Life is boring, except for flowers, sunshine, your perfect legs.
A glass of cold water when you are really thirsty.
The way bodies fit together. Fresh and young and sweet.
Coffee in the morning. These are just moments.
I struggle with the in-betweens. I just want to never
stop loving like there is nothing else to do,
because what else is there to do?
—Pablo Neruda, Twenty Love Poems and Song of Despair
The French say l’esprit de l’escalier. It’s always too late. After the fact.
Wait, there might be a spectrum here. Is it enough
that the thought occurred? An attempt was made.
Artifacts of the rich appear most often. A theory of having
to deal with less broken things. Their objects as lives
saved because they are the most stable. Their history
preserved as bowls, jewels, armor, enlightenment, art. Beauty
beholden or owning, depending on your perspective. Your experience
of fragments and feeling safe when it makes sense, to you.
Preserving patterns. Time is dense. Consistency can feel good here.
Until the loop closes we won’t know any better, or differently.
Their affect as lives valued is our gaze, one of attention.
Taken and loved. Theirs is a rapacious enthusiasm.
Felt power in isolation. Your allegory our memories.
Production becoming the means. Their wars our history.
Their knowing is the loudest in quiet rooms.
Cache Culture 