I am from knick knacks

Batteries that might have a pulse and stray memories caught in extra accidental prints of family photos

The idea of a fish tank,

drawers and cabinets bursting every which way with whatsits and whatnots

And the hose outside I’ve left running for too long

I am from “I didn’t know that,” and from “can you tell me more?”

I’m from scoldings I needed- “stop wandering off alone,” “think before you speak

I’m from long hallways echoing with “halmuni saranghaeyo, I love you”

I’m from words I don’t know if I should have heard

Things I wish I had said better

I am from countless hopes that my grandparents know that when I say “I love you,” I mean it

I am from a tomboy that fell in love with the twin of her best friend

Who fell in love with education but then

Found that she loved her son and daughter even more

I am from a man who has laid down a thousand dreams

A master of being contented with little

I am from the same cut of cloth

Empty halls of a church in the afternoon

From the great rinse cycle of circumstance,

My roughest edges and deepest stains swept up in the thrilling discomfort of bumping into others in the states that we find ourselves

I am from SimpleGreen all-purpose surface cleaner, Costco everything bagels, and cutout Burger King coupons (now available on the app)

I am from jeans with soaked hems and notes between friends

I am from “this poem made me think of you” and “what if I become my dad”

I am from songs that once rocked me to the core of my being, but don’t, for

I am rarely who I was

I’m from days that I hold a little too tightly and joys I wish I could remember

And gentle reminders that my Father in heaven has loved me in all of it

I’m from the last mile of the road I call "Me"

From the walks at dusk and the ones I’ve loved

From ashes to the One who calls me home

No, not at all like some wretched flock

tearing into the Promethean liver that is the memory of you

As doomed as its bloodied silver platter,

but to monotonous diets rather than.. you know

More so,

Like my roommate’s plants who only know to stretch their arms slowly,

slowly, slowly

in the direction of a sublime warmth

leaning eagerly such that they might topple over next year, they just can’t

wait (he never rotates their little pots)

Or the

pattern suspiciously shaped like a

heart

that my thumb will still catch me tracing

into the handles of my steaming mugs

Here is the ground-ridden floor

dusty, because I refused to have it any other way

And here, friend, are the stained walls

saddish, drabbish, anxious to drip away

and painstakingly, I have tried to coax them down but

In the end,

the construction of its interior is a memory I share

maybe

In the end,

it is my room to leave behind

and my burden to relieve

With a comforting, already reminiscent aroma

that refuses to do the same

With another thought more than I ought

perhaps two thoughts less than I should,

I toss what was a wonderful cuppa joe

A hush as the curtain is tugged

. . .

and the rest of the world

lets

OUT

a breath it's held since dawn.

Ah h

hh

h

h

hh

h

The Earth, gently overwhelmed by another first hour

molten grace, greedily devoured

by a suckling newborn horizon

The vibrancy of an old memory splashed and splayed,

tuckered out, tucked back in

it rests its head

seeping,

against the dearth

and want

https://open.spotify.com/track/3cEVhx8rkM0FlETJFFpxoF?si=eCbQZKAQS5mu2szuqbRuYw

0:00 - 0:10

The muscles will need blood to contract and force the air to move into the lungs to be captured, processed and employed to help the muscles as they use oxygenated blood to contract continually. Everything in it is yet innert. It is a system full of potential but is locked. It needs something from the outside to awaken it.

They are brushed by the beginning, the Άλφα

and now

they breathe.

But not as they will come to grasp, sing of, write about, think about, conceive of, breathing. They will enjoin themselves to one another and be made in a perfect process that will be iterated anew many, many, many times. And as the creation to come exercise their selves, they will have limited words; words that attempt to shed light on reality but in so doing, obscure it. This is not the “breathing” to which they will blindly attempt to refer to.

This is breathing. Millions of fibers stretch and pull at a hard frame composed from calcium and collagen, and thusly a most precious and delicate vessel is lifted to create a vacuum as the unbelievably small alveoli within expand. This is sufficient to introduce a loose collection of molecules into the innards of the vessel at the sweetest pace. The swathe of molecules is collected and from it the system will process oxygen, which will be inserted into disked structures that race relentlessly around the system. The process begins anew as the muscles are fed more.

