Page 6, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

Sometimes we think we are accepting new thoughts into our constellation of sensemaking.  Breakthroughs.  Advances.

And sometimes we freeze.

And sometimes the new thoughts we think we are having end up too fragile to keep.

Consider the self-help book, or those programs we put ourselves through int he name of self-improvement.  Desires to “change” , to “grow”.  Diets.  Educations.  We may feel entirely new following a practice we have yet to be accustomed to, but to truly change, grow,whathaveyou, can only come from the ground already going us.  You simply won’t get a pineapple tree to grow outside in Alaska.  That’s why real metamorphosis is so terrifying, groundless until more fertile soil is found.

The science eyeball can only detect what emerges, and it does a fine and necessary job of determining the qualities of the things emerged,revealed as well as (sometimes) the ground from which it emerged - but only from the expression of these properties within the already fled emergence.  Consider considering if plants have understanding.

Two methods: 1) to go by what we have come to understand ourselves as understanding on our own playing field.  For example, plants do not have a recognizably similar nervous system in regards to our own.  They don’t scream like we scream like some animals scream.  2) to follow the hunch that perhaps we can understand more about understanding by guessing at how a plant understands.

The scales are so far tipped in favor of 1 that at any movement towards 2 seems to be a wild assertion, hoodoo, an elimination of everything we have built thus far.  But really it is neither both.  If we practice listening to plants, we will only discover dimensions yet unexplored of our own understand.  When we love it is our own hearts we grasp.

XX Considering objects:: plants remain intolerably foreign, a life of their own before and after us indifferent.  Unspeaking objects, darlings of materialisms, these are the tails, trails of human subjectivity.  Once this is understood, then consider

Page 8, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

*Fruit is meant to be eaten, it is created for another thing.  The message held in what is unable to be digested, instead it is meant to be deposited with the fertilization of another.  Chance is the operation here.

What does hygiene accomplish if not the blind hubris of modernity, our fragile fragile live stripped

This does not imply that we should not be tidy.  Only that so often a houseplant is bought, a pretty pot is bought, fertilizer is bought, and still we wonder why our houseplants die, shrivel, become long-legged, turn brown at the edges of their leaves, becomes lopsided.  Plants have a hard time living like us, well, like so-called modern, developed people.

Of course there are those who are exceptional at getting houseplants to thrive.  It takes a good ear.  You can tell a lot about a person based on the health of a potted plant under their care.  It is tempting to formalize the conditions, but our lives are never as clean as all that.

In general, a dried up plant signifies the inability of its caretake to remain aware of other rhythms of life outside of their own.  Too much water, too frantic — only able to see need as one thing.

There is hygiene and then there is taking care.  It is beyond hearsay, but I have the memory of discovering a zen koan, r perhaps not zen, but a koan, a maxim a cryptic tool for living — that the luckiest person is the person with a clean toilet.  If you have the time to maintain this seemingly invisible aspect of daily life, the thought follows that you have the time to keep other invisible things in order.  

Plants, toilets, water, drains, pipes.  Curiosity cabinets.


It is hardly a new thought that our environment reflects our interior although custom has it to maintain constant surprise when we elucidate this claim.  it sells more help yourself books, more page clicks click, more interpreters of the phenomenon whether psychiatrists or fengshui organizers.  But really, we remain ever surprised because we remain ever horrified at what escapes our clustered redactions.  But still, we blackened the thought so darkly that instead of making life and death choices about what serves us and what doesn’t we let it all live all the time since we don’t know what we’ll love.

Good gardeners know when something is dead.  Some might say modernity neglects death.  You know what that makes postmodernity.

Sometimes I imagine great gardens at the other end of our plumbing, all the seeds in plant heaven.

Page 11, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

What do we see when we see a plant?  Do we even see them anymore?  Did we ever see them?  What do they look like?  This very basic inquiry, this stop-for-a-moment-and-make-sure-we-are-on-the-same-page inquiry, here’s an imprint consideration of Plato’s ideal forms.  There is a factor generic to plants we can begin to describe, but if described by sight alone it gets complex fast.  Taxonomies, then.  Yup.  And the machine of knowledge is on the prowl.

