I called it the net after a passage I drafted in December. In part, it goes:
And let’s not lift up a flapping net here—let’s recall it was a clear and urgent (unmediated, uncomplicated) wish for but one.
Against my own command I shall in fact be hauling up a flapping net here. I like the idea of movement leftover from fishes escaping shoddy material or poorly restricted knots. I like the idea of silvery, cold beings jolted into the normalcy sought below impact, putting their all into it without even knowing precisely why.
These culls will be drifted musings—ideas inviting protracted, syncopated thoughts—and arrays of songs I wish more people heard. I want them, together, to traipse all over so that you feel a bit afflicted in a way you can’t quite point out.
I think there is a point to compiling what visits on its own accord and terms without guarantee of further index: a point to mild perplexity. It leaves and you meet a new wrinkle in an even newer face, or find yourself owner of a sensation lodged in between scheduled programming—present but not wholly surfaced. I’m partially questioning the utility, or at least the singularly-prized pinnacle, of clarity. What of the components forming that ascent? What of irresolution? What if the point is to do your best to be a little cloudy? Befuddlement is a good state to often occupy, and can clamber in many rooms; it is not of singular makeup or reason.
A net is lowered and comes up after some dragging and skimming; if it is automated to industrial weights and scales now, it was once solely a matter of joint effort. A net does not promise completion but cyclicality.
Disponible los miércoles y sábados.