What Bursts the Seed? - To Shed Red at the Threshold
Two of Wands
I used to think transformation meant breaking. That the seed split its shell because it had no choice—that something within it forced a beginning. In the Two of Wands, I saw this moment of pressure as sacred: Mars exalted in Aries, bold with motion, certain of its direction. The will to power. The fire to begin.
But now I wonder if that metaphor—of rupture, of clean escape—misses something. Or at least, speaks too quickly.
Power still feels necessary to me. But I no longer trust that it must arrive through shattering. A sprout must break its shell to be born, sure. Such is so for any threshold. But what if the seed doesn’t have to split apart from force? Can it perhaps be called open through saturation? If I am sprout, and the reach between me and my desires is a seed, perhaps I should not beat my womb with my rod, or with sticks. Perhaps, I might speak to her, allow my shell to soften first—moisten with the wetness of my own inner well, swelling, in communion with my container until the shell listens and opens up naturally.
Maybe the violence of growth isn’t always a breaking. Maybe it’s a pressure that changes form from the inside. Not less intense, but differently shaped. Less about conquest, more about consequence. Rhythm. The integration of the living in perpetual motion.
This is what I’m trying to understand now: how power might move with relation instead of against it. How transformation might involve a kind of violence that isn’t severing, but erosive—slow, erotic, unfolding. Not free from tension, but shaped by it. Not the absence of violence, but its reorientation.
The Two of Wands still burns. But I no longer see it as a command to pierce through. I see it as a threshold of attention. A moment of heat, asking: What kind of fire is this? And what kind of world might open if we let it pulse rather than push?
Motion is a Memory I Can’t Recover
There is a difference between motion and violence—but not always a clear one. The Two of Wands burns with that ambiguity. It captures the ache that precedes movement, the rising heat that wants to extend outward but hasn’t yet found the form it will take. In earlier readings, I saw this card as the clean beginning: the seed breaking, the fire asserting, Mars exalted. I, paired with, Want. But now I notice the trembling in that fire—the uncertainty beneath the need to move.
Mars now asks me to see them as what rises in response to motion. The body’s answer to the cruelty of being shaped without consent. To be moved through, moved past, moved over—this is subjugation. And Mars, tender creature, simply wants to be felt. To mark. To burn something into the fabric of change so it cannot forget him.
The will to power does not begin in conquest. It begins in the fear of being erased. The fear that all the movement of the world will continue without you. That time will devour your name and leave no ash. So we try to inscribe ourselves: with swords, with declarations, with lineage, with flame. So much violence of incision to enact change?
Why not plant something instead? Or better yet, be like volcano who erupts and creates a new landscape that allows rivers to grow and flow. Violence to build, to sculpt, to shape, doesn’t take the same metaphysical form as violence which dominates, cuts, exalts laceration as the finest of sacred wounds.
This is what I’m beginning to ask of Mars. Not that he stop wanting—but that he let his wanting bend. That his urgency be shaped by context, by the body, by the wet, by the slow. That he recognize the seed does not always break open from pressure. Sometimes it swells with water. Sometimes it listens to the dark.
Power, in this decan, is about temperature. About how long heat can be held before something must change. If I am pressed by time, and Mars arises in me to respond, then what I want is not to dominate but to endure. To remain with feeling. To be changed by pressure without collapsing into rupture. To become red is to grow wings.
And so the question becomes: Can Mars participate in a transformation that is not surgical, but geothermal? Can agency come not from the violence of splitting, but from the slow saturation of heat? The kind that softens shells. The kind that turns stone to steam.
I do not want to break. I want to open.
Blood already moves through me in cycles. Sacrifice is not a choice I make, but a condition I live. And so, if power must rise in me, let it rise not to sever, but to swell. Let Mars become not the sword, but the steam, the lava, the pressure that heats the seed from within until its form cannot help but shift.
Maybe that is what the Two of Wands is to me right now. Not certainty. Not even direction. But a threshold of heat. A question pressed inward, waiting for form. Not what shall I do—but what kind of opening do I want to become?
Every act of power imagines a response.
Thesis Fragments - Aeroplane
(A Draft - Subject to Change)
He Leaves Like a Weak Season
If From the Archaic to the Fast Self presents the moment of rupture, and Memory Burn lingers in its aftershock, then Aeroplane carries that threshold forward. The thoughts seeded by Rhea’s witnessing—her quiet recognition of Geryon—have not yet ended; it elongates, stretching into this space of suspension. Where Memory Burn lingers on the failure of images to hold onto time, Aeroplane extends that failure beyond photography. Geryon himself becomes the image still forming, still trying to metabolize loss, still attempting to find ways to live after death. He is not just reflecting on absence; he is caught inside it, grasping for a way to reorient himself within its frame.
