My academic career was short-lived.
Some people persist in calling me a scholar, which I am not. I read, sure, but that just makes me literate. I enjoy intellectual conversation and, rather than reducing the experiences that comprise a life to anecdotes and examples, I relish in teasing out the complexities that prove life is more complicated and beautiful than any of us could ever understand.
Some people would prefer to think life is simple; or that things are only as complicated as you make them. Some people....
How about this:
There are two of you – one that faces in, and one that faces out.
Out is typically the simple one. It's the one that says, "What you see is what you get." Out is the one that calls a spade a spade and doesn't pull punches and recognizes that everyone is out (pun intended) for themselves, so why shouldn't I be? We need Out because Out is competitive and bold and its ends justify its means.
Out is the lie we tell the world to protect In. Out hides In.
In, on the other hand, is vulnerable. In has doubts. In, though, knows it takes strength to say "I'm sorry," and strives to understand why everyone else is hiding behind their Out. In is the real standard by which we live our lives because at the end of the day, when Out isn't staring at you in the mirror, In is the only one around.
Some people have an Out that is so radiant and amazing that it's easy to forget there's an In. So easy, that they themselves might not even remember that there's In in them. But In is special. In is where we really live. In is substance, In is character, In is what lasts because Out is just about everyone else. In is for you. Just for you... and the few, privileged people who let you in and you let them in, in return.
In is in.
So, people, don't neglect in. In will be with you always, but if you let it, In will get weak and let you down when you need In the most.
My academic self was my Out. I wasn't even aware that it still was. Maybe it is, and maybe I'm just too In to care. I guess balance is worth something too.
10.3.10
5.3.10
blog, the hundredth 19:01
For this not-so-special, special blog post, I offer you an album by the exceptional California group, The Morning Benders.
Listen, and tell me they aren't the best thing to come out of 2007. Music-wise.
Listen, and tell me they aren't the best thing to come out of 2007. Music-wise.
27.2.10
fighting words 21:43
People talk.
They say all kinds of things without thinking; or, what's worse, they say things that they've carefully considered.
By "they" I mean you. And me. And your friends. And your family. Neighbours, kids, priests, crossing guards, bartenders, everyone.
Why do words affect us? What incredible substance are they made of that they can cut like the sharpest of knives or mend the bones of broken relationships? How is it that a string of phonemes can change everything?
Words are symbols. They represent things. We use them to convey information. We can do this because we agree upon the meaning of any given word (for the most part). A word is an abstraction of a thing or an idea – it's a sign, and we put a bunch of them together to create a concise, if complex, utterance.
This image is the most famous example of what I'm on about. The caption reads: "This is not a pipe." and refers to the fact that the image you see is not a pipe. It's only a picture of a pipe (actually, what you see is a digital copy of a picture of a pipe, but you get the idea). Confused? Don't worry, it's confusing. There is no pipe, but you see a pipe. It's a trick. But don't be mad.
Words do pretty much the same thing as the image of the pipe. They're only sound (or text), but we're so accustomed to thinking about them as the things which they represent that they effectively (or affectively) become the thing itself.
So, a word ≠ just a word.
I find that most people don't operate their words with caution. I'm guilty of this from time to time, too, which is worse because I'm a word-person and I should know better. It's easy to get caught up in an argument or toss out a few choice judgements about someone if you think they can't hear you. I try not to be careless in conversation or when I'm revealing what I think or how I feel. It's challenging and it's no wonder some people are miserable at it.
But because of the way words work, we should think of them as actions. Whenever you say something, you are in fact doing something. It's like when you use words to make a promise - the thing you've said creates an expectation of a future action. Even the phrase "make a promise" describes an act of creation. All speech works on the same principle: words make things. Well, not things per se, but impressions at the very least.
Words are real. They're also easy to make (for most of us), so we often don't consider what they do after we say them. They don't just disappear. Words get stuck, they clutter up minds and hearts like plaque. A few poorly (or strategically) chosen words can alter the course of a life, a relationship, a career. Words build on one another and their meanings can change over time, so you have to keep up if you want to understand and be understood.
The meanings of words go deep. And they are different for everyone. Communities learn language from each other by observing and imitating the words other members use (the same can be said of any custom or behaviour). Ever notice how friends who are very close have their own style of speaking to each other? Nicknames? Inside jokes? Acronyms? Because they spend a lot of time communicating, they learn how the other interprets words (among other things) and creates meaning from speech.
