springtime's manifesto

Let's get loud, let's get playful.

Let's get in, out and around it and arrive at some other conclusion, yeah?

Let's be a  poet.

Let us be as we are,

let us remember what it is to be so painfully interested in the 

Art Of Being.

The art, and the being. Both simultaneously.

Let's for a moment forget what we are afraid of

and forget about having to arrive at conclusions at all.

Let us, 

let's,

 shall we?

oh, 

YES!

qu'elle dénouait, se dérouler

what she undid, itself to unfold

Somehow, along the line, this fille grew into a girl who is unrecognizable to herself in the frozen still frames of a camera.

Forget mirror image, we can avert the eyes with pathetic practiced ease; but somewhere in the vomit of pixels lies solid (heavy) evidence.

And here all I can grasp are the surface textures which are both the sum and the riddle, everything, is, coming, undone! 

Downy hair on her cheek and she is made of netted skin, a confectionary's quick sharp hand among the most delicate of elements. 

Skin which threatens to dissolve into the given surroundings, any environment, oh yes, any mise en scène, atomizing, this basic blanket for being so ready to dissolve.

Everything's knit, everything's cold. This is a spring that is not for me, winter sits in bones, calcium cold.

The elements, all of them, are harsh, and she is solid and she's making sure to tie all the appropriate knots, but just barely. Just Barely.

And my conclusion is never to give in, my manifesto doesn't include that clause, and so I do the only thing I can do in between this heavy existential freeze; wait for the calamity that follows coming completely undone, and try to relinquish my panicky sentimentality for being whole.