I am saying no to a stressor recoil from that rivulet to rivet join hands in hopes of a friend emerging between us
“Dead Woman’s Comb” reminded me of Marguerite Duras’ consistently dying girl how long I have longed to write only the narratives between things which is stillness which is space filling up which is the full on orgasm and what kind of way of saying could enact that
left grammar behind impossible masculinities free gesticulation to a nature attuned with animal’s upward gaze lying on the back in the hot sun of a cold winter a fox’s eyes
during the time I wrote hundreds of pages about inability to connect with clouds tried to explain how gender can be both authentic and inauthentic at the same time bruised my knees trying for
publisher after publisher rejecting
put a wad of hair on the pine tree’s tip for her wish I could hug her in person be persons together hold space watch each other’s back
remember when Jeanne de’Arc possessed dream and memory her hymnal a hymen she stated gestural conflation informed my choice to send to the first twenty who had bought the book tendrils of my hair I believe in sending friends hair nests
could she be? a cloud a fob bouncing sensuous secrets?
in dreams I had been hearing musical cues wondering when the queue would be so full it would result in “full on” arrival her something literal as a fruit expanding in the squeezing hand “full Music on” a rainy day a sadness procures the flexed hand is exhausted
is there a missing piece to your role? is it soul? how would you know so without knowing you were born with your heart already broken you can’t resist_______ form inhabiting ephemera critical sans cadence literally hurts (my) authenticity while fettered plumes surprise drowning the dock means more feather stars on this beautiful planet
j/j hastain is a collaborator, writer and maker of things. j/j performs ceremonial gore. Chasing and courting the animate and potentially enlivening decay that exists between seer and singer, j/j simply hopes to make the god/dess of stone moan and nod deeply through the waxing and waning seasons of the moon.