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from Acts of Levitation

She had been alone, and the silence commenced to speak to her. A form emerged from patterns of dust. Rising, a slip of sunlight. A streamer of muslin strewn across her window. A shadow inhabits a dress pinned to her wall. She at once recognizes the figure. The tilt of her head, falling against her angular chin. In the dust she has been silenced, commences to speak with sunlight, the tilt of a young window. The arch companion of a dress. The sunlight condenses the figure, a streamer of form slipping from beginnings.

In the sunlight she has recognized the shadow guest. The angular speech of dust. She had once been alone, and now she has been rhymed. She sits in the windowsill, chin dropped to her chest. Hands out before her, testing the light.

Now that she has appeared, she needs only finishing. In red ink, upon a bedsheet. She reaches for a pendant and douses over a glass of tired water. Shall she remain? For how many revolutions? She counts the pennies beside. And the hexagram which follows?

She reads:

"The yielding comes from and gives form to the firm, the firm ascends and gives form to the yielding. Things should not unite abruptly and ruthlessly. Grace is the same as adornment."

Pleated as a penny which needed finishing.

"The most perfect grace consists not in external ornamentation but in allowing the original material to stand forth, beautified by being given form."

A new form is tenderly hung.

"The judgement: Success in small matters. It is favorable to undertake something. It is favorable to bestow an aspiring form with light, clear and still. If the form is contemplated, the changes of time can be discovered."

If the forms of humans are contemplated, one can shape the word. Note: The text of the commentary does not appear to be intact. There seems to be a sentence missing before, 'this is the form of a dress pinned to a wall.' An explanation of the foregoing sentence would follow. But something of the sort must in fact be presupposed. The firm and yielding unite alternately and construct forms: this is the form of the dress."

She looks up blinking, from the window to the dress, to the text in front of her, all of which have become intermingled.

In the first case it is the line that bestows form directly and therefore brings about sheen, whereas the ascending hem, by lending content, the principle of the form is frilled. The otherwise empty window can work itself out. It is favorable for 'the small' to undertake something" The penny is small. A person or window.

"The image. Blue smoke at the foot of the stairs. The inverse of the preceding afternoon."

It was a theoretical, not a practical turn of mind which had caused her to pin the dress to the wall, and then to imagine one who might wear it.

"The one above attains her will. Note, it is a tendency throughout to counteract overemphasis of form by means of content. A strong nature forgoes all ornament. She chooses plain white."


As pink skies became smudges and trees silhouettes. There was a light, and a globe and she sat within a composition notebook imagining crickets, a large bouquet of lavender, as if lavender could be anything but diminutive. Such was the night. A voice lilting across water. Or so she thought. There was a knock at the door.

Clouds in a vase of bergamot. As soon as she opened the door a seaplane happened by. Complexion clear as translucent glass. But then looking below the skin, she saw her premise. They were to go, and before the name of the place had escaped her lips they were in route. She followed along side her. Simultaneously they walked. Clipped sharp steps upon the cold cement.

A short grace note one half step below a principle note, sounded immediately before or at the same time as the principal.

Sustained dissonance.

Approaching the subway, a dense fog of suspended ice particles, especially obscuring a particular fruit stand.

The walk seemed without measure, a dense fog, a half step behind the sharp clipped premise. Clouds in a case of something diminutive.

They approached a pale gray building, stepping upon a landing of steps, one on top of the other piled at once precariously, poured perhaps one-hundred years before their arrival. the building lurched out of the fog as if, it had not existed before. She had passed its pale heavy windows, perpetually lit up, upon so many occasion, but had never thought to enter its premises.

She smiled upon a gray door, a woman in blue jade and large spectacles behind a blue-gray, dun looking countertop, birds in cages around the edges of the room, but what she saw most poignantly was a large rose painted upon the floor of the small room which she largely desired to place her foot upon. She was about to do so, in fact had made a motion to leap, when the eyes behind the spectacles drowned. The figure behind the counter rose monumentally. She placed a cautioning hand upon her shoulder, and steered her clear of the room.

But what is it?
But what?
The rose upon the floor.
Yes, the rose. One mustn't step upon the rose.

A cloud in a vase of vapors traveled down the gray-dun fluid hallway again in a clipping meter upon the polished floors of ever so many grains painted gray. Again, a short grace note behind. Another door, this one though burnished, a type of bronze looking wood. A checkerboard floor, black and white. A small room, crowded. There was an elderly man, at once benevolent, sitting upon a stool. the walls covered with books. Half a dozen persons sat on similar stools, holding books upon their laps. The man approached her, pointed to a volume upon a shelf. She recognized none of the names upon the spines.

You begin here, he said, seeming to fade in and out of focus, as if she had been looking through a moving lens. the hazy figure handed her the book, which she took without question.

She held the volume in her hand, its weight considerable, perfectly fitting within her palm. All of its pages were covered in gold. Images fluttered as she turned the page. The text was small and dense and seemed to shift as she tried to focus. In one sense the book was flat, but in another, it was bird. She did not recognize the alphabet. Though she somehow had understood: the cartographer is the smuggler. She looked up, frustrated, to see the semi circle of others upon stools and benches, holding books upon their laps. They all held pens, and were commencing to sign their names within the books, alongside other names. She thought that she should sign her book as well.

Oh no, the man intercepted, you must read it first.

She later drew her aside. Once you have read and signed all of the books within this room, then you may enter. She blinked, looking around at the thousands of volumes, with golden pages, perched upon the well kept shelves.

Is it possible to take the books home to read, she asked.

That depends, answered the benevolent man, for some will ask repeatedly and the answer is unmistakably no. And others might only suggest, and the books are carefully wrapped and given over.

Slightly bemused, and uncertain, she tried to smile vaguely. She traversed the length of the room in five steps to look out of a double glass porthole, and saw all around, the ocean crashing majestically. the path which they had taken to reach the building had been washed away almost completely. She glimpsed two dark coats, apparantly persons within, attempting to cross, with great difficulty, what had once been the street. She turned to her.

How will we return?

She regards her, recognizes beneath the pondering. She understands the world as a laboratory. A crusade against silence. She remembers her borders, an understudy, a dark dress, drab posture, trappings, waifishness, a little ship of a thing.

Meanwhile she misses the street across the street. The little café. Spearmint and lemon. She imagines this to be a very serious undertaking. The rose, betokened. Out the window, a large net rises from the icy waters, covered with earth.

Again, the questions, how to return?

But her other self is in conversation saying, when writers "discuss" they tend to "run on."

Was that clouds in a vase? Sky, blankets of sky. Her face is so open. But then she turns, and answers gravely:

The night actually is never a consensus. More like a drawing room, and a shutter, and a sparrow, or a lamp which half heartedly stutters, and then it will be morning.

She saunters towards the door.

If she were told a story, she might become otherwise, no longer emptied.

She follows, noticing, how this part of town has lapsed from her vocabulary. The cartographer is the smuggler.

She's gained some livelihood, and lost some.

Comfort, what is, remarked the sparrow. Remarked the falling disposition. An arrow marked, a lark's desire.

The fragrance upon the skirts of the rose.