For Jackson and Endi
That form is a choice, dropping in or out. Taking up, or leaving to one side. Saying, form.
A river - the water on-rushing, the banks, what drifts, what stays.
Even as I know what was never a choice, I am left to choose; I am tasked with choice. Call it capital, the current, transparent mode (I am I) - say, Form. Or, can I afford, perhaps by a radical transference of non-conforming currency, to confess, I am in form, as form is in me?
There was a man, what we would call a pioneer, who left his village, his parents, his friends, to venture into the woods to build a house. He took with him an axe, a hammer, a saw, and such supplies as he believed would allow him to build a house.
He built a house from what he found, logs planed to fit, a roof to keep out the rain. He completed his house, and, having cooked a meal, he took his rest.
He woke the next day to a ceiling of leaves and blue sky. The woods were complete; quiet, and complete. And so the man raised himself and, taking up his tools, built another house.
Of form, an appearance. The echo that precedes the voice calling out.
One who writes about form is like a messenger for the news of what's available to anyone - just look outside. The weather of now, the movements of friends and neighbors.
No one waits for form, and form will not surprise you except to say, Form.
Here is a shape - a sphere, a cloud, a letter. But there is work to be done, issues to be resolved, relationships to negotiate. Yes, yes, indeed.
Here is a shape, a form.