Grammaring Perseverance
“A grammar is an on-going system of relationships…a system which is always in the process of articulating itself – not simply changing, but actually making itself up as it goes along”
-Ron Loewinsohn-
My hand trembles when I move to write. Time changes. What is called perseverance, equals age.
As beautiful to me now, she. More.
I refuse her loss on any terms. In any context.
I investigate the language of inquiry. Always a difference of relation.
Never expect to be heard. Nor heeded.
Language makes itself up…and it goes along…articulating itself…again.
With this hand, along the incalculable curve of her hip, my palm records cellularly, but never repeats.
Lef hand entangled, her thick head of hair, tomorrow otherwise, should it work its way out. Or ever want to.
The side of my knee prepositions her thigh, slides into a phrase, shaping a passage, not as if the surface is ever the same, yet no doubt it belongs, only, to her.
My ankled feet, like bony whips, eager to explore, inadvertently pain – the slope of the pedal, bolt of the swivel and up the liquid skin and calf.
It will leave its bruise, its passioned impression.
Everything becomes an aching to know. Everything is on-going process.
Systems of relations.
When perseverance oppresses. Again, again, not emptying the land, but altering it. To cause the seeking, redundancy, both the wanted and the wanting wear. Tools whittling down, different structures, various nerves, must learn again, of course the surfaces having changed.
My thigh registers her buttocks, elbow in her neck held by shoulder. For lips to memorize her ear, only that moment. I rely on her contours similarity hour to hour, so that details are not lost, just renewed.
An eroding resource, yet we are layered, and wrinkled through the timing. What preserves? Naught but the process itself, for which our charts are made. Remade.
The motion does not cease.
As the curves to the apple, subjective object of measurement. Objecting a subject to a sensual scrutiny. Not unlike remembering, or illusion. Information, an obvious verb. Whether coming undone or accruing.
That began in the perseverance of my quivering hand. Once connected, steadied by context, the grid of associations and leaps. The world is a boundary to trace, to follow along, diverting the dots and the dashes, the lines and the colors, reenacting the tracks.
A stumble is anything but halting, more like surge and accident and a reaching out to stay. My fingers tend to fumble through the filaments – those once vocabulary now a tangling stitching of signs.
To be decoded, recoded, as it were, what hollow mouth or aural labyrinth does not effect? We know of no recipients, no audience, only sometimes, luckily, co-conspirators, co-creators of a co-event, called (sometimes) knowing, (sometimes) conversation, (sometimes) simultaneity.
I’ll reach out, my hand tremored right down to its core, its code, its quarks or its atoms,
and find a steadying or pattern, metaphors of richer entanglements that may not be explained
my qualia, slight blue lines on pallid vacant surfaces, directing possibilities.
In-formation – that everything that is, in its multiplied becomings, as discrete as my flesh traversing yours.
A continuous severing enabling us knowing – our grammaring, our ongoing, its enclosure.
“At the ‘inmost heart of each thing’ is an ongoing process, an unfolding which is its identity”
-Ron Loewinsohn-
All my Words are Silent 