(no subject)

Hunger and wonder: they seem jarringly present, slipping against and over one another, creating prickly waves of jagged interference where they touch. Hunger, when it fills me, defines me as a positive, as if illuminating the void it would have filled, it shows me all that surrounds it as well as the means and will to sate. It's powerful and amoral, and comes from within me, reminds me of a self that is often ignored, put on hold. It's dogged by a double edged doubt: that no one is receptive to predation, a scarcity more haggard than lean and sleek; that too many are receptive, prey seeing only the hunt and not the hunter, moths devouring the flame. Wonder is a more frequent visitor, experienced as an opening up of the world and an opening up within, one invariably leading to the other no matter the starting place. The expansion is loving, connective but not kind; the immediacy often wounds in too much too fast, straining, bruising in the rush that cannot be denied or ignored. A different doubt lurks in its green shadows: unspeakable, unshareable, the addiction that cannot be integrated, but to which resistance might build, the spectre of more for less in the midst of plenty. They're not natural enemies, not enemies at all; it's the location that is imperfect, the medium that distorts what could be counterpoint, if not harmony (though both appeal, greatly). If I am the knot that cannot untie itself (and I am), I will also be the resolver of situational irreconcilabilty, the conductor of cacophany, the chamber of resonance.