Musings at the Aggregated Space in Oakland from the book release party for Black Lavender Milk by Angel Dominguez.
In a white space of right angles and art in White frames I see shadows that drip from the edges like the art is melting. Is white an austerity? and if so is art done or is art full and dripping with intent and color, is the white to dominate or submit, or subsume?
Trees are permitted to grow where paving stones are absent.
My head is covered but not in deference, also not in defiance, circumstances define necessity.
The shadows aren’t dripping, they’re lifting the frames aloft, in a colloidal suspension, now the white room is sterile…what does it mean to you?
Thumbing colored pages with a quizzical eye, this isn’t why I came, we’re here for reasons that aren’t yours. The bar is high/there within somatic tintabulations, y quiera? Why quivers?
On a paper drum, don’t hit hard.
Pastel lips hide uncomfortable giggles. Have you giggled lately? If not, you should, it’s tight.
A blank gaze perusal, an awareness of sliding, a slipped conciousness, a latent development.
He keeps expecting to awaken, when he does he will muse as a butterfly instinctually, a dreamed poesis is a recollection of my father, Lo these many years of absence. My father dreamed once of butterflies on an Atlantic Beach during a solar eclipse. Driftwood had washed ashore and they danced around it. It was before he awoke in his slipping awareness. Thankfully, it was after, thankfully time exists to separate events. Because he didn’t write poetry his art was a firm calf muscle and laying down the bike sliding asphalt into a love song to his unborn son. He would tickle my face with his whiskers, I giggled then. I don’t remember if I giggled again, I once dreamed that I giggled, I remember it was the night we ended things.
She reads her poetry bare-breasted, fierce, with tears, oh , and it is demonstrably cold in the white, Is white cold?
Scent: What happens when I press:compress: a signafied? I get an oil, the essence of the thing and so significant this is that we call these essential oils. Our language names things and they are these things but they still remain unknown or unremarked upon. These oils, essentially!, are signifiers in the same way as language. I smell a vanilla oil and my mind makes connections to vanilla beans, and vanilla ice cream and the amounts of vanilla extract that go into my cookie dough; the same connections as the word, the signifier. So if language and scent can represent nouns similarly, or so similarly that the difference is negligible, then mustn’t it necessarily follow that what we lack for the creation of a scent language is grammar. Stories can be told in scents, and if that is true, then we must also allow that knowledge and wisdom can also be learned through scent. This then necessarily applies to sight, to touch and hearing. So when we marvel at the learning capacity of a toddler and yet discourage the shrieks, the sticky hands, the space gazing, the boundless enthusiasm, the vibration we must question. Perhaps the reason our learning slows as we age is not simply due to a decrease in brain plasticity, perhaps it is due to a quiet evening of hand sanitizer, quinoa, and sleep.