I can’t leave ether/aether behind. With my three library cards in hand, I’ve checked out several books again. A History of the theories of Aether and Electricity, Vol 1 and 2, Sir Edmund Whittaker (1951), Nineteenth-Century Aether Theories, Kenneth F. Schaffner (1972), and Modern Aether Science, Harold Aspden (1972). And I keep looking for more and more. As much as I can find on an archaic topic with little relevance to modern life.
But it isn’t true, the irrelevance.
The science may be outdated, but desire is never outdated. I think I am intrigued by ether because of its hope. There are spaces that are filled with something, everything connected by minute bits. I get lonely easily, and the idea of something filling the emptiness of space is alluring. I like the idea that I can touch air and through that touch more than air; touch the connected force that ebbs and flows, that pulses and vibrates, that is against your skin too.
I want more than is possible, and I can pour this excess into ether, into my search through old books, reading words of men who are long dead. How appalled they might be with what I am doing, but that’s text for you; a medium easily mimeographed and transformed.
There are boxes and things strewn all about the hallways here, and I want nothing more than to avoid packing. I have to do it, and deep beneath my panic I’m excited. The nice thing about packing is how much I am able to shed. Papers I’ll never use, clothing I haven’t worn in years. I’m making a concerted effort to shed as much as possible.
Somethings are worth transporting. These little guys are from Olvera St in LA, and Jessi and I had them tacked up in our bathroom. They brought in a bright glint and they remind me of wandering around with my best friends. So from L.A. to Hunterdon County NJ to Seattle, the tin comes with.
(Photo taken on the newly tiled floor. I now know how to lay tile, grout and seal.)
I find it difficult to remain quiet in most cases. I bubble, I chatter, I ramble. I say it is difficult to find a quiet space here in New Jeresy, but perhaps the problem is not landscape or location but the jumble in my own head. I collect too much and am only beginning to learn how to filter it all.
I’m learning to leave things unfixed. [Broken is too harsh. Sharp K jutting between the muted b and blended n. Broken is different than unfixed. Broken is action, unfixed is lack of action, is refusal to act.]