The first lines of the poem orient us as a moment of threshold;
As the aeroplane moved over the frozen white flatland of the clouds Geryon left
his life behind like a weak season. [1]
The aeroplane itself reinforces the liminality of this moment: he is neither here nor there, hovering between the past and whatever comes next. The vast, frozen expanse beneath him mirrors this in-betweenness, a landscape without clear markers, without direction—just open space stretching endlessly below. Geryon is untethered, his past life receding behind him like a weak season, yet the future remains an undefined horizon. In this moment, he is suspended in pure transition, neither belonging to what was nor fully arriving at what will be. He is not "over" anything. If anything, he is in the thick of processing. This transition is made tangible in the lines that follow, where Geryon's suspended state is punctuated by a memory that surfaces into his conscience;
Once he'd seen a dog having a rabies attack. Springing about like a mechanical toy
and falling over on its back
in jerky ways as if worked by wires. When the owner stepped up and put a gun
to the dog's temple Geryon walked away. [2]
The dog’s death, like the beginning of any transformative process, marks a point of separation—Geryon physically removes himself from the scene, but the image remains lodged in him, surfacing unbidden. This is also an act of negation, not in the sense of erasure, but in the alchemical sense of dissolving an old way of being;
Within alchemical practice, 'solution' is an initial separation of the elements of the prima materia. This stage, in which the elements turn black and undergo a 'death,' was called nigredo by alchemists. [3]
Geryon does not analyze this moment rationally; he does not attempt to frame it within a coherent narrative. Instead, he turns away, allowing the event to impress itself upon him through affective and embodied knowing. Just as Herakles’ words stripped him of the belief that love ensured continuity, this moment strips Geryon of the illusion that turning away from suffering allows one to escape its weight. The scene does not disappear from his consciousness but lingers, revealing that negation does not erase but instead marks the threshold of transformation. It is not the removal of meaning, but the unsettling of what was once stable, forcing Geryon to confront what remains in the wake of what has been lost.
In Bittersweet Carson will tell us that, “The poets represent eros as an invasion, an illness, an insanity, a wild animal, a natural disaster.” [4] Geryon does not outwardly appear mad—he does not rage, he does not break down. But his undoing is internal, eros acting upon him in ways that distort his sense of self. The dog, writhing like a mechanical toy, overtaken by its own illness, is an image of something primal: suffering without reason, an invasion of the body beyond control. In remembering this moment now, mid-flight, Geryon is not only recalling an image of death, but perhaps glimpsing his own condition: invaded, altered, overtaken by something beyond himself, something that makes him feel no longer entirely human.
Eros, as Carson describes it, is both an animal force and something that overtakes the lover, undoing their coherence. But is this not also the nature of negation? Like eros, negation does not merely take away; it inscribes itself upon the self, leaving behind an altered shape, a body marked by absence. Geryon does not simply lose himself to love—he is dissolved by it in the same way that time grinds him down, in the same way negation forces him to hold silence. The wound of eros is not separate from the wound of time; both are slow, invasive, inescapable.
Geryon has always lived in the space between the human and the animal. From the very beginning, he has known himself to be other. His redness, his wings—these are not metaphors. They mark him as not human. He has always been a monster, and monsters, by definition, exist in the gap between categories. They are the things that cannot be fully named, that slip between known states. Geryon has lived his entire life aware that he does not belong to a single form.
If eros is an animal force, then perhaps it does not rupture Geryon’s sense of self in a binary either— perhaps it only confirms something he has always known. For someone who has built a coherent, stable identity, eros might feel like destruction, a force that renders them unrecognizable to themselves. But for Geryon, whose self was never stable even in childhood, eros does not break him apart. It deepens his capacity to dissolve and recombine. Rather than feeling lost, he might feel more himself in the dissolution, because the self he had before was never fixed to begin with. Geryon has always been a monster, always red. And if monstrosity has made him more attuned to desire, then it has also made him more aware of light, distance, change—the forces that shape and dissolve all things. This moment of erotic spillage, then, is not the moment that makes Geryon unrecognizable—it is the moment that makes his unrecognizability undeniable.
