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Repetition and waiting? What is repetition? = a Re petition—thread/energy setting/stoning for relationality making…

{by Jessie Cox}

An afternoon at the convention

(from little moments of invisible death, by Sam Yulsman and Laure M. Hiendl)

“But energy setting doesn’t require any of that kind of stillness silly! And you don’t have to be waiting for it to still be still either, ” Bill noted with a wry smile and a wrier, oh so predictably wirey shrug. Issaious noted the flowering mist of another waterfall [REDACTED] as did Henry, perched beneath Seamus’ kid’s model train fragments. He looked up at what was now a real crowd – a real scene maybe, chitt chattering away about absolutely nothing [REDACTED] Another day another dollar, Bill twittered on in his head. Another “eagle to squeeze” was floating somewhere up there too – {REDACTED] where were they squeezing? Where was his head, his eyes and hair emergent in the subtle frays of woven metaphors and blues. “Blues for smoke” seemed a better quibble to get subtle for questioning – “don’t forget to look up”. The train was indeed approaching [REDACTED]

Ambrosius wanted to respond, Henry and Avea still didn’t, their oozing nostalgia welling up. But the birds outside the window beat them to the punch – right on cue (“they aren’t already there or are they!” Avea realized). Issaious smiled back as quick as he could. “Ambrosius is looking rather bemused” thought Bill. But that passed in time too. As did the ongoing muted bleats of the wrecked model gates, roads and lego-like environments about their shifting, awkward feet. What a silly scene of socially [REDACTED] collusions [REDACTED] [REDACTED] {REDACTED]. They all laughed with too hearty a disseminating charm of “the moment”, “What are you going on about!” “Come on now” “Not that again” [REDACTED] etc. were the bleating pleas for unwrought, untaught togetherness.

What were they left within’ then? Whether their convo implied in subtext a budding tension twisted around the vine-like-vississitudes of their various circus riddled feelings of pride and insecurity (and hence a promising framework for sturdy gateways to further no-cut-oscillations via socially acceptable resolutions) was anyone’s guess at that juncture. So they simply kept talking.

Eventually they made there way outside to grab a bite at what at that time had started to function as a kind of hybrid convention center/mall. After babbling along down the carpet hallways of the convention center’s inner sanctum, they eventually happened upon a rather hard to find exit on the other side – way out towards the Cherry Creek walking mall and its various restaurants and trinket shops.

Crossing a grassy traffic triangle, they suddenly happened upon a huge Mosterd Facea ICAD-87FG lumbering along the creek itself. Minding no one’s business, its folded wings and fishy twinkling eyes looked a bit like two mouths letting out two Ambromovićian screams from the side. They didn’t make that much noise though – which to Ambrosius was secretly and deeply horrifying. The set was ruined, the careful plotting of what was to come by Avea, its relation to the moods of Bill the moment, the atmospherics of Issaious, and the temptations of denial and triumph of Ambrosius. There was only the gurgling of the creek, its oily thickness lumped up like spit through a 1970’s un-tubulated engine or a soft spitty trumpet recording.

There go those little bells! Right on cue [REDACTED] At an earlier juncture, Bill had in fact screamed. This may have been a memory of what was to come, performed fancifully as a day dream by Issaious. Still, they could only seem to look the other way, crossing down under the over-pass on 1-70. The tension might have been unbearable at that point, but silence kept passing as a kind of liminal justification for continued movement. It wasn’t so much matter as mattering what so ever,