Can we even imagine telling problems to a plant?  Which plant?  That plant?

When we think of love

Returning to meeting someone new for the first or second time:  the future of our frame will be challenged.  They have and can see things we can’t.  It seems like magic, it seems terrifying, the world is not merely what is our case.  We can be taken along by this enchantment.  But our own case remains, and neglected can sprout elements that once we return to ourselves either by choice or something else , these parts are foreign to us.  Without tending, overran by what got by on what we left behind.

Those that consider only alternative routes of understanding, who give away their ground easily.  Who forget the grounds they are able to make the case upon.  One taxonomy, those who chart a better or more full, deeply experienced, feeding the spiritual, righting the limitations of outside oppressors, inside oppressors, freeing oneself from the cares of a highly mediated society, finding the light…  written works.  A guru that emerges in your perception has been fed upon the unmanaged corners of your ground.  They look like answers because they were birthed int he problem.

Problems are fed and kept alive by answers.  And the answer that we so desperately seek is not the acceptance of only problems.  Besides, the battle of problems and answers is only fought from without.

That is actually not quite true.  That’s where we think they are fought, amongst understanding as we see fit.  In actuality, whether we believe it or not, we may ask as many questions, present as many problems, but we only ever live the answers.  The whole schtick about ‘being the change…. and so on’ is true perhaps.  But is temporalizes the schedule of becoming, maybe soon who knows, something you would prefer to be.  More accurate would be to say that we already are our vision of a world, pay attention and adjust as needed.

Plants don’t have problems. They are shaped and shape

Page 7, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

MORE INDEX

. 11 . 34 . 80 . 81 . 35 . 82 . 83 .

We try so hard, we don’t do well in our ever growing relationships with people .  finding guidances . decaying & what remains

. 12 . 36 . 85 . 86 . 37 . 87 . 88 .

attempting to explain and failing - the fecundity of swamps - Solaris (either written by Stansilaw Lem or filmed by Andréi Tarkovsky) would be helpful here, the conversation, the dear little speech by Snaut (or Snow), after they lose gravity

Why do you think alien planets are often represented as swamps, anyway?

. 13 . 38 . 89 . 90 . 39 . 91 & 92 & 93 & 94 & 95 & 96 & 97 & 98 & 99 &

hope . home . what actually happens even thought we ¡think! we have entered the realm of understanding for a moment, as if we have scheduled that we will encounter understanding between 7 & 9 in the evening at an art gallery or reading a book or in a class, as if we will fold it tidy like our laundry, file it in a dossier to be opened when it is needed, as if we would be able to discern that future time when it sweeps over us.  Yeah, right.  We are reminded to take another look at what we consider contamination.  We are also reminded of alleyways (but maybe that’s just me).  When we consider, or when I’m told something is dangerous, I always want to know the specifics.  Robbery?  Violence?  What kind of violence?  Often, I think, it is the danger of becoming contaminated by this inability to recognize danger…

Page 18, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

It is probably time, at the end, just about as we are to rush away, on to the next adventure, it is probably time to mention fear.  Like the person you’ve been talking to all afternoon about trivial things here and there, the person who waits til the last five minutes when you really have to be going, brings up a serious matter between the two of you that would’ve easily filled up the same amount of time as the conversation about weather and appliance choices.

We only think of our life at one end when we start off.  Then that life imagined as it is begins to disappear and the life we somehow live fills up spaces our dreams once held.  And even though that life might not be too far off the mark, we still have this experience of mourning.  But mourning is going a little too far ahead, for mourning follows fear, or is the dread that drives fear.  Because heist as the life that disappears finds the consequences of rituals we create or those that create us, just as that life shrinks, the life-we-were also ceases to be.  What we fear is awls that giving up of what once was.

