February 17, 2013
Amaranth Borsuk & Lisa Radon
Few things the hand wished language could do, given up on dialect's downward spiral: words so readily betray things they're meant to represent.
Words tasted like other things. Type refused to look machined, showed the strokes that unbalanced, grew spurs against stress, each swash, spine, shoulder, tail a fresh mark of the hand that had no hand in it.
Arms broken, tissue mangled, the hand was ready to try body's cant: a disappearing text, past and future pressed into skin's plies. Grammar's ultimate loss: surface, each nanosecond, dead and reborn in microscopic fragments.
Take take take take take--that's how body ensures its own survival. The hand couldn't trust it long enough to decipher its cipher: empty vessel with hands. The body had false papers, could not be identified, clearly could not represent. It didn't look like the pictures anymore, would only sit still to be counted, so the hand learned to trust numbers--observable, firm--needed something to count on without fingers or toes now that fingers and toes were gone. Fingers and toes wouldn't cut it.