end forever with me?

this is a systematic response to prepare to think about living things in the future

I HAVE BEEN THINKING LONG ABOUT DEAD THINGS

POSTS AND PHOTOGRAPHS ARE DEAD BUT WE EXPERIENCE THEM LIVING BECAUSE THE ALGORITHM ANIMATES THEM INTO A TIMELINE

THINKING ABOUT DEAD THINGS ABSORBS THEIR TIME INTO MY TIME ESPECIALLY IF THE THINKING IS ATTENTIVE AND FREE

The stone in the sky is illuminated, this stone in the sky has become luminous. It is time to wash my stones in a bowl of clean water. Have you paid such attention to such unliving things? My stones have never had life, they instead contain colour and texture as a language from some very old earth. There is nothing to comprehend, just washing each stone and experiencing their luminosity or their gravity or their coruscation or their striation; but always their stillness. I could spend hours washing each one, not comprehending each one. They work on me from a far distance, becoming small in the heaviness in my palm, sinking into a reality with no time, the warmth of my living hand does not transfer to them. My stones have never had life. Have you paid attention to unliving things? I wash each one one by one. I washed. The stones exist in far away, they existed, they were made, I washed them once, one by one.

The canopy of trees creates many tiny suns on the floor. It is time to look for something long dead: leaf skeleton, empty birds nest, a piece of bark with a knot in it, the cap of an acorn: all closed in and essentialised, shy because they are forgotten, beautiful because they are shy. OR . The sky at the beach is full of tiny white lights, shimmering around, sand in the waves. It is time to look for something long dead: drift wood, shell, crab leg, sea pearls: all calcified and stricken by the bright violence of the beach. Nearly naked walking among the death of the beach, holding the inner shell of a spirula squid. Have you paid attention to these long dead things? Litter left outside of Our Time, but being perfected in a new time that affects only dead things. I look for those left totally outside of my time, no knocks or shatters caused by random actions, no more the unevenness of life; only the brittle form that supported something living. Dead time ameliorating a specimen to its precondition, form only, finally. There is not quite comprehension but at least I can categorise perfection, when something is perfect it is finished. the rule is to pick something up and discard it once something more perfect is in your path, one by one again, walking into Dead Time of the discarded real.

I just ended the life of this flower, I just ended the life of this bird. These things snapped from a time that belonged to them into a time that belongs to me. Have you paid attention to freshly dead things? A chance to perceive the beauty that touches but not quite touches the threshhold of time. This beauty overwhelms my will, an imperative to act quickly with utmost attention to triumph over Dead Time with my time. Freshly dead plants; the subtlety the distinction between their life and their death, now they belong to my will. The careful arrangement of these freshly dead forms, gathering the beauty of the end before they dissipate. Buckets of fresh clean warm water, display graves. Or I could spend hours in careful destruction which preserves the present moment, the moment their will became mine. One by one I pull apart the plant into its flower heads and leaf buds, submerge them in alcohol to tincturise, now too the essence of the plant belongs to me. Have you paid attention to freshly dead things? Of course you have. The Reality that wraps me around totally when I defeather this goose and admire for the first time the scales of its feet, now totally useless except to admire. and you could feel guilt, horror or you could feel vague disturbance, forced apathy but the most correct would be to feel only that you have absorbed the will of the animal into yourself. How real that feels. Gutting a fish, EVERYTHING IS REAL, skinning a rabbit, EVERYTHING IS REAL, drowning the earwigs from the dahlia traps EVERYTHING IS REAL. Briefly absorbing the dissipation of the will, the beauty in the last moment of the freshly dead.