If you are a person who thinks you are a person that doesn’t like olives, for example, and you never eat them nor seek them out.  They don’t exist to you, they have no impact.  But say you accidentally, or by some skip in time-lapse record, end up eating one.  And let’s say you end up enjoying the experience. You are not a person who doesn’t like olive anymore.


So sometimes, on matters more pressing, the fear of not being made up of the same parts we once were.  Deaths, even of enemies, shock us.  Make holes in what we once thought was solid.

What dies when we start to take on that the limitations we arbitrarily assign to who understands what and what understands who, that these limitations 
are by fairly tales

To learn anything we have to give away everything.

So what is sacrificed when we search for where the grass meets the ground?

We want so desperately that words, pages leaves, that these things are 

container for some kind of true for some kind of rightness.  

Auto correct.  Word processors.  These tiny images, atomic sensemakers.

Leaves fall.  Trees live.  Wind blows.  Trees bend.

If there is an end it is only of our own making.  Sensemaking requires space.  We are end making machines with our eligible images, boxes for seeing, experiencing and then cataloging, filing away.  To make room for what?  So we can sit on a beach?  What do we offer ourselves for a job well done?  An entry back into what we once thought was completed or to embark on new seas?

Continually we mourn

Given the chance to thoroughly embed our images upon a plant, we would mourn as deeply its passing as much as a person or even now as much as pets.  As the animals that vegetarians about eating.  Plants continually live outside of these makings.  We mourn them not in the slightest.  Confronted wiht this rift, those with that unbearable missoinfinding addiction may endeavor to tell us that we would do well to mourn plants as much or people and animals not so much.  But it is the bifurcation of perceived duties that is the culprit.

Imagine the ritual of expressing gratitude before a meal, for the things the soon to be digested meal will provide capabilities for —t his is not a trivial conversation with others besides ourselves.

If I should die before I wake

Page 5, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

What makes certain neighborhoods dangerous is not that the components that make up said neighborhood are in themselves dangerous, and certainly not that we will become infected by whatever we imagine transpires in said neighborhood, because, I mean, come on, a neighborhood is made up of the same things no matter where it is: families, homes, patterns of joyful survival-patterns of coffee drinking, young people having young people awakenings, old people holding knowledge of past and future, patterns of walking, talking.  No, when we come to the idea of a so-called dangerous neighborhood, we are correct in sensing danger, of course, but we misplace where the danger stems from.

We travelers, we movers through life, communicators, those not at rest, ,we are volunteers, voluntarily searching.  This is the danger, no?  Inescapable, lest you being to think to stay shuttered away from the world knowing you hold your own disease.  even the most cloistered of communities cannot survive on their own productions.  Consider the issues of inbreeding.  Consider ‘mad cow’ disease, a disease that also occurs in cannibals if they eat the flesh of relatives.

Even dead, we move.  Decay.

Again, like the consideration that speaking, or the plastic concept of speaking, is merely one of our limited ways of calling out something quite a bit bigger that happens, that we participate in simply due to our presence - life, death, both demarcations in time of a very same thing, 

We try so very hard to make sense of things that are monstrously larger than time within the limited lens of time.

We are hooked.  Time and light.  Trains and cinema.  All our tricks are up one or the other sleeve.

Page 2, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

What is the point to love only what we can see?  Is that not what makes love scary?  terrifying? Like falling when we stumble upon it?

There is a man, a boy almost running but still walking with a bouquet of flowers in his arms.  We may gaze out of the window of our cab, the thin drizzle of rain streaking the window and framing our feeling of softness, excitement, how wonderful to be bringing flowers to another.  But perhaps his lover is angry and remains angry, or sad or misunderstood.  Perhaps those flowers will be a painful reminder of what was once living.  Standing in a vase, neglected, they will wilt.

There is no point in talking to flowers.  They only speak to us.

Lovers decay like roses in a vase because seldom we move beyond seeing as believing, I mean knowing.  We produce blooms between our redacted rows.  We speak and speak and we feel ourselves returned, our signal bouncing back from the glossy black redactions of the one we seek to love.

