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“. . . and the choice to continue" explores early life memory from the perspective of a human body that has just begun to speak. The record is designed to be an encouragement for the animus to dislodge itself from goal or language and locate the biochemical presence that is innate to all who carry a functioning limbic system in the human form. Each track is designed to be a chapter in the story of the somatic journey that this exercise represents. If time dilates for you while exploring this exercise, please contact support.
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i am in a pathless place
widowed, i feel my womb is stripped
it’s walls bend naturally inward to hold a ghost of weight
from this impression i bear the world many spirits.
they are my children and reproducers of my longing
and they do not know breath, like the first does not;
but are waking right now, commanding saltwaters
bowing without my inclination
as the first child did
after a soup of seasons
cauldron brewed, through whimsy,
healthsome, stringent, shackled, and resolve;
i am aware that i am this;
now very raw material
bending afore and aghast
there no longer being an above
there no longer being any below
i tell myself constantly -
sideways creatures living in the side, must’ve dug out vinyls in me
because every night is a gathering of rejoicers.
they relapse in burrows on the arterial plane in my life channels,
an archive of rushing noises and fast forward movements - a chorus of courses -
strangling blood clots thinner through to some otherness from togetherness.
on the walls i once wrote “extrapolator ensignatory” yet he’s feigning ignorance;
allegations of the architect in silence - revelator of enclavement
she finally says she’s ceasing the requirement
Now all my electric panel’s winters pass through a fleshy solenoid window,
and i try to act as a filter -
mostly sundial pedals, the cistern sisters, or water pourers -
these three are my newest current selections
they dance like pitch on range, in a pitch black light
of vocal sabers
to the sideways inlet door fridges
and somehow,
it makes me sleepy;
one word sounder,
deep slow learner;
“can we
walkthrough it for me again?” I plead
inseam again; morsels increasing my insular inches
months at once -
“outpace the tendril sates for upward stripping and swinging!”
she commands with full imbibe
each cold pass - i’m incredulous,
“we are unthinning the clots!”, she tells me in her
penchant drunk morale