It’s not the 1940s, but a whole slough of inheritance, littered with dead leaves and charged with memory, weighed in greyscale, nets cast and prey caught, hundreds upon hundreds upon thousands of voices, each curing the others in moonlight, quicksand, some arc of cello, languid and long, half stretching and half succumbing, just letting itself...Continue reading
Category: Gosei
A Slip
My family’s history is a slip tucked under a dress to make self into something else, a thing less driven, less raged less gutted, milked, less ink on the page, some thing to transform being into body, body into subject, subject to sew, a certain seed, to make go, make go like this, to and...Continue reading