Monuments are meant to put us in mind of something. To be put in mind is a strange construction. To be reminded, to have something brought to one’s mind, to have something put in one’s mind, is articulated as one having been put in (the) mind of the thing of which one is reminded. With regard to Gramsci Monument, I can speak, strangely, of having been put in (the) mind of the house in which I was raised, of my old neighborhood, of my lost friend, smiling, who came to find me there (in Cubie, in Hialeah) and my memory serially conceived as autonomous transportation to what is no longer or to what was never either here or there. Still, what remains, undeniably, is having been moved. I was writing before I arrived, as arrivant in constancy, in the hold, held in the rub. Moved by what had drawn me there, which is also what had sent me there, still arriving there, where I had never been, prodigal in this immediate and overwhelming sense of having been there, poor in the spirit in which I am sent.
“I think mayonnaise—actually, sorry, this is stupid, this is crazy,” he said.
“Not at all,” I said.
“I think mayonnaise has a complex kind of relation to the sublime,” he said. “And I think emulsion does generally. It’s something about that intermediary—I don’t know—place, between being solid and being a liquid, that has a weird relation to the sublime, in the sense that the sublimity of it is in the indefinable nature of it.”
“It’s liminal also,” I offered.
“It’s liminal, and it connects to the body in a certain way.”
“You have to shake it up,” I said. “You have to put the energy into it to get it into that state.”
“Anyway,” Moten said, “mostly I just don’t fucking like it.”