Lisa Fishman
Seven journal/notebook entries         (page 2)

II. (summer 2010)

Something will come of something (Daughter / Father) – all objects too. Under the mother’s painting of a river, a painting of mountains. And once in the West in a desert canyon, the pattern water had left on rock: THE DESERT HAD BEEN UNDER WATER.

III. (spring 2010)

A whole note is a circle—tells you the duration of the sound. Another note has a line bisecting the circle and a half-note I think an open circle with a stem. Any tone—marked by where on the staff the notes are drawn—is also indicated as duration, yet when we think of “note” we think of tone more than time. Audible time: whose face gives no light, who mistakes the poplars for trees, so the question is to field: where it recurs? The body of Echo lost in the woods, unlike one made into two.

IV. (spring 2010)

You’d like to find some music in the stone-light in the way a whole note disappeared. Inside the lines it was descending through—vibration lines, current-lines—time shifted open onto the present as in a synchrony: you felt the movement of the train, its presence, for numerous seconds after it passed or before it arrived because you were sitting on the ground a few feet from the tracks under a giant tree whose giant corridors of bark and branches also were the wrist- and forearm-bones you felt while warming up your hands on someone else’s hands, wrists, arms underneath the wool-light of a sweater as you sat at the base of the tree a few feet from the tracks. And swimming is like that turning of things over as your body in the water where light off knees and shoulders and the rest appears to float and into which all parts of things and things themselves—swimmers, elbows, concrete, clouds—are mistaken for themselves.

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