G is for Tender Buttons
These are some words knit together in the spirit of Gertrude Stein’s Tender Buttons.
A table and chairs. A room with no stairs. Chairs in a room with a table and chairs, where stairlessness lends to the sitting, unwittingly fitting the subjects in place.
An hour of time. A slice of the day, a way to carve time in the face of the day. A way to make bodies sit fixed in a chair, a way where the air will stay just in one place. A pause in the day to fill words with a cause.
A room, a place. A space with no center, entered by those that would seek to speak freely. Clearly there is no fixed width to the spaces inside of meandering wayfaring minds. Minds that would find new places to hide, bring to the surface their findings unknown. Shown the known knowing, the unknowing grows from the webs of new words in a room filled with chairs.
A book. A book full of thoughtful recourses to unknowing questions that live in the asking. Tasks in the asking and asklessly waxing unwittingly thinking thoughts liquid and drinking. Words on the page. Words in the air live like ink on a page swimming wistfully, airlessly, fairly unwitting, knitting through spaces between ears and eyes, unfixing the fixity implicit it witlessness.
Air. The air fills with spaceless negations, negotiating oceans of rogue waves of thought. Talk and more talk, and new ways of splintering thought wrought with interrogation of words. Thought wrought with fractures, thought weaved through webs that spin further recursively into the air. No further the web shall be weaved, reconceived, than when the class calls within walls for more talk. Talk, a long walk through the spaceless divide between minds that would find no reprieve in the weaving. Unraveling strands of demands and in hands of the band of the room of new minds there is talk and more talk.