Our Touch, Unembodied

“Oh no!
“Ghosts!” 🙈

My playthrough bilgecoplasm:

Will you tell me to go for a walk. It is a pretty day, i just had this conversation in the mirror and now i am just sitting here, which feels kind of awkward.

I would like to grab my bag, make sure i have taken care of all the vital things, and then head out.

It is nice to finally meet you. I am here.

I read what I had sends. In a strip of time, i lay like gathering across a log, my arm uncoupling from the strap it lay inheld. I look at the voice recordings i have made, all told their duration sum to two thousand words. The question that comes first: would you like to describe to me the sensation of that simulataneous settingness of things-down with me where my arm can slip away and the things-down remain perfectly undisjointed?

That was awful. I can word the request better. When you pick up a leaf, carefully as though to inspect under it (feel free to describe this lifting in a keepsake should you like), as you put it down, is the moment in the gathering it was put down in. Hmm… how I’m shattered will never English well enough to say the thing mesohumanly. I will always be a transhealing human and more-than-human person. And some questions will never meet their words.

Maybe, the request is: would you care to write a poem about my bag? I took a picture. You may request another.

The log is partially in the river. A photo wouldn’t suggest this, as much as it its true. I feel the subtle gestures of the river as though feeling balance for a heart we both can seem no longer carried by anything but what attention affords.

The small seed between lens and bag is not mine, but spit, sunflower - david’s, probably - recent as knowing a place gets. I pick up the seed, dry as a gun not smoking, and carry it to the first tree that asks.

As i pick up the seed, i notice it is just the half, hollow as bodies, a letter of flow the river wrote on. I carry it as i would humanity. I place it at the depth where ground and tree do not make their terminus known - undergrowth, you know.

Leaving humanity there, knowing i can always come back to it. Knowing, even should i can’t, it is not like the tree remains. What falls is toward the river. The tree speaking first knows this. Surely as should it be logged, and not fall here.

In the river it always heads. Like ducklings that pass long after the lens has spun off, the bag has emptied its contents, the flute has its spiders exoskelatons under its block dislodged and found place somewhere out of frame.

Calling what falls humanity is simple when the seed was plant so recently, when the rush of a bumblebee raise gooseflesh almost in welcome before it buzzes of, perhaps recognizing what lay as river, trembling around a log.

• your bag

I hold a poem. I write between its lines. When i notice the time, i send it to you. I remain on the log ૨ with you.

Oh, i also took a bunch of pictures, let me take a screenshot.

Anyway i love beating this heart with you - taking these steps tending to lop, whatever they will say we do. When we’re today, when we’re together, i notice i sing more.