This line of thinking generates a lot of questions. If eros moves through Geryon as an invading force, then how does it reshape his understanding of himself? Does its dissolution confirm something he has always known—that his identity has never been fixed? If eros is an undoing, then does it also carve out a space for something new to emerge? And if the forces that act upon Geryon are not only erotic but temporal, then how does time itself function as an agent of transformation, grinding down the self in ways that mirror desire’s effects?
These questions do not exist in isolation. They open onto a broader inquiry—one that extends beyond eros and into the very nature of time itself. If eros is a force that invades and consumes, then time enacts a quieter violence. It does not break the self apart all at once, but instead wears it down, slowly, imperceptibly, through the erosion of experience, memory, and perception. Geryon’s experience of witnessing—or failing to witness—is itself an instance of this erosive force. He is caught between knowing and not knowing, between seeing and refusing to see. This moment of negation does not resolve into understanding; rather, it initiates the slow process of transformation.
Violent Formation
Geryon has reflected on time’s violent nature before. In Lava, we discussed time as not merely an abstract concept but a material force—one that presses upon the body, reshaping and distorting it in ways that feel both inevitable and inescapable. The imagery of stalled motion, unbearable heat, and slow erosion suggests that time does not simply pass—it presses, bearing down with an almost physical weight. This force does not act in an instant but through a prolonged, grinding process, much like the slow-moving destruction of lava itself. Time is not something Geryon moves through; it is something that moves through him, carving him into shape with its relentless motion.
This brings us back to the rapist passage and the nature of negation;
listening in the dark? Black mantle of silence stretches between them
like geothermal pressure.
Ascent of the rapist up the stairs seems as slow as lava. She listens
to the blank space where
his consciousness is, moving towards her. Lava can move as
slow as nine hours per inch. [5]
If Lava establishes that time’s violence is an imposition, then the blank space where consciousness moves is not an empty void but an oppressive absence—something that forces itself upon the subject, shaping her into a vessel rather than simply existing as nothingness. Just as the black sun in Economy of the Unlost inscribes presence through its darkness, the listener does not simply engage with absence—she is made into the thing that must receive it. But the meditations we received from our Memory Burn reading complicate this further. If negation structures perception, then listening is not just the act of hearing—it is the act of being inscribed upon by what is heard, or by what refuses to be heard.
To be still, to be listening, is not to be passive but to be reshaped by the forces that act upon the self. The listener in the rapist passage does not simply receive absence—she is pressed into listening, made into a vessel for that absence, a conduit for its silent weight. This transforms her into something unstable: sometimes an object of violence, sometimes a site of expenditure, sometimes a force of retention. Geryon, too, is not only experiencing time’s violence—he is becoming through it. If listening is an imposed structure, then does it still hold the possibility of agency? If negation does not merely erase but writes upon the body, then is transformation something chosen, or is it something forced upon those who are made to endure?
This leads us to a more difficult question: If time acts upon the subject in ways that are both violent and formative, then what does it mean to be shaped by something beyond one’s control? If Geryon is pressed upon by time, much like the listener is pressed upon by absence, then is transformation something he does, or something that is done to him? And if negation is not an erasure but a carving into being, then does suffering shape the self in ways that are necessary for its emergence?
Hunger is a Question
In Memory Burn, Geryon does not encounter time’s violence as something new but as something familiar—something he has already known, already suffered. Yet in this return, the nature of the question shifts: is he merely enduring, or is he learning something from the endurance itself? If negation is a carving into being, then what does hunger carve out? And if we follow this trajectory into Aeroplane, another pressing question arises: is hunger merely another form of being acted upon, or does it require a response?
Carson brings us to this directly in the poem with the lines;
Geryon was hungry.
Opening his Fodor's Guide he began to read "Things to Know About Argentina."
"The strongest harpoons are made
from the bone inside the skull of a whale that beaches on Tierra del Fuego.
Inside the skull is a canalita
and along it two bones. Harpoons made from a jawbone are not so strong."
A delicious odor of roasting seal
was wafting through the aeroplane. He looked up. Rows away at the front
servants were distributing
dinner from a cart. Geryon was very hungry. He forced himself to stare out
the cold little window and count
to one hundred before looking up again. The cart had not moved. He thought
about harpoons. Does a man with a harpoon
go hungry? Even a harpoon made of a jawbone could hit the cart from here.