Breathing. As this process goes on and on they release a noise.

0:15 - 7:22

"They" will later call it "sound". The rushing of air in and out of their lungs causes the molecules, the creation, around them to quiver and dance. They might call it sound, or noise. They would probably call it music. The most gorgeous waves of the air shiver and explode into the most entrancing undulations as it rushes in and out of the different bodily structures in its path. It’s nothing at all like what they will call music. It is dubbed ” טוב,” because that is exactly what it is.

In any case, this likeness takes in and passively responds to the rest of creation in a way that is exactly as intended. There is no error. What it will call skin can repel and absorb much of creation without tearing, such as the nitrogen, phosphorus, oxygen, carbon. Even larger amalgamates of creation, like the water or dust, can’t pass through. And those spheres... what it will call eyes can receive and process so, so much of the radiant eminence that swaddles it.

Sound, music, noise, vibrations, sighing. The likeness’s song is constant, soft, and by design; and it fails to cease. It heaves softly, its chest continuing to rise and fall as it marks the rhythms of its singing breath. It is so, so good. Because it is of Yahweh. And it is adored and celebrated from the deepest depths of the sea to the furthest reaches of heaven. The image bearer, the likeness, watched over with the most terrifying, all powerful, fierce, sweeping, indescribable, and perfect love that it could never understand.

Such is the relationship between the first ”הוּרָה” and the first ”צֶאֱצָאִים”.

And,

it must end soon,

but briefly.

And then, it can be like this forever.

INT. CLASSROOM - DAY

STUDENTS are seated at desks with computers on them in a box-like room. Windows occupy a significant portion of the leftmost walls, but the only light in the room comes from dull fixtures on the ceiling. They face a whiteboard completely obscured with smudges. The desks extend in 5 rows of 8 seats that reach the back of the room. The only sounds are the students’ heavy breathing as they choke on the air, which is clearly laden with dust.

The door on the left of the room, by the whiteboard, opens. The INSTRUCTOR (40) arrives with nothing in her hands. She busily walks up to the lecturn.

INSTRUCTOR

Students. We’ve much to discuss today.

STUDENTS

(whispering)

Yes..

Their whispers of assent come from different parts of the room at different times like a pitiful orchestra. An extended silence ensues even after the whispers die down. No one is distracted, but they could hardly be described as focused either. They stare at the INSTRUCTOR with glazed, sorrowful expressions.

INSTRUCTOR

Look at this graph. The data. The information.

She gestures vaguely, but with passion, at the smudged whiteboard. There is still nothing written on it.

STUDENTS

Mmm...

The room buzzes uneasily with their murmurs of understanding. The INSTRUCTOR scans the room with authority. None of the students are able to maintain eye contact. They crumple like dessicated flowers under her gaze.

INSTRUCTOR

(urgently, with frustration)

How? How could this be? And why?

STUDENTS

(repeating in penitent whispers)

Why...

A brief pause.

INSTRUCTOR

(banging on her lecturn, almost wailing)

Why, why, WHY?

All of the students are bowing their heads now. Only heavy breathing again. Some choke on the dust. One GIRL (20) in the front row bursts quietly into tears, only barely adding noise to the room. The INSTRUCTOR turns to her with sympathy, but it disappears as her face shrivels with disgust.

INSTRUCTOR

You are dismissed.

The INSTRUCTOR abruptly marches out of the classroom. No one follows. All of the STUDENTS continue to exist at their desks, unblinking. Many weep to themselves bitterly.

THE END

--

A unexpected,

uninvited, unwelcome

tenant.

Its choice of decorum wears at my heart

and the further it furnishes,

the less I am able or willing to resist.

I would demand rent; but what contract is written for the nameless?

When can I expect its raucous songs to die in the night if it has no voice to tire

and the breath it expends is my own?

It ransacks, it sifts,

through all I am.

It rends my chest.

And what was mine is left to pool in its mouthless cheeks.

To whom do I plead? Where could I protest?

My-- Our door,

has only ever been shut fast.