Lisa Fishman
Seven journal/notebook entries         (page 4)

Lots of things could have happened when you drew that bird by the way, Tom See who may still live in D. C.—that sparrow on the airplane wing in magic marker as the kids don’t call them anymore (“Not magic!” I’ve been scolded, “just marker”). With one person I’ve experienced a whispering tube to work, the same night my snake bracelet disappeared. Everything being accurate was a pleasure, knowing your way around a city as I would if the city were made of grammar.

You know that you cannot invent animals without limbs, each of which, in itself, must resemble those of some other animal.
        I don’t like Winter anymore, I wonder where. One is trellised in a manuscript, a letter b, the black socks I’m sorry to have borrowed so long. Oh song she some time said. The trees have rings in them; the lines inside the yew tree go around as if the whole time we were there.

Experience shows us that the air must have darkness beyond it and yet it appears blue.         Yes or no. A doctor is working to stabilize my pelvis, not strengthen abdominals, excellent. Largely this appears to be about breath, inhaling when limbs are extended, exhaling to contract. Because the body is three-dimensional—breath going in not just down the front of you but also down into the low back. The question of whether there is always something erotic going on. I mean the consciousness of death. (Brenda: “The lover enters where we cannot love the mother.”) There’s so much more about paper, or is it colors. Will dedicating them be fine will anybody mind. For Catherine:
        If you want to make foreshortened letters stretch the paper in a drawing frame and then draw your letters and cut them out, and make the sunbeams pass through the holes on to another stretched paper, and then fill up the angles that are wanting.

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