Biology of Change or The “other” side of the mirror

At this time, I’ll turn my back on the surface of the lake and look straight at you, Life. Water is always there, here, when she gets my back, my front is clear, present. I have looked and looked, across, through, inside, attempting to pierce the depth of our mother Water, a.k.a us. I have asked her why she moves away with the tide, and down with the tears. I have cried her when she dries. I have asked her why she travels in and out of me like a snake, passing on a message I can never quite grasp. Around the rocks, along the path, she finds her way. I shifted, just 180 degrees. Now I look toward you. Toward it all. It’s simple at the end, because nothing or nobody really reflects who we are, the inventive mirrors might be playing a fascinating game, such do movies, stories, your mother’s smile, your lovers eyes, a face across the table in a café, but I think that reflections don’t really exist outside of us. They are very tangible, like a photography, a chemical effect of millions of argentum cells swimming through water to transfer your paper self, millions of electromagnetic pixels to make you round, out of little squares. Ammonia, copper and water make your computer, your digital self. All sounds, all waves, matter. So turn your back and let the mirror be in you at all time. Not like a simple reflection of the self, but like the magical spiral of water communicating from skin to eyes, from bones to heart. I’m now in the present time of my non-image, in the concrete space of water. Swimming around the rocks to know you. Fluid. Grounded.

The Holes of the Frame

In the box, down the hall, or in the hole, down. Through scarves and feathers, tatters of fabrics, looking at or by or maybe on the side of a frame we think window, and in which we see nothing but a dark reflection of us, we impress the lens. To a film? Huh. Not anymore. Processed by a chemistry that only existed, we still want to be seen whereas at the end, we only stand in a cloud which they say is real. Pellicolla is only a vague memory. The legend talks of a cloud where they keep us organized in zeros and ones, on discs, locked in concrete. But we never really know who or what we really look at and where we really go. We never know who we really are once we offer the lens a piece of the soul she never asked for. What do we see? A black mirror, a corridor of postiches, masks and pearls. A brouhaha of feathers, a tongue in a mouth we call a kiss and maybe three words on a page we call script, we call press, we call story. Maybe we try to look at a place where no one has never gone to. A field of princess dresses laid on grass where the river flows and welcomes our fingers to sink in her mud.