it was then, in the hunger of a mouth on a mountain, where things become other things. let this go without explanation. let there be, just, then. a place or a time which suspends far from where it is delineated. now, a thing can be any thing. I cannot be who I am, unless a thread runs perfectly clear, a needle thin crystal clear thread run between this and myself. But it is impossible to have something so invisible which carries something so visible. I am a certain scene, an image. That I seize a mouth on a mountain or anything like it is purely transitory. The image I am is a word in transition, for I am only made of speech or sound like any thing else may be. I can see how a thing is made of many things: I am simplifying. So there a child is made of both of its parents, it is made of flesh and blood and bone and organs, it is made of its features, its presentations, it is made of sleep, wake, it is made of eating and drinking and the food and drink, it is made of light and dark, made of being seen or being heard, made of the sounds it makes, made of the wrinkles in its brow and the wrinkles in its ankles and wrists, it is made of so many remarkable and unremarkable things, like the hangnail or the shoelace or the color of its eye, it is made of color and colorless, and it is made of a visible soul, because a soul must not be invisible due to the weight of the visible which it carries. Only if we see its effect, we are seeing it. A hiccup is like the wink of a soul which cannot blink. Now if I arrive at the mountain again I see it is not a mountain at all but any place or time and the mountain only symbolizes my restraint, my trust in reserve of mountain, of its believability. Only because I am afraid of my invisible visible self. I am all too visible so I run parallel threads to cloud its sight. Not of its itness but the sight of itself. That it may see, I am sure, but only in its being seen does it strike so much fear into me, into itself. The certain instant I am unrestrained I cannot quite find a thing because its makeup is no longer defined by its usefulness. So there is a child, again, not for feeding and walking and dancing and wandering but more keenly for looking, seeing. For being seen, directly in the black of its eye, where a more profound and quite invisible visible wandering is happening. I am transferring some meaning by my compounding of sight and its opposite, which is not unseeing but a covertly unseen. And though I know it can be such, now there is nothing covert about it. The invisibility of a thing, without explanation, cannot be unseen. Soon, the open mouth of the mountain will return. And I can, of course, expedite its return with such a relative safety of image. A mirror, painting, the joke of a face curled in various expressions, the dignity of a white dress or a white flower on a brown tan tree in the empty park seen from a very specific point of view. There is a cat on the floor, turning in circles quietly inside. The child, now, is not a flurry of things. The black fur of the cat is a lesson towards the light that there is more to come, more to find within, various shades and textures hidden in shadow. That they are hidden is obvious. Isn’t it obvious when things hide a part of themselves? The child is warm in a green blanket. The green hides the more diffuse and populating white of the blanket. Green is the first to take the eyes in a walk. I will open the corners of the blanket, where the child’s feet thread small spirals in the soft, ovular joints. I want to speak of how a mouth on a mountain is reminiscent of this but it is too much of anything and far too safe to be more than an open mouth on a highly elevated position in space. The invisibility, too, obvious here: the earth is circular, a mountain is not as vertical as it seems, it can calmly and without hesitation go in any direction relative to the extensive discussions of space, all seeing back upon it. It becomes clear: space does not look, but sees. In the discussion of a wink I missed the important principle, it requires that an eye be either open or closed rather than both. I see the child, again, and hunger. Hungriness is not hunger, I hear in various colorful whistles through its gums. Eyelids are the most invisible visible. One sees while the other does not. This needle is thin: crystal clear. A lake is moist and yet not only below its own surface. This thing is not a needle nor a lake nor the open mouth of the mountain. Let this go unrestrained. I am afraid of the visibility. It is a thing which cannot be nor not be. I am myself but not both of what I see and it itself. There is charm in a blank surface, devoid of its blankness.