Doll Repair

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whether fox or doe

There is blankness, and multiplicity, and I fall somewhere in between like the plink of a feather. The plinks of thousands of feathers falling dizzily. Instead of struggling to align myself with one aura or another, I am concentrating on filling and feeling this middle space. Within the gestalt overall. My fascination with the orb, the pod, the cocoon, any bobble or earthen shelter, I know it is only leading me to the inside, to what makes the rattle.

I want snow. Summer evenings spent listening to music made during foreign winter frosts, amorphous sluice gates of voices. Letter water.

Lately following the spirit. It spruces from the steam of late afternoon bath water, candles burgeoning, everything busting. A combustion of the fertile. Flooding the air with burning rose oil. The spirit of late summertime brings me to mania and absolution, and then plummets me into lulls of severe irregularity and unknowing. The Cloud of Unknowing is my latest toilet read. I've been revolving more and more intensely as each day passes, but the manic is what drives me, brings me forth, makes life wild, therefore it is almost my vice.

I can bike up hills without ever getting tired, clean the house like a meth addict, spin around in circles like a 4-year-old, wake up at 6AM for morning hikes in ancient landscapes (sometimes). It ruins my appetite. It makes me lose feeling in my hands and feet sometimes, I often feel like I am floatational. It makes it difficult for me to sit still. I could probably bash my head against a wall and not feel it. The closest thing I can compare it to is possession, like being cupped by a claw.

I woke up the other morning, and as I was riding my bike to work, I felt a religious ecstasy. Every building, slab of painted cement, washed-out color, and industrial smell was enlightening and momentous. Sculptural. I could taste the purity of water. Even writing this now, each letter is meticulously rolling itself out and onto, I can feel its shape somewhere. It is a true, visceral phenomenological experience of creation, as if type were clay.

Making this return to the nestling middle all the more necessary...I am ready for harvest.

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