The old electricities feel shittier in a manifold kind of way. So now it’s time to think about what we’ll do next. Let’s assemble in this unknown sanctuary between worlds, link tiny antennae, and listen insistently to weather reports from the threshold. As we sit wall-eyed, and bellowing, and meaning to breathe, here are some desk reminders. The gender of a sentence is always they/them. Beginnings and ends have cross-sections and flip-sides and possible past and future tenses turned inside-out and outside-in like a crystal ball. We’re only ants skipping along infinity-laned micro substrates, the shorelines of a thinly skywritten invisibly-inked sea, into our eventual interdimensional hidey-holes. Perhaps together we can brainstorm littoral housing projects, blacken the castles, or recontextualize the relentless political fog bath as enlightening white space. Put everything back in its right place, but on a new planet. The poet has drawn us some diaphanous maps. Plans for Sentences by Renee Gladman (Wave Books, 2022).
