Che fare? What to do written over a tap of running water

The natural breath of people, places, things

In 1966 Michelangelo Pistoletto started Sfera di giornali, rolling a big ball of newspaper through the streets. Freeing news, language, feet to make new measures
 
places and things time has worked, weathers passed through: fog and sun, clouds on the move, rain and after the rain. waterways. mornings and nights. Shapers, mark makers. Time and its accrual, dunes shifting, sinking into these patterns of formation
 
had wanted a place like Duras’ blue wall—a remnant of the war, holding the sea apart from land, and she was in a hotel room wrapped in sheets. The sea crashing against the wall day and night, surging through the room and words.
 
not books but what books open. you can drink them. Descartes was a dry riesling. Not a painting but how the painting reaches, touches in its search.
 
Activity. but activity in the shadows, in the ground, light working its way out. briefly brilliant and communicable, and then the wind comes or the sun or the rain and its absorbed or goes away
 
or you walk into the room
 
People come here. a lucky address taped off-center above the door. four vertical lines. It’s in an old wood-frame Victorian off on its own by the cathedrals on top of the hill and the tenderloin below. in between on the wide corridor running north to south. It was the city’s last artist hotel. there were many in the city, but it was the last, before SROS. 
 
we’re down below. there are crawlspaces in the underfloor and their ground is dirt and dusty stone. we lift them from time to time, the out-of-site infrastructures and let them emit, catch and turn what they send out
 
a place is where things come together—roads, rivers, people, goods, all altars to others opening out inflow and outflow, generations. 

The plot of bringing the river to mind. Bring down time and sit in a chair. People are places too. we sink and stick out of the circle precisely somewhere, toes in the water, each a landscape within landscapes gesturing. As many languages as people and tree and stone and sea and the plastic bag ballooning from the metal bike lock
 
the wind coming down Columbus ave and shuffling the leaves in the green canopies—the stream writing is, separate but circulating. writing comes like the wind or mountains rise in us as language does—fog, wind, sun bleaching the cloths wearing the words on our skin

maybe you run through your city and see through the windows but briefly, someone’s on the treadmill, or the TV’s going, toys on the lawn, a person sitting in an old coat, a couple and how they lean as they walk in secret pillow speech. Or anything, overheard snippets, the plastic clinging to a side of the building blowing; what you are cooking, teas or cocktails you’re making or a new thing you learned to do with your hair or hands, writing or drawings, photography. the least of all things, samples of the ground you’re working maybe with some phosphorescence, or a nice shirt or a skirt you found; a show you saw, anything you’re pissed about, air it. we invite criticism; anything you find real beautiful and what about beauty you’re finding, the live wire to living. imagination. space for the Images that want to speak. 

anything you’re sensing maybe can’t say yet. or maybe can maybe it’s evident maybe its in your palms maybe if you’d like to send anything back, do and in any form.

the sending of messages, of cards, of paper in the air is beautiful enough. the transit. 

for all these things to come together and make a place like a table, spread. jumping through the sprinklers, making cake in your underwear, the lines of a chair. first light on the wood rafters and then you’re up. or last light and you’re asleep and dreaming without knowing. eclipses. We like pillow talk rumpled in sheets what goes on in the night no one knows but the glyphs send out through our sleep