bricks and stones

by howaretheyfor

We are gravity without having to believe in it; my internal and external spatial understanding all comes from an all-ready-understanding that things sit on the ground, that I am a being of surfaces and though a room might be filled with space I will grow and stick only to the bottom. I spent a dream’s night in a city where everyone wore everything they were on the outside, masks and collections of objects, bits of glass fitted with pulsing lights and long patterned scarves burned on both sides, little collections that were chocolate wrappers and tiny plastic toys, the severed wings of birds and these objects would fall away forgotten but be picked up by someone else, tiny hands shooting out from giant orbs of object ripping leaves from trees and handfulling dust, people took from each other and pulled into themselves and certain objects, the extra very special objects they pulled all the way into their centers, a compact heart of: perfectly square broken glass, rubber bands that never lose their stretching–

How to write for everyone? How to write for anyone but the rich? Or is that wrong, to assume that only kids and people with the time and resources to read read? Only the rich read, only the white read–how can I write for palestine when I do not speak its language, when I talk about ripped flesh, does all flesh scab the same way? But a misnomer, a red herring, to think it possible to write for everyone with the same words–“kids are uncreative,” or — “It’s a binary scale, every girl is either a 1 or a 0,” “she could get fucked”–

My want snags on old technology, machines that are made of movement, violent rubbers and metals and plastics, buttons that can be pushed harder a sense of function and our machines are internaled, skinned and muscled over though we breathe we do not see our lungs breathing, machines today have come to resemble people, smooth surfaces and tiny internal chemistries of stillness and darkness but old cars and old bread mixing machines and old ovens are outward-laden, heavy with apparati, spinning bands and riveted gears and motion that moves motion that moves motion that makes light and sound that is not its purpose. Machines that have sensable byproducts that are somehow the products themselves, huge sound and movement, “My name nazar. I like happy.” Learning and teaching, and I was told, “though you might do what you love, that will only make you happy. Things need to change,” but what needs to change? Again, change and solution and problem, they are all the wrong words for a fabric of life that does not have a beginning a middle and an end, that is a ceaseless slipping. Selfishness and traveling and not being responsible for my family,

Every book and photo and drawing is an attempt, a failed attempt at making sense; A good teacher teaches you what you don’t realize you don’t know. Only white people read books, right? Only rich white people read books, right? Only rich white people travel, right? A cityscape of light, old people limping through life threatening to finally have given up, like old technologies their veins and organs becoming visible, their pulsing beating metals and plastics showing through, eye sockets emptying of eye and flesh and bone chipping away to reveal the corroded remains of pulsing brain, and on his surface of decay, the lines of the stars can be made out, flaked flesh dotted with brown blood like nebulae and thick shadow-throwing veins like constellations, words spoken by the sky read in death. Old cars and old people and old technologies that were built, that were permeable and visible, reasons.

“Yawning with your mouth closed, a rushing of wind, a tearing of the eyes. It’s like that, you know. You know. And somehow what we are, is weakness. In idolizing presidents and superheroes and main characters, we never hear of how they shit, how they brush their teeth, how they sometimes trip on uneven surfaces, how their skin dusts away, how their hair falls out, how some of their teeth aren’t as white as the others, how they’ve been meaning to shave their pubes for a while but just haven’t gotten around to it; they are exactly everything that is not human, the consequences of physical life, the shitting and pissing and chewing. We are ashamed of our physicality and idealize the set of things that are else. When writing and showing people, we write their feelings their hearts their triumphs, their internal failures, but never their bodies, a preoccupation with everything about us that is not our body, computers and profiles and a collection of our tastes and friends and circles, and every girl is either a 1 or a 0, it’s fuckin’ binary scale you know? Either you wanna get it in or you don’t.” Man, who are these people who talk and voice themselves, people like me filled with words falling from their mouths like overboiled oatmeal–but see! How culturally specific my similes are. But how else to speak than by the things I know, overboiled oatmeal what the fuck is that.

For example, this universal identity of the apperception of the manifold given in intuition contains a synthesis of representations and is possible only by means of the consciousness of this synthesis. For the empirical consciousness which accompanies different representations is in itself fragmentary and disunited, and without relation to the identity of the subject. This relation, then, does not exist because I accompany every representation with consciousness, but because I join one representation to another, and am conscious of the synthesis of them.
– kant, the first critique, ss12

A desire to kill, a desire to conserve life, a fisting clench, my name nazar i like happy; we cover and protect the things we love, conserve them, as women in scarves too soft to touch, presents to unwrap after years of waiting slowly hair crispy with sweat and the smell of moths’ balls, her eyes closed terrified never touched before, a life of covering up and preserving and now finally opened and exposed to the air, mortal she starts to go bad.