
friendly stranger //
Aristotle on techne
ἡ μὲν οὖν τέχνη ὥσπερ εἴρηται ἕξις τις μετὰ λόγου ἀληθοῦς ποιητική ἐστιν ἡ δ᾽ ἀτεχνία τοὐναντίον μετὰ λόγου ψευδοῦς ποιητικὴ ἕξις περὶ τὸ ἐνδεχόμενον ἄλλως ἔχειν
// nic. ethics 1140a20
so then techne is
as has been said
poetic hexis
with true logos
while a-techne
is oppositely
poetic hexis
with false logos
( poetic hexis is
present practice
of poetry )
about what might
be otherly
//
(Art, then, as was said, is an active condition involving a true rational understanding that governs making, and inartfulness, on the contrary, is an active condition involving a false rational understanding that governs making, concerned with what is capable of being otherwise. — trans. Joe Sachs)
//
ælizabeth is
(for a new about page)
moonchild
mother of cats
mask-maker’s wife
wholly enthused
by gift of life
dust weeper
and dabbler in
girlish games
waggle dancer
rhymes with rain
inexpertly forgets
how to explain
sassy
midnight train
seer of self
in silvered waters
beggar’s bowl
auditioning
translator of one
worldly thing
porous
and learning
how to breathe
(again)
sayer of no
didact of pain
ambassador of monster
in the main
decaying
maybe insane
but fascinated by
reptile wile
lover of light
but versatile
hallowed home—
if in a dream—
maker and
amatrix in æxile
meeter of Muses
student of Prophet
rememberer of Names
servant of Allah
humble as ever
always on
the way and
doubtless never
lost for words
//
the inky
i dream of an intruder in the house and i wake up screaming when they turn their face to me. but if awake and i imagine an intruder in the house, my fear goes silent and still. heart pounding in darkness i listen for my life
the same idea
but what felt
differences
complete sentences
drag heavy lately like
costumed excesses
shed
the inky
extra
//
assalamu’alaikum 🌒
dog asleep
dog asleep
in the middle
of the street
i slow the car
unsure who i
feel sorry for
homeless
undisturbed
territorial
tired
thinking
will demand
no less than
loving
//

atmospheric passage //
if leisure
if leisure in the morning
then spare me a glance
if leaf-buds are forming
then we have a chance
if dew-drops are adorning
then the roses free
if leisure in the morning
you’ll also have me
if dreaming at noon
let’s meet in the shade
if weary come june
then put down your spade
if love is a simple tune
and laughter the key
if dreaming at noon
you’ll also have me
if easy in the evening
then let’s read a book
if lazy to be reasoning
come hide in your nook
if candle flame is flickering
close your eyes and see
if easy in the evening
you’ll also have me
if longing at midnight
go walking on the sand
if reaching for moonlight
you will hold my hand
if starlight is the invite
sing beyond the sea
if longing at midnight
you’ll also have me
//
Assalamu’alaikumwarahmatullahiwabarakatuh 🌔
Æ.2
ok computer whereto and from
dragging chains against the sun
the name of both is Æ
(orthœpy in play) and
ælizabeth is setting honey traps
for dragons
//
Æ.1
we visited your grave the other day
how’s that thought for you?
Æ went there to kiss the sky
because a chariot
is life’s emancipation of
the written word
//

salt on skin //
Writing about “hereness” //
“If not in America, maybe it’s a little alright. But if in America, it’s not alright at all”, said E. We were looking at this Naomi Klein article on “end times fascism”, specifically the propaganda photo with tattooed prisoners. I said yes, pretty much. We noted the irony. He said he remembered similar propaganda photos from Suharto’s regime. Those guys look like Blih, I said. Tattoos and all. He’s our closest Bali family and one of my protectors. That means if anything ever happened to my husband, I would call Blih first. I would usually abbreviate his name, but that isn’t his name, although it’s the only thing we call him. Blih is Balinese for Brother, and he is a brother.
