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I believe in a kind of strange knowing, a knowing in a loop, a knowing that knows itself which is a fundamental substance of a world. I believe in my house as a single organism digesting itself into feeling. The sliding door to my back yard rests slightly off its bearings. I have gotten into the habit of jokingly performing my inability to open it, laying bare a truth of love. I believe in the truth of things which are more themselves than we can ever fully comprehend (a God of this impossibility). The illusion of a stable thing: knowing that if we were to see its implosive worlds, the most ordinary thing would be terrifying. “Youtube”: How to turn a sphere inside out. Experience having virus. How to see a dog as an essence. How to diagram an argument into a house. I believe in a pain becoming a theater of itself, a cartoon macabre, the condition of which is a chaos where both trauma and imagination become possible. I believe in a beauty that is grotesque because of its component micro-particle drama. A fight erupts over group text while chickens silently graze. An impossible humor destabilizing enough to make vivid a truth of embarrassment and thereby love. Or at least care. Moments before our minivan crashes, Master of Disguise has long since finished playing on the built-in VHS player as my siblings and I begin to doze off. I am staring out the window.
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Hunt, William T., "& forever dress up (Nature Making Word)" (2020). Senior Projects Spring 2020. 357.
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