thy charm begone

i don’t know

after the disenchantment you look at lichens

you look at stones, you try to renew contact with the most elemental things

if you choose to live, you look at what clings

what clings is the lichen, the moss

the things that are there, invisible

you start by clinging to these little things

and you try to rediscover a form of wonderment

those of us destined to be foragers in the city are confronted with a challenge. how to be nomadic, searching for elemental things, in an environment that apotheosizes stability and replaces elemental things with simulated things.

if you’re a forager of the tangible, the sensuous, you might be able to get by. there’s garbage, waste, little things to find or steal. you can assemble these into artifacts of discarded beauty, condensed signs of the city, incarnate dreams of the real.

but if i’m a forager of words – these inorganic materials (or these materials that grow differently, that function according to principles often eluding science) – the city defies and consummates my searchings. it defies in presenting no-thing, things having been exiled from its world. yet it consummates in presenting the membranes of ghosts of soul, those lichens and mosses of spirit, these invisible and exiled things.

langwich, embodied abstraction of sperm, blood, shit.

so i search, perhaps, differently than the forager for stone or rhodiola or styrofoam. i search for discarded energies, wisped gestures clinging to the wind’s back through skyscraper canyons, sfumato morphologies, smoke and shadow of the raw intelligence of no-skin, fuliginous light of flesh.

re-engineered forms of wonder

reformations of knowledge in the renewed and renewable city