pleasures & offbeat tongueplay. Digression as in the person most likely to takeover the world. Whether a page of paper with its numb rubber surface is relay, what in the end, should impart the instant of motion, everything flying apart, come together murmured heartfelt about. She is working at it. Nothing & credit for doing it yet. Water stood about in the shallows, worked up with anger, that mounting & indelible sensation of the world against you?you know?like the time she contorted her delicate or flimsy body into a futuristic pose, thinking all along without direction or position, the flight of the leaf shaped by its descent. Clearly Water floated if coaxed, children were always one to splash & abandon dreary / wearisome thoughts, but the tide is not the surface, but like the tow of the brain, it works simultaneous with the narrowly visual. In the backroom she has been working for some time elbowdeep in dishwashing. The job is unfulfilling, the customers never clean their plates & she has all this time to recognize. Like experimenting with the dishwater. Not at all surprising are the contents. Eggs. Cigarette butts. Chili. Green peppers. Cheese. Sponges. Toast. Soggy cookies. Napkins. Hands & dishes. The sink is an open field, she has all day to make the contents obey her imagination. She is a molecule from some years before suddenly brought to consciousness. It was from her time that great megaliths of ice overthrew the continents. Programmed in her DNA, once a protean swelling form of ice, she is presently reduced to an aberration in a back room in a sink, in a molecule of water. Silence & paradox, working to earn enough money to send the writer to an ocean, where he will sit lotus endlessly, waves crushing his lap, his pencil & notebook wet & useless, all this while she is still there, sifting thru the dishwater, closer to water, to luxury. Makeshift & misplaced in alien havens. The writer took residence on a river-dazed pier. Wharf. Imagine the controversy when he organized a rendezvous in the night, pretext of dreaming new verbs & nouns for said book. "The wharf is very accommodating, wooden slats carved & initialed. I could tell you any story you'd wanna hear." The wharf floated & bobbled indicating that the turbulent city had little enough squirreled away, this generation should follow the water elsewhere. The writer waited, without precedence. He wrote many books & waited. The wharf grew weak, collapsed into the water. No one objected, the city ignored the river, the fisherman ignored the flotsam, the river compended the change, the writer maintained his network of speculations, waited to rendezvous. Water is priceless, again water is priceless. from "With A Back To Water"
