Sleepingfish infinite

(Invention) by Aaron Boothby


Dissolute a body made soluble she becomes something unfamiliar to herself carries no name. She refuses the ritual of writing. She enters into a state of not being she says it’s good to be only substance.

Together with all the voices of herself bending textually into each other a network passing through all living minds of the earth. Without the impulse to create a text.

Where the word being signifies it’s possible to traverse a purgatory called existence as if it were a waiting room at a clinic filled with the sick who are everyone. She looks at their faces recognizes them they too have no home in the cities of men.

She thinks they’re not waiting to be cured but to be informed. To be told the news of their bodies they have no capability to receive from their bodies. One by one they are called and do not return to the room where she waits.

Dissolute she is more like thought she perceives clearly the hole that’s the absence invented at the same time as being. An absence that appears with thought and negates the body a shadow over a mirror. Not a lack but a presentation of what is not.

The idea of being like the pornographic image of the body she thinks no wonder they’re psychotic no wonder everyone who loves it has a sickness. Beginning at the image that’s fixed against the ability to imagine.

She returns to the garden beyond the curving mirror she comes walking to a hole made in the earth of a field. She looks at it for a while and begins filling it with grasses with spit with hair what she can find. Whether this act is pathetic or beautiful depends on a methodology not always of her choosing. On the text available in which to situate it.

Because she is porous she’s not entirely of her own invention or what she loves but also composed of things which she hates. Who exchanges roles becoming container and reader memorial device receiver of texts that come to her from the ones who compose her.

This is why she thinks the enemy sometimes seems like nature itself whatever made this form a body that cannot be easily changed. The one who thinks says it’s not nature but belief that gives bodies forms. She says if I could kill the voices you’d go first.

She sees the one across the field of grasses that he’s the one who makes the holes. He takes several steps she counts it’s eight steps with a spade makes a hole then takes eight more and repeats. She says I follow and I fill them and I don’t know why. The one who burns says maybe just stop asking why.

Sometimes a hole appears filled with water covered with a sheen of oil before she arrives. These she first empties with a cup that appears when she thinks of it. In others are heaps of feathers someone else must have placed.

It’s confusing she says I forget what it’s like to be more than one I know that she came and she did this. Parallel. There’s one version that’s worry another to find them marvelous like personalities that acting in autonomous service like fluttering nymphs.

She thinks what do I lack there was a body there was a name there was a place called home a body where now a tomb appears these are definite lacks. Things the nerves know and form an economy of trauma. Not reconcilable but an essential part of loving.

One economy and the movements within it. Exchanges but never a reduction of substance. What they don’t know she says is that extraction isn’t anything but a kind of movement. The one who wonders says where do the feathers come from anyway.

The one who watches her who places the feathers says the idea of having predicates the idea of not having. She listens before saying this approaches a limit I’m not prepared to deal with. What’s required says the other is a prioritization of almost being over both being and not-being.

Electric flashes along the network of meanings and from them personalities springing up like flowers. In a place less welcoming she thinks than before.

She says if I wanted this philosophy I’d go speak to them. The other says then go speak to them you know what they want.

She says what I want is to have no name no thought and to fill the holes. With a substance that does not replace any part of what has been lost. It’s an activity as good as any other a kind of meditation of transfer and mediation.

A way of participating in the ecology within the mirror that may lead to an exit she has not yet searched for but knows is necessary to find.

Process News

Aaron Boothby is a writer originally from California, now living for several years in Montréal. This piece is the result of a book-length experimental prose project based on engagement and translation of the work of the surrealist, feminist poet Sophie Podolski. Other work has appeared in The Puritan, Axolotl, Liminality and LemonHound.


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