This is a ledger about the very ordinary spiritual recovery of its contributors.
This sight is a place for them, under one persona, to deposit the residue of daily experience. It is like a mountain storing depleted uranium overlooking the sea.
The present moment is all I have and it is impossible to retain. The number of people I have been will always outnumber the one that I am. This is a living history of traumatic remainders of the present moment.
When I am in the now each thing is what it is and there is nothing left over. That is Buddha. For us there is a remainder of unresolved anxiety. This is a place to turn that anxiety into art and be through with it.
This is a rhizome between the multitude that I am and the multitude you are. It is a simple machine for some of us to be more human.
In these notebooks one or several of us-.
In this place which is no place this is the grass
This is about how 'things as they are' force more beauty than we can handle. Here's where I'm waiting until the clouds are gone.
This is a place to escape from our daydreams. Hello: keep coming back.
The day we lost contact thedaywelostcontact we sat drenched in the most frigid noon sun, listening through the walls at the traipsing abuttments of becoming-car, becomings-trip, slaws of fricatives and kissing mechanism, the opalescent abulia-gel of conversation from the pictures they were showing. Brady said she’d sipped, fishinwaterline, the water she was drinking and hoped there was water left out in the public works still. You were steamtrodden and it was all you could do. You were fast and it was all there was to do. Eat. Heirloom. Drugs. Like. Fruit.
Later, you rested. I sneaked out to take this photo of outside, saw this marquee, and didn’t think much about it until now I see you staring back at me, through the overworked column of gut wrenching sunlight to the viewer’s left. Waving goodbye or saying hello to one of the figures whose eyes are locked upon you, from the other evening, from the darkness below.