How people get power over one another,
this mystery. He moved his eyes back to the Fodor's Guide. "Among [6]
Hunger, like time and eros, is a force that presses upon the self, structuring its experience of negation. But hunger introduces a different kind of negation—one that does not simply erode but demands a response. It is not a passive force but a confrontation with absence that must either be accepted or acted upon. Unlike time, which grinds slowly, or eros, which invades and dissolves, hunger moves through the body in ways that are immediate and inescapable. It does not simply mark lack—it makes lack felt, turning deprivation into something that exerts its own pressure.
This pressure is not abstract; it is lived in time, stretched out through the act of waiting. Geryon’s counting to 100 as he waits for food is not a means of satisfying hunger but a way of suppressing its urgency. Hunger structures power not only through who eats, but through who is forced to wait, who must endure the slow press of deprivation rather than act upon it. In this way, hunger is not just the condition of emptiness but the threshold of transformation: one must either endure or seek to change one’s position in relation to it.
The passage presents two harpoons, one carved from a whale skull and the other from a jawbone. The difference is not just material—it is structural. The whale skull harpoon is stronger, more capable, while the jawbone harpoon is weaker, less reliable. This distinction marks a divide between those who can transform hunger into power and those who remain trapped in its absence. The harpoon is not only a tool but a response, an assertion of control over hunger’s demands. In contrast, to have no harpoon, or a weaker one, is to be left waiting—to experience hunger not as a catalyst for action but as a condition of endurance, one dictated by forces outside the self.
A harpoon is a tool of survival, but not all who hunger wield the same weapons. Hunger does not only mark deprivation—it structures power. The difference between the harpoons is not only about strength but about access: who has the means to act upon their hunger, and who remains in the condition of needing? Carson does not merely contrast material differences; she underscores how power is distributed unevenly, how survival itself is contingent upon what one has been given to work with. A weak harpoon does not just mean less force—it means a diminished capacity to change one’s conditions.
Geryon, in this moment, does not only experience hunger as lack but as an emerging awareness of structural power: that to go hungry is not merely an individual state, but one determined by forces larger than oneself. If eros and time press upon the self, hunger asks a different question—who gets to press back? If eros grinds the self to powder and time strips away its coherence, then hunger introduces the question of who has access to power in the aftermath of negation. Is lack something to be endured, like the slow movement of lava? Or does hunger create the conditions for seizing control?
The difference between a whale skull and a jawbone is the difference between whose hunger gets to be satisfied and whose body remains in a state of deprivation. Hunger is not just an individual experience; it is a condition that reveals one’s position within a system of power, where urgency itself is mediated by access. To wait is to be placed in relation to time, to have one’s deprivation drawn out by forces beyond one’s control. And if hunger exerts its own pressure, the question remains: who has the means to answer its demand, and who is left only to endure it?
The poem continues;
Hungry again.
The video screen recorded local (Bermuda) time as ten minutes to two.
What is time made of?
He could feel it massed around him, he could see its big deadweight blocks
padded tight together
all the way from Bermuda to Buenos Aires—too tight. His lungs contracted.
Fear of time came at him. Time
was squeezing Geryon like the pleats of an accordion. He ducked his head to peer
into the little cold black glare of the window.
Outside a bitten moon rode fast over a tableland of snow. Staring at the vast black
and silver nonworld moving and not moving
incomprehensibly past this dangling fragment of humans
he felt its indifference roar over
his brain box. An idea glazed along the edge of the box and whipped back
down into the canal behind the wings
and it was gone. A man moves through time. It means nothing except that,
like a harpoon, once thrown he will arrive. [7]
Hunger exerts pressure—it is felt in the body, making lack something that must be confronted. The poem begins abruptly: “Hungry again.” There is no elaboration, no meditation—just a raw acknowledgment of need, a force that resurfaces regardless of the world outside. In contrast, time exists as something external, recorded on a video screen, detached from experience. If hunger forces awareness, time eludes it. "What is time made of?" Geryon asks, but there is no answer—only the feeling of its “big deadweight blocks” pressing in, squeezing him "like the pleats of an accordion.” If hunger demands a response, time closes in on him without offering one.
This tension escalates when Geryon looks outside. The world is "moving and not moving incomprehensibly"—a contradiction that mirrors his struggle to make sense of time's force. Time moves forward, yet it “means nothing”—a harpoon thrown will always arrive, but it does not control its trajectory. If hunger in the earlier passage was framed as an opening, a call to action, then time is its opposite—a force that renders action meaningless. Geryon is caught between the two: one that demands urgency, and one that reduces movement to inevitability.
