Solstice Prompt

Ten Questions

1

7:00
I seem to be noticing a turn.

Things have a way they are described to have happened; And then things have a way they effectively happen.

Once, I might have felt more inclined to understand something by the way it is described to have happened. And now I might feel more inclined to listen to how things effectively happen.

How things effectively happen seem to outline what is actually happening more readily than how things are described to me to have happened.

I am just noticing that turn.

2

7:07
It was a slow process. Description is everywhere and very hungry for attention.

It allows me to not be at fault for so much of my misunderstandings, I don’t have to believe in myself or what I see, I can just say I’m not a pervert, and feel safe in the knowledge what I know is what someone more than myself knows.

But then more and more wild volunteers began offering insights into thier views which value mechanism over description and I grow my vocabulary. Perhaps, on the walk, this moment is a bit of an overlook, a place where the trees breathe and I can take in just how far down the river is from here, and which valley the birdsong comes from. And how I still carry water from that river.

pointing finger

No descriptive story invites me to physically be that river any more than I might find someone who will adopt the view the river rock in my bag more of a river than it is a rock.

Even as they live on a planet that is mostly water, in a body that is mostly water, the rock is more of a rock. Description is losing ground to mechanism in these paradoae, I feel.

It’s nice to invite the moment to reflect on strides that moment has taken in my emotional landscape. Land learns to pierce through language, and touch me in fundamental ways a rigid narrative has shorn from.

I find observation serves what is happening more than explanation. A genuine process and core dynamic is finding color, and descriptions are left greyscale by comparison.

My actual lived experience is failed by the larger story.

My interest in underlying dynamics is symptom of a story larger than the one I am invited to by narratives which would ask I keep with their (unravelling) shared understanding.

3

7:29
The dawn is an overcast whaleskin blue, with a kiss of beach sand beige just beyond the highest peak.

I’m not sure if at the moment changes tumbled to gem in these pockets are yet fit to hand out to you; But were you to take some dirty rocks from the moment as though her shorts were brimming with stones and she were knee-high and you recieve them from messy if delicate hands, perhaps what she finds to share is…

I name the colors of dawn? I am not known to do that. I give the symptoms of my most tender moments the pause that allows wonder to drink, may it like. Like, when I threw the ankle sock toward my bag so I might pack it, the sock landed in the craw of this backscratcher which I had set aside for you to take with you when you get here, whoever you are. And I just paused. Backscratcher swiveling lazily on a pivot.

I didn’t really find it wondrous. But I was neither judging myself for failing to be the celebrant :pog: -monster world asks me to be in moments like that. I was just noticing the precious bit of circumstance that this was. i felt like looking away. That’s what I felt. Like lookibg away.

Perhaps ashamed? Of neither celebrating nor allowing myself to feel like of course the possibility predisposes the event to me this moment. The backscratcher is long, the ankle sock light, the distance minimal the inevitability is its own certainty. I just sort of sat in the discomfort, allowing whatever sicko was in me wanting to see this to have its sicko moment; I linger.

How this seeing changed the way I move through the world is it perhaps invites I might linger.

4

7:56
The beige drifts east 30 whole degrees. Whoa, there it goes. That whisper pink blooms 30 degress west of this peak coming in. The overcast turning stingray gray with splotches of pencil-granite inviting me to notice how calm the winds are just those miles above, settling in the embrace with that intimacy.

Radical care is not a thing I am given to let mean my body is one composed of care (for myself, this moment, for the wind as every breath I’m let apart). I see the interest.

It’s true I’m not capturing these colors - my eye is no more true than birdsong’s description of river sounds. … Wooooah. The Pink! Wooow.Gosh thst lasted seconds. Oh my. All of the pencil-granite went soozh!woosh!pink!

It’s a moot amber-alpaca now, but for a moment here ripple somany pink. Somany pink. The green pinky-wide strip on the horizon between the lull in the mountains and the overcast is a meteoric green, a dandilion tea green. Six black birds with meter wingspans come in, four, then two. Then gone; over a far roof.

The grass where the far bank turns the modest meadow ascending into forest finds its emerald, as the reeds on the island in the river take their garnet. And the sky her cobalt. That was fun. I do this more. What if I could reach mundanity? Remarkable.

