february 2025
welcome beautiful earthlings,
there was a book
there is always a mf book
this one all incomplete
there was nothing fancy about it
plain cover with images taken from living
upon skimming, questioning, and slow reading with fellows
fellows?
is this inherently masculine or feminine?
neither? neutral, but it feels a type of way.
like how fellowship felt before it was stipend(ed).
i digress...
pages turned into conversations on wholeness,
completeness, where we are told to search for it
in a fool’s game of hide n’seek. where they never
open their eyes and we lost the count.
sometimes i miss the search, the hope, the moments addicted to fantasies of afternow. is wine tastier after you have developed a palate? or, after sobriety's pause? how does a soul taste? its gooey viscosity giving ancestral afterlives who fought for this present. a gift, an amber resin-scented memory, a living.
i wander through now, wondering what will come of it, and me. who will i choose? and who will choose me on terms we agree? will we allow each other incompleteness, to lack wholeness with our company of togethering? i hate corporate lingo.
i want a language who allows for imagination without financial derivatives. speculation on who arose cosmologies worth exploring. to lose my fixation with discovering and first. to fall in passionate love with continual and reciprocal. until it ends.
and this part is not even in the book. it is an interview about the book. which demands a different relationship with reading, books, authors, and their art. maybe such expectations of immediacy are born to those demanding completeness, wholeness. the becoming of incomplete can both be a recognition of time, taking it back, and experiencing it slowly.
to let it never end
until it does.
from
quincéy
with 🖤
living seems to be a series of interrupted timelines with unexperienced love lying in wait until it can not. i become an inconvenience amongst truth, longing to be otherwise and felt.
they’re not assholes
they are dumbasses
i’ll break that down
every one has an asshole
only a dumbass does not
take care of their shit; funky ass mf/s
think about it.
never have i ever
taken a moment to think
that maybe my presence is not valuable
that maybe i should not yet over the passed ten years
i have not and the world is worse and i am worse
i have longed for a world made of different stuff
made with a different me, i hated me for so long
and now that i love me i do not want to put myself through this anymore
constantly misunderstood, miscategorized, emotionally delegitimized
breaking myself into a million pieces to find one that feels complete
mold myself into so many selves that i am merely clay
no human present gift
why am i even here
people have extracted from all they have wanted
care
currency
class
children
intelligence
creativity
art
sex
pleasure
everything becomes a transaction; devoid of depth
i am only alive in depths
in water that collapses
human form into
insignificance
this is were i feel free
is free a feeling
merely a feeling
is it a place i can touch
(un)wrapping myself in it again
is it only a dream given
from generations to generations
and in reality it is only that
a dream
then what kind of sleep is this wake me up
shake me out of this vapid nothingness which
me entirely so may live in whatever this is and continue
they
her
she
he is always present
i am them
one part of we
sentient earthling(s)
- afternow -
…and what of oneness?
where one is summation
a resonant unclinging silence
our we stopped our fetishizing
pettily reductionists gave up when
community merely became ones gathering
(in accepted disagreement)