He Falls Asleep Listening
In response to this tension between agency and inevitability the poem concludes with these lines;
Geryon leaned his forehead against the cold hard hum of the double glass and slept.
On the floor under his feet
Fodor's Guide lay open. THE GAUCHO ACQUIRED AN EXAGGERATED NOTION
OF MASTERY OVER
HIS OWN DESTINY FROM THE SIMPLE ACT OF RIDING ON HORSEBACK
WAY FAR ACROSS THE PLAIN. [8]
Geryon leans his forehead against the cold hard hum of the window and sleeps. This moment stands in contrast to his earlier restlessness—to his fear of time, to the pressure of hunger, to the struggle for control. Sleep is a surrender, but to what? To exhaustion, to motion, or to something deeper? A travel guide offers direction, a way to move through the world, but Geryon does not turn the page. On the floor, the text remains exposed, its words drifting into the air around him.
"THE GAUCHO ACQUIRED AN EXAGGERATED NOTION OF MASTERY" The key word here is exaggerated. The gaucho believes himself free, but his agency is relational, not absolute. "FROM THE SIMPLE ACT OF RIDING ON HORSEBACK" His movement depends on the horse beneath him, the land beneath the horse. Is Geryon so different? He moves through time, through hunger, through the air itself—but is this movement his own, or does he merely mistake motion for control? Fodor’s Guide offers knowledge, but Geryon does not reach for it. Instead, he sleeps—perhaps closer to truth than the gaucho, who still believes in a freedom that is not his own.
I believe this last set of lines is in conversation with another poem, Vicuñas, Carson wrote for her Short Talks series with BOMB Magazine;
A mythical animal, the vicuña fares well
in the volcanic regions of northern Peru.
Light thunders down on it, like Milton
at his daughters. Hear that?—they
are counting under their breath.
Think about style of life for a
moment. When you take up your
axe, listen. Hoofbeats. Wind.
It is they who make us at home
here, not the other way around. [9]
The vicuña is a wild Andean animal, closely related to the alpaca but distinct in that it resists domestication. It lives in the volcanic regions of northern Peru, an environment that is both destructive and generative—shaped by eruptions, shifting terrain, and extreme fluctuations of temperature. Unlike the gaucho’s horse, which is an extension of human control, the vicuña cannot be ridden, trained, or owned in the same way. It survives in a landscape formed by catastrophe, not by bending it to its will, but by existing in attunement with it. In this way, the vicuña’s mode of survival presents a counterpoint to the gaucho’s illusion of mastery: where the gaucho believes in his ability to move freely across the land, the vicuña recognizes that its movement is already dictated by the forces shaping its world.
The vicuña’s survival is therefore not a symbol of power, but of something more difficult to recognize: the kind of agency that emerges through listening, through responsiveness rather than domination. This does not mean it is free in a human sense—it does not resist, but neither is it inert. Its movement is a process of navigation, of knowing when to pause, when to run, when to remain within the landscape rather than trying to shape it.
"Light thunders down on it, like Milton / at his daughters. Hear that?—they" Light, an image often associated with clarity, becomes something oppressive, something that bears down. It does not illuminate; it thunders—a strange, almost paradoxical image, in which something intangible takes on weight and force. The comparison to Milton and his daughters is significant: John Milton, blind, dictated his poetry aloud, and his daughters transcribed it for him. They were made into passive vessels, channels for an illumination that was not their own. They did not speak; they listened, received, and inscribed. But if light thunders down upon the vicuña, does it also remain passive—or does it move within what is given, adapting not by resisting, but by responding?
This contrast between agency as mastery vs. agency as attunement is crucial to Carson’s larger meditation on time. Geryon, throughout Red, has existed within forces beyond his control—eros, negation, hunger, time itself—each pressing upon him, shaping him. The vicuña, in its ability to fare well in a volatile environment, suggests not just endurance, but a different model of existence—one where survival is not about force, but about movement within constraint. This is what distinguishes it from the gaucho: the vicuña’s survival does not rely on the imposition of will but on its ability to respond to the world as it is, to move inside time’s pressures without being destroyed by them.
