Geometries of bewilderment. The eternal house of writers. Returning again and again.
The inability to speak, when you want to; the choice to not speak, when you can.
The meaning of economy; the preservation and renewing of value as a form of resistance.
Polar night at the dream house; learning to see something where I used to see nothing; the task of carrying the empty place.
Dream borders and dream houses.
The dialogue between myself and a space I'm learning to inhabit. Inclinations & tendencies of different shelled creatures.
Queer time and failure; queer time and its asynchrony, asymmetry, cyclicality.
Queerness and being set adrift from known narratives. The sadness of genes.
The origins of restlessness. Wandering as a calling and a home. Spaceships and blanket forts.
The surrender in becoming oneself. Ordinary devotion.
I've never felt, about anything I was writing, the way I feel about the letters I write to you. It's one of those feelings that confounds any easy or convenient language, any of the prefabricated phrases we have for talking about feelings.
Here is a question. How can we justify choosing to make art, when we could be saving lives, saving the planet, or doing other work that seems more important or urgent?
How can your participation in the infinite game not be bounded by your lifetime? Also, the role of surprise.
I want to introduce one more new concept: the game.