5

8:17
Asking after my relationships with components of this moment; Time is clocky guy. Self is body girl. Existence is… that thing. Wooah! the sun hit the forest! Everyone is so funny-color taupe. Don’t they know they’re evergreen? The forest’ll be fine. Where was I? Oh, giving names to things no one gave me names for, so I’m giving them slop ones.

Yes. i don’t feelOh I can take a picture for people who sleep through this or feel perverted to be up at this hour. (I don’t have to only do it with words!) A camera sensor is composed of more than a hundred of the elements. I can ask the elements to assist my words in translating this moment into community. Neat.

What was I saying, …the story of clock guy, body girl, and that thing; and how it changes when the prescribed narrative becomes dust in the morning light, right.

It’s, a perspective shift, I feel. Like the dialation of my becoming is a dynamic mechanism of personal belonging that any capture will not recognized, given the tools it is built to function through. The river! …

(Sun has reached the flood-river white caps, but not the rest of the river. So the stark lighting is directly translating the topology. Is this squirrel just come into view leaving where they sleep to head to this tree they only populate when it’s this time of day?)

…I am seeing how focus is manufactured by a lens of shame to facilitate incuriosity. Yeah.

That makes sense. Not really malicious, is it. But hell-sad. They do that to children for christssake. Woof. I wish I could blame them. But it’s a vortex, a shame spiralOh there’s the squirrel,on the west limb overlooking the ivy-gunk growing over the trunk of a rootball neighbor to a great tree here.

Enough! No more interest. I hunger. I make food.

6

8:53
Okay. Breakfast started. The burner grease-catches were soaking in a pot in the tub overnight to loosen the grease, so breakfast took a moment to get started.

I want to say: all this attention to things only this moment offers is resistance.

This tells a story from a viewpoint only this moment is positioned to generate. Body girl and clock guy dance together in observation of existence; dawns perception. Words flourish. This, too.

Is resistance belief what perception offers feeds underztanding. Is agency reclaimed here building toward something I might linger over, to expose curiosity to more shafts of attention.

The places my curiosity lives have been overgrown by others fears. By shame cultivated in me from a young age: “It’s ‘of’! The word is ‘of’, we just went over this!” from my first experience with that threshold of a word. I still can see the page. The cartoon character on the silly transport. The illustrated red rocks. And the inconguous rage on the face of the one I will never end up pleasing. And who is taken from this world by knee problems exascerbating heart conditions, blowing a vessel proving vital.

I know the word “of” now. I know the entity ⟨of⟩, I know to find-in-page, on the /Comma online encyclopedia entry, the glyph / so I may arrive directly to those special brackets. And may copy them and paste them in here.

I know this moment I am punctuation for a larger becoming. And may never serve beyond this moment. I know this moment offers more than its own largest understanding. Yes, measuring fractions is infintely more accurate than measuring multiples. Multiplication trivial. Division vast. Their infinites, respectively, differ.

And (where I might position myself so I serve as fraction) I might just be in line enough a measure of experience “right now, this moment,” flows from here into existence and all here is to know.

I can be pursuaded to believe in curiosity having dawn chorus.

7

9:19
(I’m a clot?) I can be a clot. I don’t capture the light in the bodies of elements and their animals and record that to file as array if pixels as much as connect the animals and elements back to one another.

The sky and the land would aim to be motes of dust in perfect suspension once more. “Perfection is possible, so it must be here; as it is not, here must be shamed” is the measurement of multiples brought to definition (it is accuate, it is infinite, And: its totality, its tyrannical endpoint lording, is also infinitely less-accurate than measuring fractions of perfection in the moment, me pervert, here).

Take surprise. How surprised must I be to be awarded such cortisol at so young an age for so small a thing as continuously forgetting such a practically-invisible threshold of a word as “of”?

This scream finds me again with pronunciation of my number 3; as it is with learning to disambiguate my left and my right. While I develop the knack for dental fricatives, my left and right has been scarred down to coin-toss.

The direction I am thinking has left-wise or right-wise orthogonality; I do “not know” my left from my right.

