Hits different to write during a blackout in Texas, the “energy state.” —An event we need a new sentence for. The literal and metaphorical “weather” and its infrastructural contingencies. A new sentence for intermittent (unprecedented) (unforeseen) (once-in-a-lifetime) (never again) failure to foresee / to forecast. Crisis
— rolling blackouts that don’t — unbearable grammars.
A new sentence that does not name a phenomena so much as it habituates to its rhythms.
What is a sentence anyway. An arrangement of forces that hover in the space between you and it. Patterns of getting used-to and getting over it, a grid. An enwinded body, sensitive to the “weather-world,” perceiving in “fog,” inhaling an atmosphere whose scale shifts with the degree of brokenness of the body, a “breather” in a “chemosphere,” temporally unworlded. The patterns are “transcorporeal” and the body is a “leaky container.” Things are electric to the touch.
thought-with: Tim Ingold. "Footprints through the Weather-World: Walking, Breathing, Knowing."
Christina Sharpe. In the Wake.
Craig Martin. “Some Speculative Approaches to Writing through Fog”
Tim Choy. "Air's Substantiations." Nicholas Shapiro. "Attuning to the Chemosphere: Domestic Formaldehyde, Bodily Reasoning, and the Chemical Sublime.” Kelly Ladd. "Bad Vibrations: Infrasound, Sonic Hauntings and Imperceptible Politics." Stacy Alaimo. Bodily Natures: Science, Environment, and the Material Self.
Erin Manning. “What if it Didn’t all Begin and End with Containment: Toward a Leaky Sense of Self.”
Gretchen Bakke. The Grid.