A miscommunication between friends can be a really big deal. It shakes the foundation of the relationship and forces the friends to question the structure - the wordbuilding - that houses their mutual interests and affection. It's no surprise that people become more sensitive to words after a miscommunication, and just talking gets harder to do (let alone the I'm-pissed-at-you email).
A fight (in this case, a verbal or textual argument) is communication under stress. The meanings of words become heightened as the combatants scour each phrase for implication, insinuation, and insensitivity. It can be brutal if you're trying to express complex ideas because anything you say can be taken in a few different ways. So, if you're fighting with someone, avoid complex ideas. Keep it simple. State your feelings, but don't rationalize them. Be blunt. But for Pete's sake, recognize that you have to choose your words carefully because you could really do some damage with those things.
22.2.10
I'm back! What did I bring you? Just more words. 21:23
Hi.
I know I've been away for a while. Please don't ask me to explain. The project I'm working on has been derailed, but I'll pick it up again when I'm feeling more into it.
As a peace offering, please enjoy a poem I wrote today.
I know I've been away for a while. Please don't ask me to explain. The project I'm working on has been derailed, but I'll pick it up again when I'm feeling more into it.
As a peace offering, please enjoy a poem I wrote today.
Almost, by Accident
by marc t. cameron (don't steal this)
You probably didn't even
mean to smile at me
but you did and I dropped
this poem in your lap
almost by accident.
It was awkward because I am
especially with girls who show
me the slightest unexpected kindness.
especially with girls who show
me the slightest unexpected kindness.
Words went everywhere,
on your shirt and in your hair
rolled beneath the chair, where
you sat conversing with a cab
franc. Not with, but over
it, at some unsuspecting
acquaintance whom I may
have sprayed with a stray
comma or indefinite article.
you sat conversing with a cab
franc. Not with, but over
it, at some unsuspecting
acquaintance whom I may
have sprayed with a stray
comma or indefinite article.
So, please excuse my dangling
participle. Let me get you something
to clean that up. It's hardly noticeable.
I'm not so careless, usually, with my
words but I was caught momentarily
participle. Let me get you something
to clean that up. It's hardly noticeable.
I'm not so careless, usually, with my
words but I was caught momentarily
when you smiled at me
just now,
almost accidentally.
...
As always, feedback is very welcome.
Hope you've been well.
mc
25.1.10
In-life Safety 23:27
There are three very important questions in life:
1. Who am I?
This is a common one, and with good reason. It's actually an amalgamation of a lot of important issues around identity politics and probably more accurately phrased as "What makes me, me?"
2. What am I doing?
Obviously I mean this in the broad sense of "What am I doing with my life?" Generally, non-specific and rhetorical questions like "Where is this going?" or "What does it all mean?" or "Is this really my life?" are in the same vein as this question which is about direction, vocation, calling, and has to do with a human need for a sense of purpose - even purpose without reason - which leads me to the next question...
3. Why?
The big one, and probably the easiest to answer because it's completely subjective. Also because there is no wrong answer to this question. But mostly because you can effectively deflect this question with the negative retort "Why not?" To really consider it, though, is an important exercise; and a thoughtful response will take into account the process of answering the preceding questions.
In an act of childish soul-searching (I know I left it here somewhere), I will, over the next few weeks, try to answer these questions on this blog. I'm going to do this for the following reasons:
a) The questions will give me a framework to interrogate the ways in which I construct myself
b) The heterotopic social space of the internet is engaged with the construction of self through a hybrid of performance and archiving, which should be a fun thing to explore as I blog; and,
c) I need a long-term blog project (bloject? anyone?) to keep me interested in writing here while I focus most of my composition impetus elsewhere.
So, stay tuned/subscribed/following or whatever, and get to know the material marc cameron via the interweb. Again. Still. Something....
17.1.10
um, yes... 23:51
I've always really loved M.I.A.
Her early commercial hit "Boyz" got me hooked (my little sister totally deserves cred for bringing it to my attention for learning all the words, busting it out a family get-togethers and confusing our parents); and the fan favourite that brought Mathangi "Maya" Alrupragasam a little more high brow attention from the film festival crowd via the Slumdog Millionaire Soundtrack, "Paper Planes" (see the original video here) is, admittedly a kind of favourite of my own.
