tastebaby

by howaretheyfor

I have been filled at recent with a paternal desire, a want to buy up the orphans of the world and fill a house with them. And also fill the house with those plastic balls you find in ballpits, and pizza. And then mix it all up. I would be the best father–?

Two men on either side of a stone wall, they speak different languages, they are imprisoned for life. They cannot hear each other’s voices, but they can make out each other’s tapping. Can they create a language, a means of communication?

1. The first tap they each make to each other contains in itself an unbelievable amount of communicatory data: “I am,” “I am forgotten,” “I recognize you,” “I want to know you.” All in a single tap, a single note. This leads me to want to think that more could be said. If you can communicate a thing as resounding and infinite as “I am,” then all else must be possible somehow.

2. Language has notes and pieces and etc., in the language of the tapping: cadence, volume, location of tapping (assuming that they can differentiate when a tap is made in one place but not another), tamber of tap as in scratches, using nails, using flesh

3. First attempts at conversation would be based in their respective languages, simple 1 tap = a, 2 taps = b kinds of recipes that would fall short. And in their tappings, their one-sided tappings, the oneside filled with purpose the other side filled with unsurety, they would communicate eventually something else: “we do not speak the same tongue-language.”

4. The first tap they make might take on a kind of safety, perhaps in a moment of confusion both figures beating their bodies against the wall, trying to turn that wall into a great stone tongue, one would revert to that first tap or 2 taps, and the other would respond in kind, a kind of “ok, let’s start over,” or a “let’s take a break,” a clearing the table and beginning anew

Meetings, conversations, trying to come to conclusions, a foreigner conversation that reactivates itself with each new foreigner here, seeing the west bank for the first time, enflamed and desirous superficially to make change unacquainted with what it means to live here, to be of this place. Have you noticed how close speaking is to singing, the things we sing at each other, the things we whisper at each other. Written word and spoken word, each in possession of a depth the other lacks. In absence, there is– A thingness.

Is it ever amazing how we can any of us manage to come to the same place in the world so big, how roads don’t change to take us someplace else how amidst every place there is in the entire world I can wake up in exactly in where I fell asleep: what are the chances? She held herself over me, hanging over me, hair hanging and slowly came undone, her skin as dust starting to fall upon me in a thin and dusted rain eyes closed filling with her, then looking up when the skin is finished dusting and the eyes begin to come undone, screwing in their sockets, herself a girlshaped surface of blood washing over the dust now the organs like thin strands of paint collecting on me, “are you ok?,” I ask my mouth filling with her choking, “is this normal?” “Yeah,”

Specific moments that are beautiful that are real or specific moments that are beautiful that are unreal, there is something special in specificity, in a single time a single place a single person a single moment, conversation that centers on tiny details, on how different people tie scarves around their necks, or the details of a sleeping boy, darkskinned his eyes and nose sticky surfaces that collect all the things he’s done that day: dusts and pencil scrapings, he sniffles when he sleeps trying to pull his nose back into his body, we do that: we try to recontain ourselves, like folding dough trying to knead the dough of us back into us and we do the same as a collective each of us a kind of separate dough that endangers constantly to come back together in a single great mush, trying to get stuck in doorways and etc., in tiny spaces until we melt kneaded back into the original dough we were handfulled from.

Standing in doorways or just standing in a friend’s room staring at the walls, walking in tiny circles: something specifically American or Western about that idea, about people having tiny cute indie movie moments together, “i just don’t know what I’m doing with my life right now,” “i’m so comfortable with you right now, like, i just feel like everything’s ok,” contentments, western satisfaction, western verbalizations of satsifactions where we’re all so each of us specifically perfect, houses lit by christmas tree, rooms filled with objects that are ours, we are all main characters, see ourselves in all the stories b

Bars, physical objects that are unmalleable, that are strong. The things that are meant to protect that need to be protected, the first coldness of the year, fog and things that are new, completely new: maybe trying to see the new in the details, not expecting:::what about the sky is so magnificent to us? Sunrises, sunsets, stars, the sun, the moon, lightning storms, clouds,– What is magnificent about saying “no”? A friend, “we look for a martyr, someone Else to fight for us to die for us to make the decision easy for us. We love gandhi and rose parks because they took the onus off of us, ‘finally, i was like going to do the same thing but like you know i was like busy'”

sounddrip soundwind lilacwind lilacpaper lilacbaby paperbaby childbaby tastebaby tastewind windtastes windbuttons skinbuttons lilacbuttons, a world filled with gifts. Hidden in tiny unbelievable places, behind a single leaf in an entire forest is the ability to see through walls, hidden wrapped in a hershey’s wrapper under a mountain of trash is the ability to run without cease, how would the world be different if we knew its magics: when will something change everything completely and instantly. Not slowly and delicately, but who will take the first picture of a flying child, a hole opening up in the ocean, the sky– Something totally different, again a hoping a writing of fictions. To be satisfied in the beauty and excitement that is; we are violently unempowered, unowning;

waiting for someone to hang over me and fall apart in rain on me.

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