My head is all music. Am reading Trish Dearborn The Ringing World and I opened at random and at given poem my right hand disappeared in a visual parallax. Also reading Ali Cobby Eckermann Love Dreaming but just in linear way. All very powerful and I guess edifying. Joyous. As well there are a couple of works I’ve dipped into Engraft by Michele Seminara and Ill Lit Pop by Toby Fitch. Not much of a handle on them yet as delayed promise of nourishment. They’re roaming in my living room.

Still with my mind on medicine. On transcultural health work remote possibility. Languages, phenomenology, anthropology, semiology, retrocausation, continental philosophy, and field theory for the applicant. Caleb Yau sonics and my many gaps but vector vector vector.

Data deficiency in my identity. Again Magallanes and the proliferation of peoples there as an “old territory” decolonised vieux territoire. The telluric with topological integrity though. Neobarococo another time and country though going through identity politics, visibility politics, what my body is as mad or hypersexed, a category both slandered as bogan and disabled by family and domestic theocratic value that make me pallid though I could never be a shoegazing German idealist disallowing the dance of Latin America and especially the danzon form constant. The clave and the spin. And the close clutch back.