The video above was released virally, by way of twitvid, and, according to stereogum, was produced for only a hundred smackers. Read the stereogum post for an interesting political bent and a big gfy to the New York Times.
16.1.10
uniquiness 15:20
This 'best of the web' TEDtalk from Stanford U is one of the most compelling things I've come across recently.
It's kinda long, and I apologize for that, but just try to extend your poor attention span and you might undo some of the "anthropocentric malarky" I spoke of in my last post. You won't regret it. In fact, it might blow your mind just a little.
Once again: awesome beard.
14.1.10
peekay 19:35
P.K. Page died today, at the tender age of 93.
There will be far better obits in every form of print tomorrow than this meagre blog post that no one will read. I'd be remiss, though, if I didn't mention the passing of someone who's work was so formative of my own and my outlook on life.
People make a stink when a movie star or a musician dies early - what a waste, they say. When one croaks later in life, they say they gave us so much. Writers (especially poets like Page) seem to come into their own only once they shuffle off this mortal coil: so, they really just start giving posthumously.
If there's a life after this one, it belongs to them. And so, here's how I'll remember dear old P.K. Page:
There will be far better obits in every form of print tomorrow than this meagre blog post that no one will read. I'd be remiss, though, if I didn't mention the passing of someone who's work was so formative of my own and my outlook on life.
People make a stink when a movie star or a musician dies early - what a waste, they say. When one croaks later in life, they say they gave us so much. Writers (especially poets like Page) seem to come into their own only once they shuffle off this mortal coil: so, they really just start giving posthumously.
If there's a life after this one, it belongs to them. And so, here's how I'll remember dear old P.K. Page:
*Just the day after, this came to my attention: Page's poem "Planet Earth" was selected by the United Nations as part of a program to keep people talking about, what else, but the blue marble.
blue marble 00:37
There it is.
Home.
I think about this little, blue marble a lot. It gets me down sometimes. When I see it like this, though, it makes me want to cry... for gratitude.
The first photograph of the earth from space was taken in 1968 by the Apollo 8 mission. Read about it here. For the life of me, I can't believe that seeing that image for the first time didn't set us straight. I mean, when you see it, when you really see that it's nothing more than a lucky piece of rock hurtling through the universe, how can you ever go on thinking that you can do whatever you want and damn the consequences?
There are lots of metaphors for the planet on which we live:
our mother
a life raft
a turtle
the garden of Eden
gaia
First Nations peoples use the medicine wheel which symbolizes the four directions as a reminder of the interconnectedness of all things. The directions, the seasons, earth air wind fire, the stages of life, the human subject (physical, mental, emotional, spiritual), nearly everything can be understood in fours - even the planet.
And it's shrinking. The planet, that is (figuratively, I should say). A few days ago there was a horrendous tragedy in Haiti (an earthquake this time, if you hadn't heard). Around 5 o'clock the day of, I got a sinking feeling and an overwhelming desire to be alone. I felt ill. Physically ill. This was around the same time the earthquake in Haiti took place. Do I think it's a coincidence? Of course I do. But when I learned about the earthquake (through twitter, of all things) a few hours later, I could not help but form a connection between myself and a natural disaster that happened thousands of miles away.
It's only because I want to, though. I want to feel connected. I want to believe that my inexplicable moods are somehow tied to the tectonic plates or the scale of suffering that they cause. I need to feel like there's something larger and that I'm a part of it. I look at that blue marble, insignificant in its cosmic context as it is, and I see one planet. Not one people, not one race, not one civilization: one planet. Nevermind all that anthropocentric malarky they've been pushing. We homo Sapiens are an exceptional species among myriad other exceptional species that have a made a home on this little, blue marble.
And it's a planet that is full of solutions to any problem we could ever invent.
Natural disasters are going to happen. We can't stop them, and we can't really predict them very well. What we do do really well is come back afterward. We rebuild. We start over. We don't give up. And the only way we can do it is if we recognize that we're all in it together.
All one of us.
9.1.10
An Open Letter to Peter Braid, MP Kitchener-Waterloo, Conservative Party of Canada 17:54
| hide details 17:48 (3 minutes ago) | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
To Peter Braid, MP,
In light of your comment during a recent interview that you haven't heard from your constituents "any more than usual," I thought I would address the issue of proroguing Parliament. You'll also notice from the address bar that I've cc'd a few of your peers for accountability's sake.
