Restless Flying / in conversation with “TRANS IS AGAINST NOSTALGIA” by Taylor Johnson / Kalvin Marquis

Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Untitled. Fused silk. Photograph by Kevin Ryan.
Courtesy of the Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick Foundation.

Everyday I build the little boat,
my body boat, hold for the unique one,
the formless soul, the blue fire
that coaxes my being into being.


I’m doing it.                                 I’m building the boat.

Took a while, but I build.                                                                                      With my therapist,

I start.
I turn my eye inside               catalogue the damage

                                                            Summer.soft soil.summer.soft flesh.summer.soft fists.

diligent taxonomist.

          sure?.car. how do you know?.car.demons

Which is a new species of laceration?

                                                            LEARN.ignant.toosweet.toosoft.toomuch.               boy.

How does one classify trauma                           if they all return
to your body? to your voice? to your refusal to?

Friend,                     I’ll confess to you:                 initially, I was obsessed

with finding an inciting incident                     a spark of moment to burn
all the cities down

and call that my healing.
A reason to arrive                                 finally.

But there are too many cities.
And I keep remembering.

Friend,                      does the remembering get easier?

          Nonetheless          we move. Cause fuck else can we do?

I gather two of each I need:

two hands,  two lungs
two friends for emotional support, two friends to smoke me out
cleave/clamber, spit/swallow

I give myself over to phenomenology
instead of possession.

I say           “I am a person experiencing hurt.”
I say           “It is not my hurt”
One day my chest will know the difference.

Futurity is a language my tongue still
fumbles. For now, I settle
on learning the lexicon of Dawning.

Because friend,                      everyday I build, I get it.
I get seeing devastation behind you and having no verbage for it but                         home.
I get the temptation to look back, borrow the language of yesterday.
I get how easy it is to spill into salt.

Still          I move.

      I leave/I arrive

Because friend,

One thing I do believe:
.                                                       the sunlight       fractured by

        prism                    shattering into rainbow

  (a promise)        stealing into my bedroom                     each morning

is a form of transubstantiation      I can have faith in.
.                                                                         Faith in perpetual arrival.

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This is part of the cluster Restless Flying. Read the other posts here.

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