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OPTOGRAM 1

A rabbit sees a window
[visit: wikipedia.org/wiki/Optography]

What does the curb oak grasp what will the bark show when
photosynthesis stops, when its roots & leaves cease?

a leaf or photographic plate
each sproutan eye

a windowa mirror
a reflectionan impression
a sheet of papera retina, a developing chemical

to “wash out an old image” [wrote Wilhelm Kühne]

Images wash over us, not nocturnal impressions of blur overcoming the self with feeling. The geometry of the image repeats, an ocular impression solidifies, one must search for the corresponding thought. Windows are indeed formative receptors of life, the way one experiences a thing called nature and even subjectivity as what appears from the angle of glass. A vivid memory of speaking to myself out loud wrapped in a gauze curtain when I understood they were listening to my privacy. Thoughts bubble evanescent, tainted with weight. My retina strips the window clean of insight, rubs it with its light, internalizes the pattern of shade flowing in rapid wavelengths the ‘I’ showers with slowness and gives meaning to

What’s on the other side when you roll up the shutters?

The simple roundness of the world, the abstraction from which we derive

The shape and color of what is

OPTOGRAM 2

A peach tree didn’t bear fruit in the backyard of a house in Algés.¹

My father’s peach tree, “um pessegueiro que nunca deu fruta.”

A striking use of the verb “escalpelizar” or “to scalp” [v.1] in English, an obsolete usage meaning to cut, carve, engrave.

“It’s pointless to scalp the matter now.”

An optogram scalps the organic trace in search of objectivity
The filament appearing between states–to be alive, to be dead, to see,
to unsee

The unseen preconscious blooming in geometry. We find [in this objectivity] that a window is a pattern of light, the square adjusts to the round, the sun upon a rotating earth. We learn the science of looking.

To see the past one must unsee it wash it down rub the retina fresh of imaginings, and return to the abstract record of signs–words spoken and heard. Feelings are a most reliable map then, a biological inversion of vibrating leaves

This my father’s optogram a dying peach tree looks upon a house a boy records its stasis. A stuttering child who doesn’t know how to read gazes slowly onto the speaking tree. In the flow of happenings a tree appears a rupture, a codified whisper between arguments. A father left, a boy filters the gap of a fluttering within speech

There are rootlets on his imaginary mouth
Fragments of secrecy