I strongly dislike the decision by your party to prorogue Parliament. The claims made by your party that this prorogation is standard procedure and not without precedent are poorly motivated and lack the conviction of character that I, as a Canadian, would expect from a democratic government. The assertion that an absence from your publicly paid position is acceptable under the current circumstances of this nation and with regard to the important debates now before the House and its committees is both FALSE and gravely INSULTING to Canadians. Such a betrayal of our trust is inexcusable.
As my Member of Parliament I formally request that you publicly oppose a prorogation and return to Parliament, as scheduled, on January 25th 2010 to do the work that the people of the Kitchener-Waterloo riding elected you to do.
I invite you to reply to this letter with your decision regarding this request; however, I ask that you not send a form letter which fails to acknowledge my specific request and instead attempts to shift focus away from important issues such as the investigation into your government's complicit behaviour in the torture of Afghan detainees. If I do receive such a letter, I will not hesitate to use my means to publish and distribute a document which blatantly ignores the concerns of a Canadian citizen and registered voter.
I await your response.
Sincerely and with best wishes,
Marc Cameron
7.1.10
I am a wild animal 23:54
I know you're busy. But don't forget to do the important work of imagining something better.
Not just for you. For all of us. Better for all of us.
I'm talking to you.
You.
do some good.
for a change.
5.1.10
original content 01:55
"Who knows where ideas come from? They just appear."
They don't, actually.
Something I think most artists, thinkers, whatever, have trouble with is the very idea of originality. What is an original thought? Is there a finite amount of originality out there, like everything else; are we just recycling the same tripe that's always been lying around?
I don't have an answer to that, but there are some distinct points along the continuum of creativity.
Outright plagiarism is pretty rampant. It's both easier to do and to catch people at it since the advent of Google. When I was a TA of a second-year English class teaching some of the most difficult texts in the literary canon to 18-year-olds I read a paper on Jane Austen's Mansfield Park that opened with an argument about the text's "readable spaces" - a fairly advanced literary concept. To find the un-cited source article for this essay (worth only 10% of the final grade), all I had to do was type six words into my search bar. Academic misconduct is funny: this student must have spent the better part of an hour cutting and pasting (or, maybe even re-typing) the entirety of a published article into her word processor. The astonishing thing is that, when caught and not expelled or even barred from the course, she failed to show up for another class or even turn in another assignment and got a zero on the course.
Derivative works are also fairly standard: everyone borrows. Usually it's something funny we see or hear that we repeat. Of course, the assumption is that our friends are also part of the audience and therefore in on the joke - it's understood that those within earshot know you're parroting and the expectation is that someone will deliver the punchline to your set-up ("And I thought these things smelled bad ... __ ___ ________" - Han Solo Star Wars, episode V: The Empire Strikes Back). However, when works of supposed artistic merit are so heavily influenced by preceding works, even if that work is by the same artist, the veracity, conviction, and value of an object as well as its creator are called into question.
Homage walks the fine line between a copy and something new. Usually, a simple nod to a previous work, or an imitation that is so obvious as to point to itself, is reference/reverence enough to excuse the overlap between the new and the old; but the homage must be in the context of reinvention. It has to add something, comment, or renew the essence of the precedent. Satire is the other side of the coin: it points and laughs, pushing the original into the absurd and undermining it for its lack of initial value.
Originality might be a myth, since nothing exists in a vacuum and a thing wholly unknown has no meaning because it can only be defined against that which it is not - it's a semiotic necessity that an apple is an apple because it's not an orange. But, for the sake of argument, let's say that an original work takes the thing it's referencing (or referential to) and does something unexpected or innovative. Not just does something, but says something that we haven't heard or seen before - not in that context anyway.
Art challenges us, it causes discomfort, it evokes strong feelings, it makes us think about things in new, critical and, some might say, original ways. It's a tough nut to crack, and that's why there's so much uselessly bad art out there.
At least we're still trying.
Unfortunately, academic rigour and critical thought are lacking outside and, perhaps more sadly, inside our intellectual institutions and people use the world wide web as a textual compost heap, taking anything they please and passing it off as their own to impress their friends and anonymous followers. The culture of embedding makes it just as easy to pretend you're something that you're not as it does to share and amplify veritable works of art and original content - in fact, the marriage of the two is exactly how the whole thing functions on a cultural level.
