A.I.

Develop an A.I. mother. Ask the A.I. mother to raise and nurture you in the way that you always imagined you should have been raised and nurtured. Discard your previous existence, the first one, and install a legend around the events and circumstances comprising your alternative life. Develop an A.I. father. Kill it in its sleep. If it insists on coming back to life, generate a sub-plot in which you cast your A.I. father in the role of psychic adversary. Develop, with nurturance and care, an A.I. child. Proceed to develop the necessary A.I. parents to raise it. As the child grows, abandon your post as a shadow and develop an A.I. womb in which to crawl inside. Pray for short memory and safe return.

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Shards

Break a mirror into many pieces. Stare long and hard then long and soft at yourself in the shards. Rearrange the pieces and see how you change. Continue this process of rearrangement, testing the variations of your endlessly shifting self. Mend the mirror in your mind. Mend yourself, every last one. See the mirror in your mind fade away. See you in your mind fade away. Stare long and hard then long and soft into the glaring absence. Reflect accordingly.

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In the Company of Solitude, Vol. II

This volume comprises nocturnes and night scenes from Japan (Niigata, Tokyo and Kyoto).

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Bullet Proof

Take every American bullet from every American gun and make necklaces that are shipped overseas to random people sharing the common denominator that all their names begin and end with a letter. Inside these boxes will be a uniform note, reading—This is a handmade gift. A is for America, and it is also for Alchemy. Request bullet necklaces in return. This unflagged global network of gift-giving should go on until every gun becomes the chamber-pot and repurposed accomplice to unimaginable makeovers.

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Postcard

Send a blank postcard from an unspecified place to a friend. Call them up and ask them to imagine what it is like where you are, and what it is like where you are not. Then request a blank postcard from an unspecified place from your friend, so you can imagine what it is like where they are, what it is like where they are not. Continue circulating blank postcards from unspecified places to as many friends as you can, until the whole world is covered, finding you everywhere and nowhere all at once.

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In the Company of Solitude, Vol. I

During the summer of 2023, I had the privilege and joy of spending six weeks in Japan, based in Niigata, with short trips to Tokyo, Kyoto and Sado Island. I enjoyed the flaneur’s giddy and childlike luxury of wandering streets and alleys, day and night, on foot and on bicycle, absorbing a poetic treasure trove of impressions which stimulated me to no end. As a longtime lover of Japanese literature, film and culture, it was one of those rare experiences where a place, its psychic complexion and the unflagged intangibles of its essence, not only matched but exceeded my precursory vision. It was akin to slipping into a dream-state that felt at once strangely unreal and intimately homelike. Deeply felt resonances and tender soulful stirrings echoed throughout, as my internal worldscape forged a harmonious and reciprocal arrangement with the external worldscape. It was a marriage of functional poetry and unchecked romance. We each curate reality through our own perceptual slants and nodes, our own protean slideshow of consciousness and indie cinema-of-self. That being said, I decided to compile a photo-poetic odyssey of Japan, with digital asisstance from my daughter, curated valentine slices of spoken word and image broken into four volumes (each with its own character and flavors), titled: In the Company of Solitude.

To get lost, to lose myself in, and undertake the role of phantom witness, is one of my favored positions in this life, one of my grace-places. To be there and not be there simultaneously. I imagine that’s why writing is not just something I do, but a ceaseless mode of being.

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Return to Sender

Write an affectionate letter to six-year-old you who imagined you as the sort of person who would one day write an affectionate letter to six-year-old you. In advance preparation for what you might one day say to yourself, the envelope in which the letter is sealed is marked Do Not Open Until Eternity. Laugh at this conundrum, as you would a six-year-old child playing marbles, and set the letter aside, wondering not only about the contents of the letter but also if you’d ever find time for eternity.

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Nails

Paint your fingernails in the way you imagine your daughter would paint your fingernails. Have a daughter to paint your fingernails. Paint your daughter’s fingernails into tiny moons. Blow on the moons until they are dry and without worry. Compare your painted fingernails to your daughter’s painted fingernails. Afterwards, remove your fingers, one by one, and place them around your daughter’s throat in the form of a necklace. If your daughter complains that she can’t breathe, explain to her that you’ve been wearing your mother’s, her grandmother’s fingers around your throat for a long time and couldn’t imagine not having them there. Be sure not to mention words like stranglehold or asphyxiation when talking about your past.

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Bedside Manner

Next time you are hurt or affronted by someone else’s actions, imagine the person as a sleeping child and, a) smother the child in its sleep, b) wake the child up and ask them to go to another room, c) silently observe the rising and falling of the sleeping child’s chest d) recall the childhood bed you slept in, e) witness the person as old and dying, the ghosts of childhood haunting their deathbed

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City

Find the invisible city, the one beneath or behind the tactile city, the one for which maps do not exist. Once there, acquaint yourself intimately with its textures and tones, its psychic cradle. When time is up and you must return to the tactile city, notice that your hands are empty and that you surrendered your given name to the invisible city’s vastness of gloam.

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