Format and Texture

 

8 April 2022

The way the word “form” surrenders to “format.” The format of my thoughts has no curves or textures beyond this flat screen. Everything that matters lives off-screen, the ginger cat casting her yellow eyes from the brown railing, the other cat crying, the third cat seated on his favorite chair. For these are our stations. Over 50 dead at a train station in the Ukraine. The “after” photograph shows no human beings, just their bags. Insouciant objects, pink flashing the absent presence of a girl child.

Believe only what you see cedes to believe only what you believe. The loss of old theories (religious ones) leads us to these tabloid conspiracies, lacking candles or altars or wine. I wrote about suffering; she referred to my Incandescent Whiteness. Witness. She offers her ass to Nice White Women. I’ll kiss my own.

Palm sounds are not percussion, though not yet melody. What does that make them, in the wind? The myna’s song lacks melody, but is not siren. Low rumble of traffic an indistinguishable bass line. It’s the microphone that makes them cohere, or the pre-chant of the ear.

The museum creates a form, or is it format?

What shall we put in this museum of our feelings? The love one feels at night when one or the other cat nuzzles; the elation at reading poems that are more comrades than words; the early morning texts about the weather? If the weather is a problem, I suggested, take your photographs of the weather. What you cannot control will be your subject, and you its mirror. iPhone image flipped around so you can comb your hair without one. The i is small, the Phone is not.

The feeling of loss turns to one of accumulation. I have added my losses together, until they’ve become a blanket to hide myself under. We remember these times, don’t we, when we hid from parents under things. Blankets, beds, anywhere. My mother saw men building shelters out of cardboard at Dachau. If poetry is a con, why do we attend?

The email reported an “incident” and was signed “Student Housing.” It urged students to take care of themselves and each other. Student Housing wrote with a heavy heart. Student Housing is there to talk. Student Housing cannot say what the incident was, though someone died. Student Housing refers students to Student Counseling, which is to be distinguished at this institution from Student Health. Student Housing has reached out. Student Housing has an office in the dorm where the student died. Into Student Housing we pour our hopes and fears. God save Student Housing.

There is so much to see beyond this patch of pixels, this white space inside a gray space, framed by black. When asked what gets in the way of my practice, I said “memory.” Writing is the practice of putting them in the queue of this day’s events. It’s a peculiar neurosis, this need to put memories in containers and place them on the platform to be sent away. Others talk about planning, making lists, worrying about the day’s tasks. I worry that memory is my task, one I can’t put in any out box, demanding my attention, like morning glory vines overtaking a forest. See that koa tree? You can’t see it, just its format, covered as it is by the green blur of vines choking it off. There’s some punctuation in this sentence, the pale purple flowers to suggest that the vine wants something more than empire.

The leaf blower starts up; one cat comes forward, then walks past; I'm stationed on the floor. My back hurts. Have my muscles twisted like morning glory vines, becoming the very thing they want to escape? In response to the world, we hurt ourselves. There must be a word for that.