We speak and speak, animated by the sight of opens itself up to us. *

At this point, you are fully aware that it is utter nonsense to believe talking to plants accomplishes anything, right?  There should not be gained any imperative that to do so is good for your health.  If you reading person, gain anything at all it is the hope of this writer pretending to pose humanity’s issues to a plant — it is my express hope that you become a better lover.

Lovers always let go, the good ones.  What is grasped is one’s own heart.  There is no comparison with or amongst plants.  We are not plants.  Not now.

And XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
this XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX It is always disappointing to know what our lover expects of us, we begin to see the shape of their redacted, withheld, unconfessed—-

       There is no doctrine of a good lover.  Don’t be lied to, don’t let them

When my flower merchant sells me flowers he always picks a good bundle.  Some of the blooms are open, some laying in wait.  There is always a point or an afternoon when they look best, big and baby blooms.  But then the biggest blooms will at some hour wilt, and even some of the buds do not have a chance to crack before becoming on the other side.  You really need a full set of plant roots dirt to keep something like this going.  Even then, to encourage blossoming, you must trim away the fading glowers.  If a houseplant is dying and beyond care, it is imperative to remove it from your living space.

Page 12, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

+ Looking at our language—and damn we are already in the trap with ‘looking’, seeing as believing, using the words of our oppressors.  But begging,, beginning the question at this intersection.  We are a looking people when-once we become literate.  Before writing we could assume it to be more natural to say “hearing our language” when we wanted to explore its nooks and crannies.  101 stuff, really, but we are exploring this at ground level, where 

      the grass meats the ground.

We have come to a thinking of words, the fodder for knowledge, the measure of knowing, explaining, we think of words and then of some kind of language as the epitome of our human face.  And it is our surface, our edge, an ability to form, give form.  And sometimes we use the language of language, of words and seeing words and yes still hearing words.  and sometimes still words on a page, we say they speak.  Speak to us.  And sometimes we say such things that are not words speak to us, it is an easy list: colors, landscapes, moods… whole sets of things without voices.  My suggestion is that instead of considering a usage of ‘speaking’ as related to a kind of anthropomorphic centrism, that we instead see—(dammit, that see, that sticky perception)-we come to interpret this way of relating our own way of engagement , speaking-as-something-having-to-do-with-words-and-or-language, as one expression of something we as yet do not understand, have language for, what we cannot yet see.

It is just a suggestion, but these words grow from its ground.  Plants have edges too.  And we meet those edges with our own.  It takes more than a camera to investigate where these edges meet.  It is we who remain in the dark without consciousness.  left to interpret what we can with our limited resources.  But we try

we try ever so hard.

Page 15, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

We really have yet to have a proper conversation, you and I.  But what to say about us?  I will have been long gone when you are ever yet to arrive.  Still, you are already present as I remain.  The ability of this shape, not unlike fire ø

and by fire I mean the swamp these words will get sucked into.  Breakfasts, walks tables, rugs, pets, plants, the lighting, the way you will remember the lighting which won’t be the same as the lighting that still lights the same room.  I mean the lighting that will have remained with you from the morning when you woke, the rooms you passed through, the weather — then you were in this lighting.  Lighting which very well may change from one end of a sentence to another.  My lighting has changed since I began writing these pages.  And yet there is much to cover.  And already we have arrived at fire.

I always hated reading books when the author addresses the reader as if it was 

absolutely certain in the mind of the author who would be reading their words.  

Sometimes the text doesn’t even have to explicably state an address to be addressed to a

subject.  I do, however, have a certain taste for writers that anticipate a kinship, 

although the that comes across in these sentences often can’t help but reproduce 

melancholy.

**
The time we take to do these things.  What other things can/could we be doing?  The time we take, the time we spend, that passes, that we kill, waste, profit from, procrastinate.  We are sometimes led to believe that all we have is time and it isn’t entirely false.  Perhaps it is only time that interferes between grass and ground.  Time-lapse videos of plants growing entice us the way a flame tells a history in a flash.

