magnetisms i am

by howaretheyfor

I have been talking a lot about Voice in my classes, about the importance of it. “There is no solution to the occupation,” but we try anyway– We wake up and try, that’s all we can do. It’s human, etc..

If a wound (and killing) has touched you, be sure a similar wound (and killing) has touched the others. And so are the days (good and not so good), We give to men by turns, that Allah may test those who believe and that He may take martyrs from among you. And Allah likes not the Zalimun.

We spoke about love and hate for Palestine, and everyone in class had a story about saying goodbye to someone they knew would be giving themselves to the cause, brothers and uncles and fathers who left to become martyrs. It’s a Thing, you know what I mean? Like christmas trees or kites or 4-way stop signs. It’s an artifact, an item of life here, a thing that people do or make that is almost as magic, that does not come from evidence. You cannot deduce kites from what you know about life, just as you cannot deduce martyrs from what you know about life. Ornaments, objects that hang on life, details that are hyper specific and hyper localized and have a quality of magic.

Iblis (Satan) said: “I am not the one to prostrate myself to a human being, whom You created from dried clay of altered mud.

Easy to make anything look evil, easy to make anything look good; perspective– “it’s easier to hate than to love,” again just words, political, rhetorical. Qualities of truth separate from truth;

And from among His Signs are the night and the day, the sun and the moon. Prostrate yourselves not to the sun nor to the moon, but prostrate yourselves to Allah who created them, if you (really) worship Him.

The words that populate this life, the things that people know and couldn’t imagine. The things we do and believe, the colors that attract us, the things we do to our bodies, to people around us, the names we call each other, the things we have words for the things we must search to describe, our physical moments and requirements, our reasonings and the things we choose to allow, how buildings are filled with rooms and cities are filled with buildings and rooms are filled with people and people are filled with cities… Wondering at science and at god, the words we use, unbending at the elbows feeling a pressure and hearing a pop, telling people by the sound of their footsteps.

We maintain… the empirical reality of space in regard to all possible external experience, although we must admit its transcendental ideality; in other words, that it is nothing, so soon as we withdraw the condition upon which the possibility of all experience depends and look upon space as something that belongs to things in themselves.

It would be so much easier not to try; the answer will either come in a book of infinite pages or in a single letter; over and over: the occupation must be wrong: what does its subsistence mean?: As things are vs. As things appear.

There is a thing called love, there is a story of a woman whose sons have all killed themselves in Israel, it is possible to make paper and wood fly in large wind, we all have eyes.

Thought, action. I have this really exciting image of these spontaneous meetings. Where people will come with their faces and bodies wrapped, their voices transformed to stand in front of a crowd and speak huge honesties, poetries, descriptions of the sounds of their body. We tend toward untruthing ourselves around others, playing roles and “being somebody else” somehow. We certainly are not so simple as to “be a certain thing” and “not a certain other thing,” yet we all have this idea inside of us of “who we really are,” and certain people bring that person out. What exactly is that process?

Darkness invades the dreams of the glassblower.

What is this thing we do, creating fiction? A rejection of life its incomprehensibility, an incomprehensibility we create ourselves, kites and blowjobs, stories without physics, soon means never, picking a thing up and throwing it, the things our bodies do, the artifacts that hang around us. The objects. Everything is unendingly complicated, everything is unendingly simple. How can both of those be so true? It, for me, unravels the idea of “truth,” that everything and nothing can be true, it seems to me to suggest that this thing we’ve come to call “truth” is a perversion… Just trying to get laid, bro. Just trying to get laid.

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