→BFA TEXT 2023
[An indigo night]
It exists in such a form that no certain expressions can be deduced. The ghostly being, soaked in every damp spring night and green umber, is only graspable in the murkiest mist. But hesitations always initiate with accounting the origin or morphology, miserable enough to be merely another act of putting the cart before the horse.
Bare branches are like mycorrhizae, or awetos, reposing in dormancy, twining their twigs through the city, and eventually impaling their host in a parasitic way. Constructing a system of nets in cavities under the streets, it winds itself into an unspeakable ball. Crouch down then arise; the first that arrives from the clustering are white magnolias. When green peas start to falter, the Under occludes with the Above and grinds a creaking.
Springs are perpetually vague. Their advent is always perfused with a foggy scent that is recognizable. The soggy spring mud belongs to remnants of late autumn bogs. Winter freezes all those leaves, grasses, and animas from the past year—which have yet to be returned to ash and dust—under her sheet of ice. The incessant act of returning and restoring becomes a new liturgy for regeneration.
Gravels, grass seeds, fogs and rains, sweet and puckery viridescent stems of mulberries, and the first cuckoo leaving its nest; the apricot shade fades from withered grasslands.
How would an impulse be restrained?
The tide rises, regurgitating water from downstream, inrushing the riverbanks; breaking, eroding, and flooding over saplings of catkin willows row by row.
Tide risen, ice stiffed, wharf frozen. A moon rises from the spire of a distant church. Many times, I wished you could speak of the moon,
and tell me that I’m as pale[limply] as the moon.
The count will stop at equilibrium and dry up in the infinite countdown.
Disconsolate lake-blue and pastel green colors, grayish yellow of the stalk rots, Salix Forest submerged in riparian lands.
Riverbanks here have been inundated innumerably (sunken in snow), and every occasion is a lasting suffocation.
I repeatedly foresee the mold covering up this entire cube. It is not black or cyan colored, but yolk yellow velvet or pear green, like newly swelled magnolia buds.
The one who sits in the box is barefoot and unclothed; the brain is as naked as the body: forgive us for we have sinned as we forgive our trespassers. The red tide is gleaming, reflecting its oily surface, a cavity of fathomlessness feeding on inorganic scraps. Penetration deep into the core of a fruit would fulfill impregnation; scald it in boiling water, as eating a fruit shall always start with tearing the peel and ripping the pulpy guts.
When oxygen was scarce, we started palavering. But some suggestive apparatuses have been established, lying in a hidden compartment in the bookshelf behind The Birth of Tragedy.
I remember the nerve responses caused by the concatenation of recognizing both inside and outside the physical body: sticky and astringent, irregular in shape but non-angular. Sisyphus can’t push it up to the mountaintop, so it gets stuck somewhere on the hillside.
Floods, floods, all flooded between heaven and earth, the only and the last scene of a never performed play. Disremembered slaughtering the lamb at Passover, my deity opened a door on top of my head.
trembling bones, cuddling your loose and awkward flesh, all fail to be nothing; nor am I allowed to stand on the same endpoint as you.
Regeneration is protracted and onerous. A wheel in the darkness, driven forward by a beam of light, keeps reappearing along the shadow, mourning the incorrigible nature of humanity. Like repetition compulsion, which never derails, causality is initiated without a perpetrator.
Until now, looking at some fruit, the four seasons residing in it are perceived. Seasons recurring are no different from the belated seasons awaiting next year. Amid this mistaken gist, I started reviewing your death, previewing it before the critical point.
I was once in Arcadia. Whether or not an echo sounds on the other shore, or if you expected that echo, are of equal importance. Just as an old friend remembers the long forgotten hometown he never returns to, some things and beings have long been omitted to have such a refuge.
The balance system fails, building a premature boat with ears, wandering
through its passage in vertigo.
The bleak autumn night gradually falls into a depression like a receding tide, gnawing residues of the consciousness, soon to be returned to that boundary of oblivion. I often still think of the old friend who departed in the depth of winter, and myself, who failed to be a young martyr.
She went after that hat of mine
Blown away and gone with the wind
What she retrieved and brought back,
The head of mine
I am an apple
Over there are many apples
Over there are many apples
Along with olives made of benzoin,
the daughter of the red universe
Collapsing of the stucco dam,
Reaching, a twig of kumquat
Is it February already?
Shaking off some leaves
We go punting with a pole
Dredging the Red Sea out
Of the amniotic water
Remembrance will be stained
With dirt, and
The night cicada will be murdered
On the wasteland of the mire
Burnt, outgrows a cobalt Linaria
Take this chrysalis from that tree
Do not swallow and do not gulp,
Hold it in your mouth,
And choke out
A mouthful of that spring mud
Water flows, ever forward
Water returns, spiraling the origin
The moon is a bit higher than
yesterday Father is a bit younger
life is a farce of absurdity
the emergence of human civilization is of
contingency, achromatic pity.
He stands afar,
farewelling to the lost storge and hypocrisy
涨潮了，冰结起来了，码头上冻了，教堂的尖顶升起来月亮。 有时我想听你形容那颗月亮， 并且对我说，你像那月亮一样苍白无力。
坐在箱子里的 人赤脚，身和脑一般赤裸：正如宽恕他人对我们的侵犯那样，原谅我们所犯下的罪过；赤潮泛油光， 巨大的腔，以无机物为食，深入果核可以受孕，滚水浸烫，正如食用一颗果子时首当撕破它的皮，扯 开它的果肉肚肠
氧气稀薄时我们从纸上谈兵出发。现在是一些建议装置，躺在书橱的隔间里面金于《悲剧的诞生》 后面金恰到好处产生一点不可回头看爆炸云的后果。从零开始，现在约莫是七分熟，离满上差那么 一分两毫。
重生是缓慢且困难的, 一只轮子被另一束光赶着向前，只不停地沿着影子将它复现，像追悼人们的重蹈覆辙。 不该思考该如何将它脱离轨道，因为因果没有始作俑者。
“我动弹不得啦！” 于是情绪高涨轻飘飘 喝醉了酒的 蝉飞进一个下雨的晚上
Collaged painting (top) and Jacquard weaving (bottom), by the author
Tracy Shi is a bonsai cabbage.