The process of eroding the immediacy and liveness of art is lamented by Walter Benjamin in "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction" (Illuminations 1936). Benjamin published his thoughts when print-making was enjoying its heyday, well before the age of digital reproduction; but his arguments are even more applicable to an era in which copyright laws are meaningless and a person's social clout is measured by how many hits, retweets, friends and followers they have.
Ironically, the best way to obtain these digital-world metrics is to recycle the mounds of innocuous, servile, and sycophantic codswallop available on-line and claim it as one's own. We're now able to claim ownership of an idea by virtue of discovery using the search tools bestowed upon us by a glorified advertising agency.
For too many of us, this has destroyed the meaning of art. It's now something we consume, regurgitate, and pass along. The intrinsic value of artwork - the pleasure of reflexivity and the intellectual or emotional growth that it produces - has been superseded by the speculative value of cultural capital as a derivative in the social media stock market.
Art is dead. We killed it. We're still killing it still. Right now.
Every link, every RT, every time we copy, paste, drag, drop, import, embed, stream, and on and on and on.... every ailing reproduction of a work of art and the process by which we claim it as our own discovery undermines the specificity of art. It's moment of creation, it's conception, is dashed against the rocks by the sea of information that swells against the breakers a little higher with every tide.
What's left? Hang on, I'll tell you:
I'm no longer keeping track of how many people view this blog. Why? Because this blog is here for me to work. It's a space in which I can write and interested parties can read. That's it. It's not going to make me famous, it's not going to make me money, it's not going bring me followers or glory or notoriety. It's here for the work, because that's what matters, because that's all that's left after everything beautiful has been digitized for posterity and export.
* a little over a month ago I posted a passage from a Neil Gaiman novel. Though I cited the author and the work at the bottom of the post, I neglected to place quotation marks around the passage. This created some confusion, and was corrected shortly after the issue was brought to my attention. My apologies to Mr Gaiman - I hope we can still be friends, but not on facebook.
They don't, actually.
Something I think most artists, thinkers, whatever, have trouble with is the very idea of originality. What is an original thought? Is there a finite amount of originality out there, like everything else; are we just recycling the same tripe that's always been lying around?
I don't have an answer to that, but there are some distinct points along the continuum of creativity.
Outright plagiarism is pretty rampant. It's both easier to do and to catch people at it since the advent of Google. When I was a TA of a second-year English class teaching some of the most difficult texts in the literary canon to 18-year-olds I read a paper on Jane Austen's Mansfield Park that opened with an argument about the text's "readable spaces" - a fairly advanced literary concept. To find the un-cited source article for this essay (worth only 10% of the final grade), all I had to do was type six words into my search bar. Academic misconduct is funny: this student must have spent the better part of an hour cutting and pasting (or, maybe even re-typing) the entirety of a published article into her word processor. The astonishing thing is that, when caught and not expelled or even barred from the course, she failed to show up for another class or even turn in another assignment and got a zero on the course.
Derivative works are also fairly standard: everyone borrows. Usually it's something funny we see or hear that we repeat. Of course, the assumption is that our friends are also part of the audience and therefore in on the joke - it's understood that those within earshot know you're parroting and the expectation is that someone will deliver the punchline to your set-up ("And I thought these things smelled bad ... __ ___ ________" - Han Solo Star Wars, episode V: The Empire Strikes Back). However, when works of supposed artistic merit are so heavily influenced by preceding works, even if that work is by the same artist, the veracity, conviction, and value of an object as well as its creator are called into question.
Homage walks the fine line between a copy and something new. Usually, a simple nod to a previous work, or an imitation that is so obvious as to point to itself, is reference/reverence enough to excuse the overlap between the new and the old; but the homage must be in the context of reinvention. It has to add something, comment, or renew the essence of the precedent. Satire is the other side of the coin: it points and laughs, pushing the original into the absurd and undermining it for its lack of initial value.
Originality might be a myth, since nothing exists in a vacuum and a thing wholly unknown has no meaning because it can only be defined against that which it is not - it's a semiotic necessity that an apple is an apple because it's not an orange. But, for the sake of argument, let's say that an original work takes the thing it's referencing (or referential to) and does something unexpected or innovative. Not just does something, but says something that we haven't heard or seen before - not in that context anyway.
