She opens her eyes to coordinate the descent of dark with her own. Transitional moments give shape to her floating life. The half lit roadway rolls out with the limp sorrow of dawn transported here to join with dusk. In these halfway atmospheres are drawn the profiles of time, held through long stretches of day and night in hesitations of dreaming, thresholds, cave mouths. The slim figures of tree trunks, mailbox posts, powerline uprights stretch into canescent sheets, rotating with the earth, caught in her parted glimpse they insinuate themselves outside the movement of her body, of the sky, the eyes. The seconds between the full stops of light and dark or dark and light, smear into one with she and her retinue of apartment windows submerged in their aged, crumbling lot.
Wade into the slowly moving Venice rio, pressed tight between walls, from upon the streets where collections of distant expanses are all occluded, everything has a relationship drawn in fragments. She cannot clutch the city whilst getting caught drifting into reeds ‘round corners. Yet, lost down within, a relationship impossible through racing straightness is cultivated, she is subject to the invisible eddies, the deep currents, the stagnant dead ends, the life cast into the reeds, she sees why, for self preservation, the streets redirect themselves, why they hide through covered sottoportego the sun cannot touch, standing water connects continuously with the great network she believes she is refused from but which she cannot leave without drifting throughout.
The days are unbelievable messes. They never start. They are starting all the time, staggered for my troubles. I wont know which place I am waking up in out of them all, at the metal desk, under the table, wrapped in a cocoon on the bathroom floor. I slowly run my eyes across my surroundings. Things are unclear behind a milky haze. It doesnt matter what arises out of it. My eyes dont burn but they feel smothered. The material on the wall where the stripes of my falling fingerprints in some substance trace wont indicate anything about the circumstances that put me there and clear vision would only confuse me. By the time I have asserted a context I am always at my desk with cold hands. It will never be perfect, but I want to be present when it happens.
Fourth station, first body. The array of limbs finds poses when its sequence becomes identifiable. The history of the thing is not the thing; history is an external proof that action is taking place. Causes for each birth, or present state, other than those that were once exterior effects, sparkle within the grain of the thing. The thighs stand, full splay, separated by the maximum diameter of the calf, the knee rasps back, setting the nap of the carpet aright, toward the drawing back together of the thighs somewhere beneath the rind. Perhaps the extent of the system could be observed in cross section, or perhaps extrapolated from the periodic rise and submersion of that single thigh from the integument, or from the traces and cowlicks in the nap and dew of the rug. Full close.
You transcribe others secrets hoping they will color bits of your memories. You close them into your eyes, but they never do. The light moves in the rippled patterns of blown liquid refracting. Sinuous, electric nets oscillate across the wall, spread out from particular spots and shiver in decreasing frenzy out toward the alley. Soft filtered color traces through some of the lines, transforming whilst twisting on themselves, idle yellow to lukewarm gray spueth across the wall, disappearing, impoverished, rising charitably and truthfully clear again, the green hopes of the regenerated creature precede its old rose anguish, and truthfully clear again before the void, where the strand of light wastes its gift and recedes further. In its absence the black seal of death, the orange end.
You see a white shapeless luminance beginning in a sparse fog and flooding through the gaps it initiated to fill your eyes. It is bright through solid matter, through your eyelids open or closed. Keep them open. Put on the semblance of wanting to surface. The water is shallow enough to kneel in. You lay chest down with your dress rising and falling against the sand. It sways, filling with water and billowing, then blown tight across you. The light and salt burn your eyes. Salt flumes in your eyes shimmer across finer and finer shapes etching out of the surface a horizon with indistinguishable attitude, and you sink again, your arms wilting ahead of you. Wet or dry you sag. You could be pulled anywhere in the world in a long long instant and be still a breath away from disappearing.
Full descent. Here the streetscape renounces the caresses of the sun. There is no trace of it now. It is her lot, for these moments of atmospheric pause, to shudder herself into void. There is no light on the street now. The sun leaves the night. Full night. In an asynchronous dappling up across the high plains, the posts and peaks of the street lamps rise out of the dim slowly toward the east end of the avenue while shades of darkness assume their pose on darkened surfaces. The night blooms with dark dapples enfolding the gray walls of the apartment blocks. Hidden wells of night creep forth in lacework inscriptions, translucent black drapes, drawn out from rediscovered edges that had been obliterated by the sun. Her eyes follow with rote gestures; she rides further forward.
On all sides are walls. Afternoon sun flows through southfacing gaps and falls upon her neck and shoulders. Long spells and days spent watching the shadows drift across the opposite wall, and shadows of clouds drift through those pale frames of light at conflicting speeds, bring her the protection of familiarity, willing everchanging skies. She is claimed by this space, identified by its coordinates, its stillness, its address, its name, all of which she adopts. Sheltered, though the road extends far out to the horizon, she stares. The city falls away, the repeated blocks, the names, and the mysteries. She stalls here and there not from personal interest, or any sense of fit or acquiescence to the rigor of gridded walls, but by vacantly occupying it with the tides allowance.
To be in that one place of awake, I place myself in my toes, the sheets are still cold through my nails, the dew is cold through the spots bared through to my flesh and the sheets are stiffly rough on the scraps of skin that are not horned over, each toe is warm where it connects back to my feet even in the stillness of the livid blood, I find a moment sealed away and stopped, I am in my fingertips and feel the singular evacuating pain through my fingernails from stored cold underneath the pillows. The cold confluence of my blood, each bit of me, pools in my chest, all beneath my skin. I lay and visualize myself walking in the white sun. Out there could be anywhere. Outside my skin is an omnipresent texture of fabric. I feel its incremental identity slide over my skin when I adjust my body.
The effect of involuntary movement is further involuntary, but not unaccepted or unforeseen, movement. However, insentient animate things, having no ability to perform informed actions related to their locations or translatory movements, have come to be found where they are only through sequences of involuntary effects. Movement suites can be apparently synchronous yet over time cause adjacent bodies, atmospheric conditions, and landscape patterns to migrate drawing new systems into the sequence. While isolated, the second through the fourth station of the first body and some fragment of the duration between the first station approaching the second and the fourth station approaching the first, pass a kinetic effect to adjacent bodies.
The tendrils of light that swirl around you do not harbor memory. You dont remember. The places still are and the objects still where your hands aligned them. Things touch places forever. The end in long orange dusty fingers is pressed into your eyes in sleeping through tiny daily suicide. In it is the empty afternoon apartment, yellow with self scrutiny, leave the city, leave the long rays through blinds that ignite the gray dust of your breath, leave the musty palazzo, wake up to a green sky through the alley window in your empty bedroom at dusk across the hollow sky dome. On the street is black prenight emptiness, black puddles, black churches, solid places not carved open by memories, leaving you sealed, moony, with your sleepless return accusations.
You are always near the end, floating just before the tide, the rain washing through the desert, until it is dry and the edgeless wind blows you, or the clean hand of night reaches beneath your collar and replaces you with cold condensation. You have a long way to go. You know the increments meted out before you and those past, not what happened in them anymore, but their duration. A piece is taken out from before you and moved to behind you. The construction is forgotten. Those tired vessels laid out toward the horizon are unorganized and mute. It makes you want to stop and survey if you could. You dont need to. You dont even know who you could be. You would do anything, only if it was nothing to you.