In this steaming aisle of the dead I am weeping to learn the names of those streets my feet have worn thin with running and why they will never serve me nor ever lead me home. "Don't touch it!" she cries I straighten myself in confusion a drunken woman is running away down the West Side street my lover's voice moves a shadowy clearing.
Tenses are a way of ordering the chaos around time.
What I hide by my language, my body utters.
Language problems are often at the bottom of most rationalistic “objectivity”. One must be conscious of the changes in language, before one attempts to discover the form of an o next or fact.
Consider incompleteness as a verb.
∆ Anne Carson, Plainwater: Essays and Poetry
Through the reader’s act of choosing what a hypertext is and will become, hypertext becomes “embodied” by what are otherwise invisible choices in reading (Joyce 235).
"Dry petals of dead flowers have secret cures in them -- anything under the sun, once touched by life / sun / is imbued with power over death."
– Jonas Mekas, Out-Takes from the Life of a Happy Man (2012)
El archivo "es el límite-frontera del tiempo que rodea nuestra presencia, que sobresale por encima de ella y que señala su otredad: es lo que fuera de nosotros, nos delimita.”
As a refugee, she leaves the familiar and safe homeground to venture into unknown and possibly dangerous terrain.
This is her home this thin edge of barbwire.