A flash captures movement, they say, freezes it.  Like the sharp edge of consonants trapping vowel sound in an echo.  Capture is an important tool of understanding what exists around us, through us.  We can investigate.  Crime scene photos.  Holding a truth just beyond our finger tips.  If we were there, if only we were there.  Postcards.  Keepsakes.  What do we actually remember when we look at a photo of our younger selves?  

What do we expect to know when we look at the photo of another?

We consider plants to be still, inanimate sort of, we can’t hear them unless we get real near and then only if we go near on a regular basis.  Their sentences are long to understand.  IF recorded, plants show incredible movement, indiscernible.

When do we start remembering our lover?

It can be tremendous fun to be in love.

Probably for good reason.

Page 1, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

Let’s imagine this.

walking down a street that when you remember later you will remember that time, walking down that street on that day, the day when the newness of the street passed into familiarity (but only memory sees this atmosphere of the day).  Perhaps it is a year later when the memory is recalled, under the same falling leaves

And what is remembered is the anticipation of a new night spent with a new friend you already feel like you will remember in a certain light.  But when you remember the day, the warmth of the pavement, the smell of an approaching cool twilight already present in the late morning air, a scratchy memory of rain in the gutters, , when the memory drifts back to you it lands on your skin that has already lived through the past that unrolled itself on the breath of that anticipation.

So you know the anticipation was based yet on the unfamiliarity, and what became familiar

What became experienced and what remained in ever anticipation.  And this environment of remembered anticipations.  The certain lights that never censured us in the way we thought we would remember them.  And the way we hold our hand, waiting to grasp that future memory, letting pieces of what will have happened fall to a ground, collect dust, and fill out spaces

Reacting to the past, it isn’t the fruit we cling to, but the arch of the branch drifting to sleep under the weight fo its results.  Apple.  Orange.  We have relationships with objects not based on their qualities, those veils some scientists seek to lift —

not based on their qualities, but on their rhythms, the rhythms they produce to form the hand of our grasp.  And what we think of as an object.

are less scary when they have a name. nameless state

It is curious to think that we only communicate with what we think might answer us.  As if understanding was ever reflected back to us.  What can only ever answer us in our own words.  Remember that Echo’s infatuation was with a man who loved his own echo.  XXx  So even talking talking to a wall reflection


Page 10, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

Try to attempt a definition what love is.

Love at first sight only exists in the history of its survivors.

“What you feel before you feel something you’ve never felt before.”

Philosophy as the practice of the wisdom of love, as the fearless encounter with an opening beyond.  We can only live what we are unable to perceive.  There is no end.  Sorry to break it to you.  Certain traditions may perish, we are certainly at the end of our rope in considering merely the application of sight as the path to Knowledge, oops.  Without crop rotation, fields once rich become depleted.  That is not, I repeat not to say we should never plant soy beans again.  Just not every spring.  Knowledge is practice.  But again!  The polemic drawn here is not the contradiction against knowledge as accumulated pieces of somesuch.  the polemic attempted is against the very impossibility in a certain framework that both can’t be true.  And yet we let photons be more than one thing and expect the product of their illumination to reduce the complications instead of 1) remain as complicated as they are (whether we yet understand the depth of said complications) or 2) to increase the complications as long as deep as wide as long.

our minds do so much work to adjust the world so that it makes sense, so we can move in space, understand our orientation to said space, and interact.  It makes invisible the frames, a courtesy, really.  It does not demand our ignorance.  Spin around fifty times real fast.  Many of the experiments we engage with that push the boundaries of our invisible sensory framework are fun.  Probably for good reason.

Philosophy is a practice that yield concepts.  But not unlike farming, the crops must be harvested.  There is no point to a farmer who plants without reaping.  And of course, the spoils move on — with or without heavy processing, exportation, exploitation.  We can mention theory at this point, the lovely cook.

