*Horse,* Then, Unhorses What Is Not Horse

Stanley, Olive, crow, side porch, Tuesday, gif by C, home then home no more though we leave to spend a week in Michigan with her next Saturday

I am reminded I have an I problem with I, my son-in-law, in the new naming rules I arbitrarily imposed, though I'm very much looking forward to seeing I too!

We got into the three Goldsworthy stone sheds at Glenstone today, the wood is milled from fallen trees from the campus, he built the houses with stones quarried in Cabin John, in one of them a giant clay ball formed from the clay in and around Greenbrier Branch, the house in the creek's floodplane

R, maybe, second letter of first name and first letter of last name

The orb did not actually glow (though the light versus dark true), the only source of light in the shed an overcast sky through a six square foot window above an open door, my phone did what it did with what it had

To help slow gravity's inevitable orb-droopage Goldsworthy mixed human hair donated by poshy Potomac hair salons (did I tell you Glenstone a private museum and meadow campus owned by a guy worth in excess of seven billion dollars, they do not charge admission, I'm sure the county gave him ample reasons to be a non-profit (he does live on the land))

All posts but two a year tagged My Complicity

The second Goldworthy house featured the clayed walls, I urge you to go see it but the third Goldsworthy shed, o! it's where he got orb's clay

Same gif with related haikus
Vibrational integrity
The politics of the insult
Punishment and reward in the corporate university
Duh! Why people are acting so weird
MUSIC, LIFE, STUFF, THINGS
Shitlordism is a rampant disease
Deglobalization?				C's visit, I did not bathe in digital shit like normal, the wheel-chaired cracker did cocaine at an orgy while calling for trans kids to be executed?
Shitlords defend shitlord-defenders!
C likes Swans to her mother's distress

IN A WORD, A WORLD

C.D. Wright

I love them all.

I love that a handful, a mouthful, gets you by, a satchelful can land you a job, a

well-chosen clutch of them could get you laid, and that a solitary word can initiate

a stampede, and therefore can be formally outlawed—even by a liberal court

bent on defending a constitution guaranteeing unimpeded utterance. I love that

the Argentine gaucho has over two hundred words for the coloration of horses

and the Sami language of Scandinavia has over a thousand words for reindeer

based on age, sex, appearance—e.g., a busat has big balls or only one big ball.

More than the pristine, I love the filthy ones for their descriptive talent as well as

transgressive nature. I love the dirty ones more than the minced, in that I respect

extravagant expression more than reserved. I admire reserve, especially when

taken to an ascetic nth. I love the particular lexicons of particular occupations.

The substrate of those activities. The nomenclatures within nomenclatures. I am

of the unaccredited school that believes animals did not exist until Adam assigned

them names. My relationship to the word is anything but scientific; it is a matter

of faith on my part, that the word endows material substance, by setting the thing

named apart from all else. Horse, then, unhorses what is not horse.