Out for a walk in the woods, trying to remember something, trying to remember nothing, remembering to just remember, the void, the other, the keywords, the focus now is to absorb, to take in, to refrain from measuring, to exercise patience, humility, restraint, to take it in and not hold on to it, it's not mine, there are no territories, I own nothing, no ownership. I'm trying to remember always who I am, what I am doing, what my purpose is, what the meaning of "it" is, [ forest bird song in the background ] and there are no viable answers that I can entertain of course but it is the questions which demand to be asked, even incessantly, over and through process, from which the identity emerges. What I do know for sure is that this change will be embodied, that the performance becomes real as it is enacted, all the documents serving to extended the experience to others, but this is not the primary motivation, which lies rather in the experience itself, in this life - namely my own, to the extent that I may locate it - transpiring here, upon the focus of the process itself. Justified only in itself, through the reflexive sensing of self, but is also not, and/or, an inverse of itself. Remember to remember! It's the model that I'm crafting not articulations of the limits of language. Language is already an end, a trap, that which cannot contain the full limits of my being, only its own. My senses and me eyes are emancipated from the strict compartments of concrete cells, the cellular architecture - completely deathly to biological - the mere abstraction. I am no mere abstract, no mere mode of seeing, but an embodied vision, an actively looking I, seeing as a way, sights laid gently upon the path, a poeticism lying at the interstice, of it but not just there, not bound to any spot, owing more to flux and flow, of the making through crafting, poiesis of poetic praxis. I can gather terminology in order to make clear that which I need to remember, to increase its fidelity, but it is not through conversation, not through language, that this meeting will be converyed to other, it is in the work, in the operatic performativity, of the gesture of a life lived performatively, of a life lived by ennui and melancholy, suthentic suffering, always articulating its parameters, perhaps needlessly but perhaps with purpose. These poetic holes, these fragments of being, the sap oozing and coursing through the fibers of this botanical life, the fluid the flow - all these provisional metaphors may become powerful in pointing, circling, delineating, forming, but not for too long. Keep moving. Stay alive, stay alive, keep living. Clicks and cuts: I'm a collagist of the world at heart, it's how I world. Get out doors everyday and stop reading so many goddamn books! (If the environment is inviting). The world is not a text to be read, but it can be also - is this not precisely the concept of ecology? Of structural anthropology? There is a structure emerging here but that doesn't mean that the landscape exhibits an agency beyond my own articulation of it, or does it, and what is at stake? Keep walking, keep talking, keep writing, to other and the earth also, sure, but remember that this is not the work - or is it? The dialogue transpiring between being, entities, others or other whole selves, this is no project but is life itself. I'm trying to capture it as much as may be possible, now, while the opportunity is ripe, to collect specimens, grist for the mill, allegories for my poems, that much more material to work with later, but not so much to become burdensome - there's something to be said for restraint, limitations, not simplification or reductive abstraction but of the necessity of the limits, frames, rules or strictures, for sake of focus, because I am human, because I work within the confines of space and time.