T H I S – Rebekah Green
T H I S – Rebekah Green
T H I S by Rebekah Green
009
Rebekah Green is a human with uncanny intelligence and a magnetic presence. When editor and publisher Andrew Barton first met her in 2007, he knew within minutes that she'd impact his life enormously. Maybe it was something about off-handedly mentioning, in the context of a college house interview, that she'd become interested in "making wooden bowls using fire and stone."
t h i s began as part of her work at Goddard College. It is a complex and rewarding work; a thrilling first entry into the genre (at times loosely interpreted) of philosophy for Two Plum Press.
This piece of the introduction gives you a further view into the work:
Is t h i s a name, a title? [and i with no name.] There is another question [or is it the ‘same?’]: does this question envelop the ‘entire’ project? The word this refers to a process by which we identify closer matter {or} periods of time. Spaces between T, H, I, & S denote naught and intimate emergence, movement, relation... Titles encompass, hint, guide. T h i s, this name, {introduces} a logic. Words are but one ‘way’ of finding each other. My hands are open; in my palms rests t h i s.
my heart is with you.
rjtg 2013, 2014
excerpts:
i feel your breath and i tilt from your whisper:
though we stand close,
a crack is forming where you breathe so heavily.
One day, as you walk up the way, your dogs circling round your feet, you will ask the rain to tell your tale. and I, standing still moving
with the clouds
gathering blue,
with the bird you whispered into my ear
as i flew into the sunflowers, watching your dogs bound before you,
tails wagging,
and with the orange potato bugs that i cut from the plant, saying sorry all the while,
i will hear You.
watching the sky,
a storm.
Rain
and you took me one day, as i came down from the garlic. And,
as if we were alone (are we alone?) we walked from the drying garlic. I live among storm clouds and drying garlic.
Let me then restructure my understanding.
For though I am tempted by the facility of a parallel structure,
though I am drawn, though I fall, though I twist my ankle
three times each day, though I write six letter words and expect realism,
though habit consumes me, as I upchuck the structures of the day,
regurgitate everything you’ve given me:
a story i spit into your mouth you can take it as yours,
you can take it as yours
with whatever implied
causality seems fitting