Art challenges us, it causes discomfort, it evokes strong feelings, it makes us think about things in new, critical and, some might say, original ways. It's a tough nut to crack, and that's why there's so much uselessly bad art out there.
At least we're still trying.
Unfortunately, academic rigour and critical thought are lacking outside and, perhaps more sadly, inside our intellectual institutions and people use the world wide web as a textual compost heap, taking anything they please and passing it off as their own to impress their friends and anonymous followers. The culture of embedding makes it just as easy to pretend you're something that you're not as it does to share and amplify veritable works of art and original content - in fact, the marriage of the two is exactly how the whole thing functions on a cultural level.
The process of eroding the immediacy and liveness of art is lamented by Walter Benjamin in "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction" (Illuminations 1936). Benjamin published his thoughts when print-making was enjoying its heyday, well before the age of digital reproduction; but his arguments are even more applicable to an era in which copyright laws are meaningless and a person's social clout is measured by how many hits, retweets, friends and followers they have.
Ironically, the best way to obtain these digital-world metrics is to recycle the mounds of innocuous, servile, and sycophantic codswallop available on-line and claim it as one's own. We're now able to claim ownership of an idea by virtue of discovery using the search tools bestowed upon us by a glorified advertising agency.
Google has made us
archaeologists,
digging through the slag heap
of the future in search of
our own forgotten present.
For too many of us, this has destroyed the meaning of art. It's now something we consume, regurgitate, and pass along. The intrinsic value of artwork - the pleasure of reflexivity and the intellectual or emotional growth that it produces - has been superseded by the speculative value of cultural capital as a derivative in the social media stock market.
Art is dead. We killed it. We're still killing it still. Right now.
Every link, every RT, every time we copy, paste, drag, drop, import, embed, stream, and on and on and on.... every ailing reproduction of a work of art and the process by which we claim it as our own discovery undermines the specificity of art. It's moment of creation, it's conception, is dashed against the rocks by the sea of information that swells against the breakers a little higher with every tide.
What's left? Hang on, I'll tell you:
the work.
I'm no longer keeping track of how many people view this blog. Why? Because this blog is here for me to work. It's a space in which I can write and interested parties can read. That's it. It's not going to make me famous, it's not going to make me money, it's not going bring me followers or glory or notoriety. It's here for the work, because that's what matters, because that's all that's left after everything beautiful has been digitized for posterity and export.
* a little over a month ago I posted a passage from a Neil Gaiman novel. Though I cited the author and the work at the bottom of the post, I neglected to place quotation marks around the passage. This created some confusion, and was corrected shortly after the issue was brought to my attention. My apologies to Mr Gaiman - I hope we can still be friends, but not on facebook.
2.1.10
taken from raven's mouth 14:17
how much sunlight is getting
through the gray waves
of noisenoisenoisenoisenoise that shake
the stones from the ground and make me turn
my back on the breeze to chase down echoes
with my gaze through the bone halls of this longhouse?
when harts leap from my mouth, how much are words
worth? as much as all this light in
the middle of the night, or less; or more
than all those pages of verse on the dirt floors
and playhouse stages crowded with our whispered curses?
what's worse is all those barking crows i know
that could fill the role (but won't) never stole
a thing but away because they knew
our shadows were blacker than
the feathers on their backs and
i cant i cant i cant incant
i cant i cant incant
i cant incant
i in canada cant find a word
worth a single point of liquid crystal light
unless i draw it from my open veins with needles
made by touch from the glassy bones
we grew too fine
to form a frame
through the gray waves
of noisenoisenoisenoisenoise that shake
the stones from the ground and make me turn
my back on the breeze to chase down echoes
with my gaze through the bone halls of this longhouse?
when harts leap from my mouth, how much are words
worth? as much as all this light in
the middle of the night, or less; or more
than all those pages of verse on the dirt floors
and playhouse stages crowded with our whispered curses?
what's worse is all those barking crows i know
that could fill the role (but won't) never stole
a thing but away because they knew
our shadows were blacker than
the feathers on their backs and
i cant i cant i cant incant
i cant i cant incant
i cant incant
i in canada cant find a word
worth a single point of liquid crystal light
unless i draw it from my open veins with needles
made by touch from the glassy bones
we grew too fine
to form a frame
