ABOUT THE MANUSCRIPT
this thing is a tender work of poetry and grieftheory. it grew out of cavernous loss, upheaval, and encounters. its purpose is to write from the inside of grief instead of about it or around it. this has required some movement of self, of language, + of body. (fortunately, grief requires some movement of these things also.) in the middle of loss language collapses. what is left is stutterings, symbols, motion. what is left is what the body remembers and the places in it where loss lives. punctuation stumbles. the body is a home for collapse, and in collapse there is motion. holding it still will make it into another thing. it is at home in the act of collapse (which is the act of encounter).
there are four seasons to this thing (winter, spring, summer, and fall), and two main voices (the fish and the egg). there are four verbs (swallowing, getting born, driving, and picking), a few selfportaits, bits of sappho (as translated thru a dirty window), and enough of motion sickness.
in motion there is transness. this body is a vehicle for transness; later, driving in the vehicle, the body moves forward. (that is, ‘transience,’ ‘transcendence,’ ‘transportation,’ ‘translate.’) it is hard to see the body even when looking closely. none of this can be linear. the vehicle is a vehicle for transness: the body is a vehicle for grief, and waits until grief opens it up and moves it forward. this thing is: while driving, considering the loss of what loves, considering its return and the subsequent time, passes; transition, considering falling down the stairs and receiving a bruise at the bottom.