Back to Klein’s article, she does maybe the best work accounting for “what’s happening” that I’ve read, encompassing the mood and seemingly-conflicting realities of it. (Tech billionaire TESCREAL and apocalyptic Christian prepper cultures coming into alignment as xenophobic bunker-building fascism.) But she also manages to be somewhat uplifting, or maybe that’s not the right word. It’s a nice piece. She mentions the Yiddish concept of “Doiykat, or ‘hereness’”, as a possible antidote to the surrender of Earth inherent in an apocalyptic mindset. Although I find her elaboration a little flimsy (maybe too abstract?), I like the suggestion and appreciate the reminder, especially having recently spent so much time contemplating a vehicle of travel.
Spend too much time on chariots and you might lose a sense of “hereness”.
As a recent expat/immigrant (almost 6 years), at first I wondered if I had been under-emphasizing “hereness” in my thoughts, feelings, or writing. Maybe it doesn’t come naturally for me? Have I been too online? But then I began to list examples and think of ways that I write about it. (This is my interpretation of the word, not that of a Jewish tradition.) For me, “hereness” is the work of embodiment, including yoga asana, as well as prayer, veganism and fasting. Islam is an embodiment practice. Also, my marriage. Marriage is an embodiment practice too.
Then my “hereness” work is to figure out life as an always-somewhat-stranger “here”. On a community level, I try to do as little harm as I can (spending money in responsible ways etc). To support local governance and cultural organizing, we donate as much as seems right to several kampungs, including Mosques here and in Java. But not so much as to draw weird attention or throw anything off. We socialize, including with neighbors, they come over for lunar ceremonies on the full and new moons. I’m working on language, although I haven’t been studious about it. The more socializing we do, the faster it comes along.
My sense of “hereness” also comes through the non-human world, the animals, plants, rocks and dirt, weather, and all of these other things that I do indeed write about. The driving, lol. Almost every category in the archives is a nod to “hereness”. “Hereness” would also come through a feeling of home (there are different versions of this e.g. from house work, from husband, from cats, chickens, etc., from the plants in the garden, from our accumulating memories) and of figuring out how to be myself here. You aren’t at home if you can’t be yourself. It’s all work in progress.
I’m a Cancer, I come with armor and pincers, (also Scorpio rising, lol), but we are in no way bunker-builders. (Well, we’ve contemplated a small one, if we ever live in Java, but that’s for an active volcano, which is a totally different kind of bunker.) Our protection will be in the community connections we’ve made, or we’ll have no protection. It’s that simple. There’s a community philosophy in Indonesia called “gotong royong”, which means people are always helping out their neighbors. Having seen it in action, I find it comforting. In turn, we actively keep our eyes and ears open for ways to “help out” in the village. My husband explains this as preparing, in case something ever happens to him, if he’s gone. But it’s good preparation in case of any kind of emergency.
My “hereness” will always be a little weird or deviant because I’m an expat/immigrant and I rely on E as a cultural mediator. But it’s still often on display. This makes me glad, and a little relieved, because I am indebted to it. I’d like my blog to have a strong sense of “hereness”.
Myself here isn’t the same as myself was there, and the selves of the blog can go off-and-around sometimes, but all of this is written by Elizabeth, of her body and of Earth. There is a body and a planet behind all of this wordiness without which it wouldn’t be what it is. The point of “hereness” is perhaps not to be uplifting, but to be grounding. The ground is an important thing to cultivate.
It’s excruciating to imagine Earth as past-tense. It is literally the worst, the most terrible vision, and it does require an antidote. This beautiful one, where I feel the sky on my face, this place of friendship and delight, is my only planet. I remember myself here. I have no doubt I would forget myself on Mars.
