Trying again. To begin at the beginning, which (in the measure of Joycean circularity) is always in the midst of things. Staying with the trouble, as Haraway tells us to do. As if we had any other choice.
I’m looking for a way back to conversation: to aleatory, inspiring chatter of the kind that drew me to this medium in the first place. But no, what I’m after is more atavistic than that, really, more chthonic: I’m trying to rekindle what drew me to writing, to language.
Language isn’t a map to paper over the world with—it’s more like a grove of trees from which we peer out on the cosmos. We peer out, we listen, we test the wind… in the grove, trees gather in the shadows of the world, catch its rumors in their leaves. Their roots carry on with business that belongs to language alone.
It’s a tiny grove, the grove of language, grown up on a midsize planet wheeling amidst the stars. But the view from beneath its branches is marvelous.