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[cruciform-solidarity]

“How are we to think of a silence that is not merely an impossibility of saying, that doesn’t remain separate from language, but that brings language itself into view? That is, how are we to conceive of a silence not concerning things, but the silence of language itself?”

— Giorgio Agamben, ‘Image and Silence’ 

[twopears]

[twopears]

[weltenwellen]

Tony Hoagland, Sweet Ruin

[twopears]

'The House as Casualty', a prose poem by Mahmoud Darwish

In one minute the entire life of a house is ended. The house as casualty is also mass murder, even if it is empty of its inhabitants. A mass grave of raw materials intended to build a structure with meaning, or a poem with no importance in time of war. The house as casualty is the severance of things from their relationships and from the names of feelings, and from the need of tragedy to direct its eloquence at seeing into the life of the object. In every object there is a being in pain – a memory of fingers, of a smell, an image. And houses are killed just like their inhabitants. And the memory of objects is killed: stone, wood, glass, iron, cement are scattered in broken fragments like living beings. And cotton, silk, linen, papers, books are torn to pieces like proscribed words. Plates, spoons, toys, records, taps, pipes, door handles, fridges, washing machines, flower vases, jars of olives and pickles, tinned food all break just like their owners. Salt, sugar, spices, boxes of matches, pills, contraceptives, antidepressants, strings of garlic, onions, tomatoes, dried okra, rice and lentils are crushed to pieces just like their owners. Rent agreements, marriage documents, birth certificates, water and electricity bills, identity cards, passports, love letters are torn to shreds like their owners’ hearts. Photographs, toothbrushes, combs, cosmetics, shoes, underwear, sheets, towels fly in every direction like family secrets broadcast aloud in the devastation. All these things are a memory of the people who no longer have them and of the objects that no longer have the people—destroyed in a minute. Our things die like us, but they aren’t buried with us.

Source: Darwish, Mahmoud, trans. Cobham, Catherine, A River Dies of Thirst: Journals (Brooklyn: Archipelago Books, 2009), 12.

deaths and horrors aren't only endured by humans

[twopears]

from Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind (1984)

[twopears]

May be, may be, may be

[twofigs]

“things have no proper name except in god.”

w. benjamin

[twopears]

[twopears]

Jinan x Clay

[twopears]

Jinan x Clay

[twopears]

Jinan x Clay

(I filmed a thing, here are a few screenshots)

[deep-dive]

“People grow and work around a live background of sounds: they take in the noise from adjoining rooms. We adjust ourselves to some hidden schedule: time speeds up or slows according to our sense of where other people are placed, whether it’s in the same house or across the world. For instance, our suspicion that a particular presence lies to our left may cause us to expand or compress; identity is shaped by a specific sense of geography.”

— Lesley Chow, “What Time Now? Catching Up Hours in Tsai Ming-liang” (via thissongisamovie)

[paintedout]

Giuseppe Penone, Biforcazione, 1987-92

[twopears]

Sometimes I Want To Sink Into Your Body, by Chana Bloch

Sometimes I want to sink into your body with the fever that spikes inside me to be a woman who can open a man. Why must I be only softness and haunches, a satin cul-de-sac? You ought to know what sharpens me like a barbed arrow. Do you think we're so different? How you tease me, twiddle me, hustle me along, just when I'd like to splay you tooth and nail.

[thingsworthsaving]

“I’m not sure it is possible to articulate grief through language. You can say, I was so sad I thought my bones would collapse. I thought I would die. But language always falls short of the body when it comes to the intensity of corporeal experience. The best we can do is bring language in relationship to corporeal experience—bring words close to the body—as close as possible. Close enough to shatter them. Or close enough to knock a body out. To bring language close to the intensity of experiences like love or death or grief or pain is to push on the affect of language. Its sounds and grunts and ecstatic noises. The ritual sense of language. Or the cry.”

— Lidia Yuknavitch, from The Chronology of Water

[gaeaheea]

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