Will Oldham-I called you back

...to never cease?

Wandering into abstractions, I recall Descartes, who classified wonder or admiration as the first of all emotions. Wonder is unparalleled by a negative counterpart. Wonder precedes all evaluations of benefit, suitability, or harm. Wonder impels us beyond the accepted limits, to attain knowledge of something of which we are previously ignorant.

Precision Indecision Exhibit...L'Imbalsamatore

Bullying, the way I have been if wire-drawn foxes' ears
Empale the embalmer's hand. The instrument of my
Voice, or rather, a bird in hand with a doll's eye

Lies bristling besides, the fiber bought for it, and generous
Layers of animal glue applied. After the horn is trimmed
Away, add watch crystal, a tin heart, turquoise... Talk
Away with whatever form the evening might take.

Perhaps the above is the product (a funny, perhaps inappropriate word for the shorthand my mind makes) of an article about an antique hand trepan, a Shannon Wright song I've replayed all evening (play count: 20 and counting) and a box of miscellaneous tiles uncovered and carried back from a hardware resale shop. And yes, I viewed a strangely beautiful film about an obsessive dwarf perfecting taxidermy in gritty Naples: The Embalmer. Watch on Netflix.


To some light-dealing demiurge, or to No..One in particular...

A vessel for a minor malady

There’s no cure so why should I care
You have fled into this blackness
In this sling I must contain

You use your force
To comfort my trembling hands
And fold them aside

These hued eyes
They have sent
The longest beatings
The hour bows
To seek some light
With golden strings

You construct this wheel
With your threads of argentine

Dermatomes: Why and Where are the scars?

The scars on each of my temples, just above my eyes, were formed as a result of a forceps' delivery.
I have a scar on my right hand from sliding in the rough gravel, emerging from an alley.

After leaning against a hot water radiator to pry open my dorm window, I have a fading, spade-shaped scar just above my left knee.
Scars on the back of my heels attest to breaking in new sandals, every summer.
Like Joseph Merrick, I bear a café-au-lait macula...on my lower right calf.
The mole on my right scapula remains after cryotherapy.

I slipped running back from the mailbox, hence the faint suture line under my chin

Dermatomes (with unpictured peripheral nerve fields)...why, there are as many writings bound on a body in the form of scars if a linguistic turn is applied to it. If a tome is an extensive written work to be read...

2 days in Paris - final scene

Briefly, Line Recognition

While calibrating military optics, Joseph Fraunhofer noted that the spectral lines, which specify elements to the amount of light their atoms emit or absorb; and the resulting wavelength, of the Sun differed from other stars.

Aldrich-Mees' lines appear horizontally along the nail bed after arsenic, thallium or other heavy metal poisoning or they may indicate renal failure.

Median incision begins along the linea alba, or white line, or the fusion of the aponeuroses of the abdomen, which separates the left and right rectus abominis muscles.

Where each phrase, clause or sentence corresponds to a line of poetry with a line break or caesura, enjambement delays the intention of the lines by "straddling" or "bestriding" them.

Conceivably, the Nazca lines of the Pampas de Jumana of Peru were made by removing the iron oxide rocks to expose the light earth underneath, and their longevity is owing to the relatively windless conditions of the desert there.

Ascenders and descenders categorize the Latin letters in the study of lineation, or typography.

Recognizing the line of sex role conflicts is tantamount to crossing it.

Djuna Barnes defines Nora of Nightwood as if the horizon line of day and night applies to soul metered by it:

"'Have I not shut my eyes with the added shutter of the night and put my hand out? And it's the same with girls,' he said, 'those who turn the day into night, the young, the drug addict, the profligate, the drunken and that most miserable, the lover who watches all night long in fear and anguish. These can never again live the life of the day. When one meets them at high noon they give off, as it were a protective emanation, something dark and muted. The light does not become them any longer. They begin to have an unrecorded look. It is as if they were being tried by the continual blows of an unseen adversary. They acquire an 'unwilling' set of features. They become old without reward, the widower bird sitting sighing at the turnstile of heaven, 'Hallelujah! I am sticked! Skoll! Skoll! I am dying!'"
...

The concept of lines enters my language lately since I clearly enjoy crossing them. What if the barriers that initially titillate us in their impenetrability or by the insistence of transversal keep things interesting, for the lack of another word?

What J Plans to Do with Her Time, An Infinite System Working Within Finite Matter

J will sound a piano of some sort, even if it means starting from the beginning with scales, at some point when she is stable. Her ambition to do so, moreso signifies her wish for attentiveness, rather than a modest talent stalled out on a presupposed career track. The freight that such a task once carried- the compulsory musical training for the difficult, distracted preteen's left brain-is left behind. Such is the death of many things, while there is the excuse of others' hastening to dormancy.

All of J's animals are dead and buried in her backyard that is a terrestial ark along the margin of a Serviceberry stand. She remembers standing out under it ten years ago watching lacewing ants and the catbirds, with songs like distorted playback, descending on them. This is the story of her discarded poem about birdlime coupled with the discovery of Wordsworth's affectation when she read "This Lime Tree Bower, My Prison".

Underneath the same alleé, J has recently contemplated doing a little amateur archeology. By this she means digging up the cats she watched die, and swaddled in frayed bathtowels. J's mother reminds her that such a reunion, though not quite unlike sectioning the freeze-dried feral cat children with colored plasticene mortally frozen in their circulatory systems, would not serve the tragedy any more or call back their return. So, they may safely sleep undisturbed