Page 13, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

   We are not that far away from talking to rocks.  Not really that far at all.  Something older, perhaps.  There are those who believe in the healing quality of certain crystals, and certain healings based on the taxonomy of crystal as well.  To believe in something, to believe that something can affect you whether you understand each step of its workings or not, well, this is not out of a frame of science that allows for the power of a receptive framework.  if you seek, you will find.

problems & answers 

Same for finding love.  As if it is something to be discovered.

When we realize love cannot be found, discovered like a new continent, a new land.  When we realize it is all we ever had access to anyway, that old thing.  It is not hard to see the old debate whether philosophy comes from disappointment and/or wonder.

Plants reach out for the light (in varying degrees), but they seek light.  Those living find it all the time, but yet they continue to grow towards it.

ø Watching a fire for long enough.  The flames form amongst the pieces of wood, sticks, paper.  No wonder the should is often considered fire.  it is molded, entrapped, guided by the physicality of the word or charcoal.  But as its burn wears down its limitations, the flames begin to shape the wood in its own curvature, its own escape routes, egress paths.  And there is driftwood.  Less intense, more wet — less ash.

Metabolism.

Also see: turbulence

sand dunes

Page 16, The Excavations of Its Future Memory

Have you ever attempted to use a tool you didn’t quite understand how to use only to marvel at someone who was adept at its usage?  Tools are not truth.  How we use them certainly will reveal many possibilities, but as for the question of correctness, there is only the exactitude of skill.

We can also mention recipes.  The recipe is not, more does it contain the elements of what it instructs.  The ritual, however, has boundless history, is predicated on history.**  Picture, snapshots for memory’s sake.  For memory’s sake?  If we ever found where the grass meets the ground, would we remember the location?

Evidence, Breadcrumbs.  The tick of a clock.  This moment, that moments, this this this

There’s no accounting for such things and , there we are at the front of it all again.  How to account for one thing becoming another?  Is it an issue of complexity residing necessarily or one due to the harness of perception?  When do you know you will leave a lover?  Can it be possible to feel the bitterness as it first arises?  Or is it only when we look back that we recognize that unnameable feeling we had in our gut.  We continue, continued a past future. THe difficulty of what actually cloaks us indiscernible.

Don’t get me wrong, it is crucial to have distance.  Critical.

The distance of time.  Time which takes us each on our own little way.  Our own rhythms.  Sometimes others share our rhythm, lovers share the same time.  What is the importance of response time?  The deeper the cave, the longer the response time.

walls give us a safety of where we begin to be outside.  We depend on a certain tempo of echolocation.  So to tell a plant a thing or two is an exercise to either investigate a speed of return or to consider that we may be looking long into the water when the space of our words is addressing us.  And through interference, we see walls where there exits something responding by its very ability to remain, unknowable as it is.

Page 14, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

We are running out of things to say, as is usual.  At some point we must leave this realm of consideration

We will go back to our lives, make our coffee, our tea.  Eat food, watch films.  Talk to people, walk down the streets, pass by plants that are manicured, growing as weeds in sidewalk cracks, sitting in pots in the sun, harvested and sold in grocery cases.  We may remember the time we read this words or not.  We will experience problems in our lives and work to find solutions.  We will be happy sometimes and then unhappy.  We will forget our edges, and then, we will remember to wee our snarly parts.  We will read, we will fight for our own small injustices, we will have dinner, go dancing, stay at home.  We will encounter danger and the like.  meet lovely people, meet annoying people, meet people who initially are lovely and then do great damage to our hearts, meet idiots that surprise us with their capacities.

We will always be failing and succeeding at something

** We have our rituals, and we will fall into them over and over.  How we become ourselves everyday, moving through our mazes.  A ritual is never new, we are rarely new.  If we were licked by a flame it would not consume us immediately.  It would bend around our curves, it would deepen the warps on our body already present, already sympathetic.  Free will?  Toss a log into a stream and watch how the stream bed changes over time.

If we commit the same ritual with different words or clothing or whathaveyou, it still yields the same results.  Emperor’s new clothing and all.

