/ Rita Angus / New Zealand / Fog, Hawkes Bay /
Not clear how all this thissed. The ball of mud suspended in a wind chamber, the creak fart fissure of geology, layering, waters parted by gradual inclination and gradual inclination of peaks and hills, one sparked life enabled by circumstance and habit, and all subsequent lives engineering and architectural wonders, works in progress but slow-progress and not "progress" but change to mock the trap of the naked eye baffling a fact of flux. As things are thissed others are issed. Thissing and issings, grim devilish patience though why it's not loving and nurturing, is behohlden to the beholder who herself was thissed and issed though limits she thissing and issing to observation and wisdom. She will admit as much wisdom as awe and with wisdom the ripped-aliveness, the daily eagle, friends turning to daphne and stone, cedar the harmonious mystery, and the only flaw is the flawed for which the eagle pecking into our live guts serves as the ecological balance of taunt.
[Sarah Sarai, June 4, 2013] [written because tidy house does not explain anything] [written to thumb wrestle depression] [written because of that well] [written because those roads stake illegal claims]