"The event of human chimerism — does not challenge genetic testing as much as it problematizes Western definitions and regulations encompassing [the notion of 'writing']. An effect of genetic testing is that it in part structures our concept of what [writing] is. These tests can only be effective arbiters of [writing] to the extent that they are seen as legitimate and given power to reinforce particular notions of what being a [writer] means." —Norton Zehner, "Which Half is Mommy?" [bastardized]
"Don't make our winter interesting," said the man in my dream in the doorway of the hotel room where the window looked out upon a flatland.
The dream was real. So what if it consists of something less substantial than my head upon my pillow. The dream was real. Real enough. Realer. Than this.
If we survive our stupidity we will be dreaming awake, I assure you. If we do not, well, then all the pretty words will be lost anyway.
Dreaming awake, some of us will think our poetry to manifest the object of beauty (or ugly) – not the other way around. Not this habit.
Don't make our winter interesting.
We will dream of we, too. Opponents or allies in a futuregame Pong wherein every strike of the metaphorical paddle is a well-aimed thought mutating some headspace that may or may not be anything like we've ever known. And I do so hope it will not. Because you know—
Imagine: What is imagining?
I give you a world without gravity, without limits, without or within light. I give you a world where eggs un-break and the dead rise again, children as raptors into which we — you and I and who-else — shall be drawn and become reborn as each other. Or both. Or neither: As more.
I give you the cusp of emptiness, an event horizon upon which to balance a tangible pulse without words. Wherein, from darkness, lifts.
3. NAMING THE BABY
I tell you: I've forgotten what it felt like to live without language naming and framing every moment, memorable or not. Does naming really make the world real and thus me realer? Than what — than who? For whom?
Does framing really do anything more significant than, say, a patch of fescue growing down the long slope toward the aerable flatland, or the thyme gone to flower where the last of the bees alight. A cup of coffee sold, is that it? A slice of silicon replicating—is that?
Is it even possible for me to be in life without converting life to language? To be inside one's mind inside one's mind inside one's corpus inside a protracted dream? To make from the mind a physical poem inhabited by friends, or enemies — there's your little war, motherfucker. There's your sense of righteous indignation.
Let us come by some hardware beyond wetware where the body's plastic invents a frightfully new way. Much better than this. My god, please better than this. And this, peculiarly.
I want to find out.
I think I shall find out.
Sure, surely I shall find out.
I shall quit.