There are words that do things, but my best guess that it only looks like that, a glaring symptom that appears it needs to be treated when a larger disease is at play.

The time we take to make them, the time we take to think them.

Page 17, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

Wherever will we be once we exit this tract of thoughts?  Much has been surmised about the relationship between reading and travel.  Where do you find yourself?  What is a day’s reading.  What information feeing our consciousness, because that’s how we imagine it, no?  That we take in the world and somehow it turns into bits of knowable material.  Whatever do we experience everyday that leads us to think to build the a notion of transcendence?  I love the moments in time-time-lapse videos where something rather major happens to direct the flow drastically.  The technology so desperately wants to reproduce its idea of a continuous flow, one dependable record of everything that constituted the way one thing became another.  But invariably the time-lapse jerks, in small ways and more dramatic leaps.  It makes known the inconsistencies.  I imagine everything we have before us in our day.  How much is the small knowledge of the world that we gain by sight informed by what we see our hands doing?  They are in from of us all the time, doing things.  They are capable of doing so many things.  And yet, I bet if there was a time-lapse recording of what only our hands did all day long for one day, and then another — I bet that many of the days would be the same.  I bet we could see a familiar shape emerge.  What would we look like?  This embodiment?  What if we weren’t some projection outward onto the word, what if we took up no space at all?  And instead of considering what we were made of existed on this side of the senses, what if our body, our presence showed all that came without?  How many coffee mugs would we be made up of?  What color dominates our day?  Do we then appear as all the pages we pressed upon our faces?

We see words, we press them to our foreheads, but there is also the action of pressing them to our hearts.  Or maybe we don’t even complete the action of our own volition, we don’t choose, or at least the feeling is not one of choice, that something weill dig itself deep into our sense making space.  Questions of heart and head, fancy bread.

Choices, choices, chance.  When we make a choice we are responding to our memory of our self.  a future, we could put it there, (we could put it there because it is a question of space — not really time), a future memory.  We act as though we will have remembered.  Remembered ourselves, remembered how we were and we were made as we are presently.  Technically to be able ot exercise that freedom of choice of will we so desperately for some reason cherish, we would have to amend our conception of who we will futilely be.  Luckily that’s up for us to decide, but rarely do we ever get distance enough from the surrounding things that press up against us that we can gain enough freedom.

And we think that objects bend to our wishes.

Page 4, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

INDEX

. 1 . 14 . 40 . 41 . 15 . 42 . 43 .

initial step . how things grow - how we think things grow when we begin to think about growing . fear of the result of unambiguity . eavesdropping

. 2 . 16 . 44 . 45 . 18 . 48 . 49 . 

reacting, of course, and responding . the messiness of actually putting forth even a single word . interference inferred here . although concrete is a complex glue - how one thing can become another under the veil of ritual . the veil of using words descriptively for movements we don’t yet know

. 3 . 17 . 46 . 47 . 19 . 50 . 51 .

framing. . &messes . we really can’t help it. thank heavens

. 4 . 20 . 52 . 53 . 21 . 54 . 55 . 

science and its limitations . seeing through the lens of science . how quite a lot is hidden from us because of the bright light of enlightenment thinking . during the day we think we see everything, but above us is the blue shield keeping us from seeing outside ourself

. 5 . 22 . 56 . 57 . 23 . 58 . 59 .

meetings . scheduled meetings . chance meetings . choosing what represents a meeting . responsibility in reproduction . what grows from what ground we fertilize

. 6 . 24 . 60 . 61 . 25 . 62 . 63 .

magic, eternity . perhaps the most difficult movement . contagion . techne’s relationship to being . goddam magic . accounting for beyond, but I already said that

. 7 . 26 . 64 . 65 . 27 . 66 . 67 . 

seeds, our seeds, our fertilizations . the kind of materialism that has become popular because we haven’t yet even understood our -excuse me- the philosophical issue of our age according to Luce Irigagay :: don’t forget, at one point the question of what women want was also posed by those

who wanted to understand more about the world, and now we ask the same of objects (read: things that do not speak as we expect them to respond) . oh, Irigaray’s claim - sexual difference - oh, feminine&masculine are in each person, just as we do not know how our dinners become our elbows . oh, and my father always told me - “feminism” frees men as much as women

. 8 . 28 . 68 . 69 . 29 . 70 . 71 .

human hubris

. 9 . 30 . 72 . 73 . 31 . 74 . 75 .