The passage tells us to, "Think about style of life for a moment." But what does this mean? Style of life suggests something beyond mere survival—it implies a way of being, a mode of existence that is shaped by the conditions surrounding it. The phrase invites reflection not on control, but on adaptation, on how one moves within rather than against the world. The next lines answer: "When you take up your axe, listen." Before action, before cutting into the world, there must be a pause—a moment of attunement. This suggests that agency is not just about force, but about recognizing the rhythms that already exist before one attempts to intervene. What, then, is one listening for? Carson provides the answer: "Hoofbeats. Wind. It is they who make us at home here, not the other way around." This reorients the relationship between self and environment. To listen is to acknowledge that the forces shaping one’s existence are already in motion, already structuring the possibilities of movement, survival, and time. Unlike the gaucho, who believes his mastery stems from his own will, the vicuña passage suggests that to exist within the world, one must move in accordance with it, not in defiance of it. It is not humans who shape the land, but the land that shapes them.
This shift calls into question everything Geryon has struggled with in this poem. If hunger was his first confrontation with power, and time his second, this passage offers a third model: neither resisting nor seizing, but listening. But what makes this shared rhythm different? Earlier, Geryon counted under his breath while waiting for food—his counting was isolated, a closed system, a way of suppressing hunger’s urgency, containing time rather than feeling it. In the Vicuña poem, Carson again returns to counting: "at his daughters. Hear that?—they / are counting under their breath." The pause before “they” fractures the line, enacting the beat in real time—a space of silence before the rhythm resumes. This is not just a description of listening; it is listening itself, unfolding in the text. The poem enacts its own rhythm, drawing attention to the way sound and silence structure meaning.
Suddenly, the act is no longer solitary. It is a shared rhythm, a movement held between multiple bodies, an interaction rather than an isolation. The shift from individual to collective counting suggests a transformation—not just of sound, but of relation. To count together is to move together, to experience time not as something oppressive, but as something lived, something inhabited, something one can be in right relation with. Rhythm moves through the body—it is felt, not imposed. This is what rhythm is offering: a relation to be responded to, embodied, expressed.
The harpoon’s arc, the gaucho’s gallop—both are symbols of force, of movement that cuts across space, moving toward an endpoint. The harpoon collapses distance—it is a weapon of force, of immediate power. The gaucho, by contrast, believes himself free, but his freedom is exaggerated—his movement depends on the horse, the land, the structures that hold him. In both cases, movement is imagined as a kind of control—either through direct power or through the illusion of autonomy.
But the vicuña suggests another model: not a thrown weapon, not a man controlling a horse, but a body attuned to the rhythms already present. Carson invokes hoofbeats, wind, breath—the organic percussion of the world itself. Unlike the harpoon, which reaches toward a destination, hoofbeats create a rhythm that sustains itself, that repeats, that marks time not as something to be crossed, but something to be inhabited. The vicuña does not impose itself upon the landscape—it moves within it, responding to the forces that shape it rather than trying to override them, allowing it to "fare well" in "volcanic regions".
This is the difference between time as an external force that must be endured and time as a rhythm that can be moved within. To know rhythm is to allow time to open up into imaginative space. It does not simply mark an event—it creates the conditions for movement, for improvisation, for response. The vicuña does not resist time’s press, but it does not collapse under it either. Instead, it dances within the percussion already present, adapting, shaping its path without force by allowing the beat to move through the body.
To listen and be in attunement to rhythm is not about force, but about a delicate participation. It's not merely movement, but a continuous creation—a framework inviting variation, play, and expression. To move within rhythm is to move within time's unfolding possibilities, shaping without seizing, engaging without control. The dancer moves not in defiance of the beat, but in a subtle conversation with its articulations, finding infinite ways to inhabit the spaces between its sound and its silence. Imagination mirrors this dance—it doesn't resist time, it expands within it, transforming the pulse of repetition into moments of fresh creation.
And Geryon sleeps. He does not force an answer, does not grasp for meaning—he simply drifts. Not in surrender, but in attunement. Fodor’s Guide remains open, waiting. But maybe, for the first time, Geryon is no longer looking for directions.
he is listening too. The cruel thing is, she falls asleep listening. [10]
Footnotes
[1] Carson, Autobiography of Red, 78
[2] Carson, Economy of the Unlost, 97-97
[3] Carson, Autobiography of Red, 78
[4] Carson, Eros the Bittersweet, 148
[5] Carson, Autobiography of Red, 48
[6] Carson, Autobiography of Red, 78-79
[7] Carson, Autobiography of Red, 80-81
[8] Carson, Autobiography of Red, 81
[9] Carson, Short Talk On Vicunas
[10] Carson, Autobiography of Red, 48
