• [The texts on this site are typeset such that the lines radiate from around a central point, forming a circle and breaking lines to make them complete the circle, no matter their length.] In the idea that intent produces new. In the admission that many news are in truth old-new. In the news of the new. In an understanding of the new as something that’s actually pretty old. In a pretty old-new. In a technology that is always old-new. In the understanding that technology can never be new. In the reading. In an echo of the new in the old. In the decay. In the attack of the old and the decay of the new. In a diary. In a neglected diary. In neglect that renders the lost as new. In a library box and in a foam bed. In the bureaucrat’s desk. In documentation. In this understanding. In a place where libraries are a col­lective event on a beach. In my library, which is really our library. In dust that was the document rather than a dusty document. In the distance between the thinker and the paper. In a basement. In a second-floor meeting room. In a folder. In a spiral notebook. In a half-written-in gift. In the tech­nological old-new, which reads to us as new but is actually pretty old. In an accelerated old that can never be new. You knew I love the way you talk so slow. I love the way you—. I can’t wait to watch you think. So I can know to see you make the new without intent.
  • That what’s private must hate the spirit. That privacy is what I own for money. That I own for money is my primacy. Which was given to me. That I can own for money was my education. Which was not given to me. Until I get it in a circle. Where I read among friends and family. When I know all I own is what I’ve read. That I can look in on that circle from the street. And see its warmth merge with the street. Because Jean Toomer taught me. That what’s private must hate the spirit. And that owning a text means to teach it to publish intimately.
  • January. Last month of the year. February March. January September March. Last month of the year. April May and June. Last month of the year. September January. Last month of the year. March. Last month of the year. April May and June. Last month of the year. January September February. Last month of the year. March April May and June. Last month of the year.
  • That a machine can only be one if it replaces the body’s labor. That a tool can only be one if it’s used by the hand. That a tool forged from unethical means still has a use in a distant future. That the use and provenance might be separated. That this separation is worth knowing. That when questioned about a tool’s purity, I respond with an alternative that is only a reaction. That humans have been machines. That one day I’ll have strung together a set of tools and uses that pre-—rather than suc-—cede the making of my living. That I will not recognize it when it arrives. That the tools I use are crafted by enemies. That a language is a tool and the tool can be questioned. That language has affordances. That I might anticipate and avoid them. That a tool is only right for the job if its use is unclear. And the same may be true for a machine. That a linguistic machine would not replace the voice, but the mind. That I often confuse the tool and the work it facilitates. That a tool might be evaluated as a finished thing. But that its malleability may contribute to its tool-ness. That its finished-ness depends on the scope of its user. That any object, tool or thing made with tool, contains in it an infinite amount of information. That an ethical tool may be made by unethical means. That the reverse is also true.
  • My father saying goodnight, asking “Do you know how lucky you are?” that I might speak my gratefulness. I will have been grateful for a place where cruelty’s absence is not luck, but is the constant study of paramilitary forces. I will have been grateful for a place that is honest about its cruelty. Instead I dream in one that pushes its cruelty into creative but not-new f­ormatio­ns. A new way to say thank you will be to analyze our luck. By analyzing it we aim to destroy it.
  • When I’m translated to Heaven, it will be done by someone who can’t understand my tone. When I’m translated to Hell, it will be done by someone who doesn’t know my language
  • If words are ancillary to content. If being secondary to or in support of content means belonging to a notion. If, on another hand, to support a notion is to be part of it. Then to support is to be. But if a secondariness is then a separateness, then words are not the writer’s material. If not the writer’s then must be the reader’s. If the content is the writer’s. If to be in support of content is to not be its part. If only a part then perhaps at odds with the rest of the whole. If the linguistics does not support the form. If words are ancillary to content. If content is to be understood as that which is not words. If content is everything but words. If this means acknowledging the supportive group over the presumed individual. If the individual is the word. If the individual is ancillary to the group. If by “the group” I mean the chain of laborers which make the thing. If we understand that words are made of stuff that precedes words. If the precedent is the content. If we have to relearn what to read. If what to read is still the question. If what and how can be the same question. If any text read the right way can be useful. If usefulness is a reasonable gain from reading. If words are ancillary to content. If to be in support of content is to not be its part. Are writing and reading simultaneous?.
  • I recall, as a child, being impressed by the distinction between accuracy and precision. That a person could at once be creatively brilliant and dead wrong. To be so is to be precise, but not accurate. An inaccurate precision honed over centuries and so misidentifying tradition as nature. What is it to be accurate with imprecision? Either way we agree the aim is to measure, to determine a quantity, to invento­ry. The earliest writing already knew the phrase “in the red”.
  • To split a jungle is to establish a frontier. To enter from outside to make that split. To observe, while splitting, a speaking. To introduce a printedness to that speakedness. To be sponsored. To proceed. To kill by preservation. To trap it in a book. To regularly visit. To fly. To pave a runway. To build a tower. To radio response. To invite friends. To select another’s library. To abolish, with a single book, an archive. To speak its printedness as nature. To print a speakedness as magic. To mystify to erase. To disassemble is to read and write. “How can we get to know each other?”. “By abolishing the frontiers.”
  • A man asks us in the park: “In what two instances does life guarantee You see your name in all-caps, alone?” He smiled and answered “On your state ID And then again on your tombstone.”