(we’ve been working on this eye already, like some others, but pg 1-3 cover this nicely)

. 10 . 32 . 76 . 77 . 33 . 78 . 79 .

interrogation&confession . a bit more magic . listening to the hard bits when it is the soft ones talking

Page 3, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

We’ve had a bit of an introduction.  What do we now know?  (Trick question.)  We will come to an understanding of the aphorism, the problem, with plants, with our grasps of growth.  Yet we remain in breadth, breath.  To sit in a quiet room after watering house plants, to hear the sucking soil, small kissing noises crackling.  also to take care of a plant that folds up at night is a priceless clock, especially when it is moody.

what we know now is beginning to appear the way the knowledge of a meal unfolds.  An interpretations of the sun, where all of our dreams come from.  Only the brightest remain impressed upon the dark cloth of night.  When we can see other suns.

But for the moment, let’s stick with our one sun and our millions of vegetables.

And also to be direct for a bit, as direct as we can fail to be when we blunder towards interpretation.

What is the dream of a tomato?

Those who understand cooking understand interpretation.  A tomato talks.  We can understand it quite well.  We perhaps consider that it is our great accomplishment to discover the resonance of tomato & basil, but even through we remain deaf the tomato is speaking. +

What makes a good cook is an ability to listen.  It might be strange to consider cooks & plants, the Good plants require good deaths. murderers…

Perhaps it is too soon for death.  We can also consider gardeners.

It is well understood by successful tomato gardeners that growing basil near tomatoes; both of which thrive in full sun hot sun, that the basil deters the the very same pests that would give anything to feast upon tomato plants.  Some say as well that the tomato from a plant grown alongside basil, this tomato will take on some of the flavor of the basil a bit, a touch.  And as any good listening murderer knows, there is nothing like pairing tomato & basil.


It is not our genius that made, that created that deliciousness.  Any good cook knows they are not creators.  They are matchmakers working between the world of humans and so many other worlds.

Nearly every food is an aphrodisiac.

Page 9, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

we must then consider that there are relationships of friendship between us and plants.  Dependencies.  And a plant may be a plant may be a rose, but our objects are snapshots, postcards of our relationship to Plants.  To the ground beneath our feet.

We could go a couple of directions here.  We could approach the issue of desire’s reliance on the lit individual.  We could consider extrasensory perception.  

Abolishing the veracity of the mind reader, a hoax, a sham, a parkour trick.  This is the confusion of what constitutes ‘mind.’  It is possible to pay such close attention that the ground of a person is revealed to another.  And we consider this magic.  But it is only a paying attention.  The people seemingly in charge of what is what , we have put them in power because they are so good at making us feel safe, of tucking us in with bedtime stories of walls.

But this in itself is a bedtime story, placing a boundary between our naïve selves and those we might trust to know better, that create our garden plot.  A long time ago, as is often the case with stories we lose track of, reasoning obscured, we stopped believing in magic.  But really, we just decided one magic was all the magic we wanted.

What we find odd and mysterious is misplaced.  When we see a photon do more than one thing at the same time, we use our understanding of waves, fields, but we also see the photon.  We exclaim how odd it acts.  But perhaps the oddity is that we don’t have the capacity to explain in our limited curiosity cabinet of words,language,concepts — we are the odd ones.

What can be described can be governed.  It truly is not difficult to see how identity politics, how liberal inclusion works to benefit the governors.

We turn away from the magics of emotion, intuition, we consider dangerous what we can’t explain, can’t name.  Only within stories in which this dark place sees the light do we acknowledge its fecundity.