a chariot is
reply to Isthmian I, via Phaedrus 227β
//
a chariot is artifact entombed
beneath packed sediment
an imprint on the earth
of acts not of the earth
sightless as solitude
lifeless as time itself
rotting perpetual
vehicle disposed
it falls apart
a chariot is
impervious
to crying
a chariot is a paragraph
about ancient technology
symbols illuminated by
old photos from museums
shaded settings in relief
straight lines on pregnant-bellied vases
fragments of singed and tattered verse
reasons described almost
as spatial motion re-constructed
of kingships and bloodline races
past endings to beginnings of
gods animals and man
words used as tools
each one to fix and justify
as evidentiary groping at
a world of human things
we still don’t know
a chariot is an easy gift
against a multitude
of horses
the machines we used to get
from place of rest to planet mars were splendid
magnificent creatures in their own
golden-
ratioed
grammars
and dragons that took hold of drivers' eyes
they thought the wind but caught to ride
a flaming sword instead between her thighs
maidens of modern mythologies arrived
on cliffside edges wearing white
translucent coats
arousal com-
partmentalized
to celebrate new body parts cognized
the jewel-tones of her lacquered toes
the scent of ozone taste
of toxic fizz behind
her sucking nose
her mouth disclosed
she swallows apples licks
a rose the absolute
glory hallelujah
ravenous grows
vulva exposed for clicks
each flick a seed she sows
from echoes loaded lead
her rainbows red as victory
she was the counting down to blasting off
she was four hundred thousand horses yoked
by arc of axel angel burnt tendrils
smoke billows over rocky rough terrain
past battlefields and nations past
her recent childhood and
arsenic smile
their eyes went to
her nippled curves and angles
her thorough flexibility
her starry nights and spangles
her lashes cruelly clawed
her pussies pawed
and oh how they
to her with her and of
her came
as realism
inscribed by god
rendered maidens un-made
oiled python sheen of ageless skin
she was the beauty left in violence
they were materials for war
sapphire eyes emerald or amethyst
you chose the crystal the correction and
the facets for
some child in Africa
was orphaned by each armored scale to feed
her un-weaned toddler burger meat
( at least the blacks buried
and did not eat
their very
fathers
a chariot is
from-dust-
arisen life transcribed )
annunciations posted inter-angel
a holy home a web apart
filters of pale ethereality
content implicitly divorced
from earth’s divided continent
baptismal diamantine written
laws skinlessly conceived that we
may find and hold as work of art
your child’s hunger as forgiven
a chariot is
already cleansed of blood it is
excerpted rage it is
brave forms we made
from partial purpose or
how to make pure
a brilliant woman true to life
but honestly a whore
a chariot is what you drive to get
to work your nightmares harnessed by
engines of piston pretenses
at likely sentences
a chariot is nothingness herself
but full of manliness
the games we play when we
make love in light of day
driving endlessly divine
at origins as orifices flying
a chariot is
a summary
of dying
//
selamat purnama 🌕
3 cats
//
Lalah loves nothing better than to get
her cat smell all over a freshly laundered
human and then go and scratch some wood
//
meanwhile Ismail
is trying to puke
something unwanted up
//
Sri Rejeki
gets scary
after dark
//
body’s most wondrous lesson was
turning raw wounds into desire
as ripening longing to be eaten
as eyes longing to see and be open
//
broken machine of tentacles and teeth
war is what monsters are and what they do
monsters are monsters at war with monsters
useless becomes another name for peace
//
Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh 🌖
marigolds
what a week to take vacation
some time to recompose
to get back from the deadness
questions that i never chose
my instrument is alien
my hands remote-controlled
i cannot see my own two feet
the way is lined with marigolds
i have no numbers to report
no news in a ghost town
there is no story to be told
the wind already took it down
go diving in the deadness
go breathing in the deep
go dancing in the marigolds
but never fall asleep
what a day to wade back in again
the sunlit flowers cold
what a way to chase the day again
to watch the underworld unfold
//
a dream
a dream
swimming
diving under
taking a deep breath to do it
not knowing when i would be coming up for air or knowing it was never
//
our exercise as exorcism of time —
the oddly-staggered rhyme leaves bruises
on buds stringently-steeped, the undisclosed
grays of grass groped in dark of morning that
took hold as roots in midnight, not knowing color
not knowing how seemly to be in sun —
steps right into the rhythm of blinding fire
this prism of shadows is highways home, revealed
in daylight’s reconciliation with desire
//
Selamat Idulfitri, Eid mubarak, blessed Eid to those who observe.
Alhamdulillahirabbil’alameen. 🌙
//