echo note 2. not the how the what for in writing -majena mafe

Writing is writing. Itself. The making of writing is one shaped word after another. A winding sheet. In place. Writing is present …present again…and that is it all and that is enough.

To speak. To speak of writing as an addon. Inserts. It sucks over writing. Polops of dry areola. There are echoes between speak because there are gaps. And there are echoes inspeak because there are holes. Enough. After the word. But writing is there still, as writing. Writing is steel.

Words can soon go empty.

Self and writing are not the same there is no same of either or. But self and writing have each other’s inside obliquely. At a lapse to their shoulders.

A self emerges in writing that collapses when the writing is not.

A self is a subject. But it is gone now.

The discursive subject is gone. Once stated. The restating of bird as a bird is a bird was a bird, is the bird remembered re-membered. Each time. Each time the subject is differed. Is moved to the here now this shape. In this way.

The writing self

Not a comfortable possible I build a word and move out from there. There places that there is no feel home or comforted in …in the nothing. In the nothing there are still now and more frequently there then …arising questions that across the gaps…and a substantial slice of bread and butter.

At here…I am histories… histories lost restoring to them. Each place is gone from. Gone from.

I was not raised in the world yesterday. I am raised by myself inside myself, now. One thing good it is big and full. From it’s contents found there, from its shaky spindly opps gone, structures made of its stuff that goes by the definiteness called commonly none-enly nonsense and rubbish: rhymes, patterning, whispering, leaps, humming and singing sighs, and signing’s to myself and listening for echoes existing in the same world: rocking and carrying myself around inside my arms, crossing my fingers, burying my self in the fur smell of animals, living in walls, pulling at sores, smelling my knees, pulling tears from my ears, walking on cracks and watching the light across everything and inside the nothing at night… I scraped out a scaffold to hold my self on out from…

Writing restores. Re- store. The grown to sounding through silence of the stuff of its hollowness.

I am a little girl I am a very early age, I am old I am gone. I feel that things every-thing’s… seems finished for me. Then time. Trickle by time everything feels from that place is an extra long to hang on to the frail cavalcade wires of hope and there was a lot a lot of space.

The wire become me and my eyes are formed from there I watch it all stones- her face - stale bread - and super market glut-tonies…matter feeling situation because I am building a from like an engineer I am aware of what bridges the ravine first then second… a history as a filament of hoped for girders.

To write is the before it has passed.

In a dream I find red kittens, they are loved instantly. I ride a horse with the kittens on my lap. I hold tight to his neck collar…he throws me off. We enter a place to live that I must share with others I tell them I don’t like them and I watch over my daughter sleeping in the back of a car and wish for my husband to come away from a book.

image by me

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