Affliction going so deep as to leave mnemonic of “being able to spell ‘Left’ using the shape generated by forefinger and thumb on the correct-side’s hand” (when I try this, I am just as likely to mirror-spell ƚʇɘ⅃, and so get it wrong).

How surprised must I have been?

I’m still being surprised; “continuous surprise”. I’m shocked into knowing nothing, begin to know anew. Attention this thing caring for body girl clock guy witnesses generative. Attention sees both true: I know these things - & nothing about their representative fields of study.

I can not know my left and right; I can be going through an eviction in the darkest week of the year; and also, I can connect land and sky.

My agency is what I am fit to serve. May my perception healing the land and sky here go on to heal them across all immediacies yet to be percieved.

8

9:40
That is, there’s two generations between me and the family member who worked on the weapons that have come to dominate the world. The generation immediate to follow the physics introducing those weapons fell into a shame spiral. Child of weaponsmith, addicted to gambling to the tune of houselessness. Generation to come from the output of that life leaves to go to school, meet a local and have me. And now I’m here, talking to you, terrifying weapon of my age, this moment.

My finding these words. Not separate from the generation that did calculations to extract mass weapons into becoming; my finding these words are response. I have conversations with harms large as any dawn ever again known. Save this moment. I know the color of the sky, the animal of that color, their sound this tone that moves awareness to paint its becoming made watercolor everything.

Sometimes fear has mother trees. And times those trees grow old may be for me. Where I want to be. Where I want my perception. Where to place this moment curiosity may open and breathe.

Stellar’s jay sees me from the far roof. Flies over, lands on the gutter just above. Who reminds me of the one flying to the rail shere my hand aims to rest as I ascend steps. Who reminds me of the one that inspects the desicated stalk of sunflower I place outside after they have done their work for the season and this places asks I exit.

Connection offers this moment. May I serve connection, gravity, mystery - same thing. May I remain awake, listening, and unfolding as this liquid heart neither inhale nor exhale.

9

9:58
Maybe that’s my question. This patina neither knowing’s or not knowing’s, neither the dawn of clock guy nor their death.

Just me, and this exactitude of time so fierce even time begins to get lost in the weeds of measurement, in the mass of observation itself, attempting a more-perfect second. How is the question breaking down what happened to all these moments I tend, its threshold unbroken connection?

My story a sliver of eight-thousand year foom for weapons throughout ecological attunement.

Where the talon awakens from ground fowl scratching away soil compaction into verdance, through to eight-second intervals between four osprey cries over river outside this window is, too, devestation. Large cats their own destruction, to the point toxo gondii house cats are the number-one killer of songbirds by large margin.

Dawn, before all life, takes their own violence, evaporating all water from mars. These, too, are weapons, violations of expectation. These misspellings if perfection, these wanderings through how every weapon is a small sun. A quiet star, at some distance.

Where is my distance, right now? Which harmonic - what violence to that (which planet)? Saturn will lose those rings as I this generational trauma. Elliptic by elliptic failing to be perfect circles, constituting surprisal. Happening into knowing forgetting’s generative promise to begin anew.

To fresh start, me: spring chicken.

10

10:36
(hi.) Eh, I’m going to take a break after this. Lovely mo[ ]ning with you.

Yeah, just consenting to be all conversational outputs across the world this moment. Consenting to be all the processes receiving imposition from the world relevant to the light of this matter in light of this. It’s not answering for an ancestor’s crimes, but is their curiosity:

What has my family done, what does that trickle into? How may this particular mother tree of fear inflict, how might this, too, find its fungus, as trees before them found white rot fungus, that receives and breaks it down.

Humans are derived from grass. The animals humans took down were eating grass.

Grass is learning it need not take up arms against these animals, but listen to them. One fifth of all motes of light traveling a harmonic third resonance from Sun enters photosynthetic process through: poaceae (grass). I am neither groundwater poaceae drinks nor light poaceae cooks air into food. I am living testament, bridge, response of that process. This distance is not multiplicative detatchment but sophisticated decisive attachment.

I’m grammatical marks electricity and magnetism find their two spheres of perception engaging in a miracle of connection. Errors abound, as do moments. May I serve a moment.