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play-play #001 || GIFT ME A WORD
first invitation: 23 october 2023
publication of invitation response: 25 january 2024
WILL
Y0U
HELP
ME FIND
NEW WORDS?
my sentences are
growing
lonely
and they desire
the company of others.
other than these words i am writing to you now, i seem to have lost all
my words. beginning january 25, 2024, i will share a piece of writing
using the words you've gifted every month until i am
exhausted or the words exhaust themselves.
submit words now for cycle #2.
more information: email studio@kameelahr.com
or
visit my studio site
23 January 2024 Offering:
First, the notes on the data corpus:
Total Number of Words Gifted: 383
Total Number of Words Used in Writing: 262 or 68%
Collection Time Frame: 23 October - 27 November, 2023
Shortest Word: 1 letter ("a")
Longest Word (well, phrase): 42 letters
("I will gift you many words, sweet delicate creature.")
1. I am not miserable, but I am haunted by the field of orange blossoms
taunting me with their assess out.
2. A bamboozler named Abu has been mistaken for a sweet iguana, and again,
I am in the middle of yet another orange hallucination. But I am not
bugging. I will not be ashamed to live a life of solitude if that means
breakfast is only for those who demonstrate compasión and do not bow to
the lugubrious faces in the crescent moon.
3. I will not holler but run through the streets in shoes that convert my
sweat into an incandescent syrup I can pour over my breakfast pancakes.
4.I beg of you, please have patience! An otherwise memory is the sustenance I need for my eventual return home.
5. My solemn memories are rhizomatic, and my doppelganger reminds me of
this. Here I am! I refuse to use a pseudonym when writing about why I am
still on a heartbreak sabbath. I do not have time for a sweet metanoia
because changes of heart take time, and I was selected to write a
charter by tomorrow, wherein I limn a more exemplary world.
6. Still, I am just a sanguine dilettante who draws triangles as casual
incantations.
7. I hear the gossip: They say, “toughen up and say hello to love because
some of us drink coffee and have porous brains.” They say it is time to
give up the shimmery outcast archetype, embrace the number twelve, and
hire a diseuse (female performer) who will casually moan a monologue of
yeses as house lights appear. She has an untenable shimmer. I need to be
like her.
8. It is not a hematoma; it is a hammock to cradle the bodies of the
deadpan Philistines who watch the world with no 愁 (anxiety)because
they do not know of consequences. Go to the solarium and pray thank you to metropolitan gods who scream: “It's not a word, it's not a
world.”
9. We must crochet something for our feet, and I heard that if you wear
esoteric socks that hug each word like some verbatim fabric, your
effervescence will be activated at hello.
10. Some days, I am worried because I lead a solitary life where dignity
refuses to höre (listen) to jealousy.
11. Only with serendipity can I
convert my old Memorex accessories. I need compassion and cariño because
my heart is not your thoroughfare to shuttle over-ripened bananas
between will and love. I want to remind you: our lineage is a telegraph of our compasión.
12. In this stichomythic dialogue, nothing is transparent.
Shadows are just peristaltic waves pushing a truth to the surface. This
parsimoniouswarble of a chronology as a
command.
13. Statistically, you will not be minted as the next Santana,
which is okay.
14. Some say kinetic joy is rarer than any moment of sabr
(patience) built on the loneliness of an entanglement to which we did
not consent.
15. The exergue on the coin I found during a Saturday morning lucid dream
read: “Slavery is not a time-based medium.” As eagerly as I entered the
dream space, I was forced to tetchily dismiss my desperate salivation
over the revolutionary character I crafted in the game Awesomenauts, who
promised to talk gloriously of the government’s rahma (grace).
16. I must remember that fascist governments bait us with the honig
(honey) of comfort. Meanwhile, we are distracted, and the vector
emerges as a slippery semantics that places crowns over vague words as
if these crowns are not just impotent diacritical marks (a deceitful
harakat!) that move nothing but our eyes away from what needs to be
looked at.
17. Does the cold make you myopic?
18. I am littering this story with a splash of opalescent pain, so now you
must go pray to an umbral shadow. When she contracted diphtheria, the
strangling angel disease, five donderwolks (thunder clouds) danced
across the sky.
19. My working memory remains less salubrious than I’d
desire. In love, I will never ask, “what am i coming home to?” I twist
my intentions as I read through the grimoire in search of a love spell
before gloaming arrives, an unwanted nightfall that always ushers in the
dulcet tones of a chirping bird that seems never to leave my window.
20. I
am confident that this final circumambulation around truth, untruth, and
my fears, will bring me home. Then, I can finally say, obrigado (thanks)
for continuing a curious future where I eat artichokes as an incantation
toward a serendipitous grace.
21. As I sleep, fear-mongering men lumber across the snow, seeking olive
trees to destroy and replace with apples that induce a fiery hatred of
owls.
22. The camouflaged stipule expectoras (expectorates) another leaf, and the truth becomes
clear—my porous memory wryts like a machete seeking despair.
23.To appear
as an anodyne woman of little threat to others, I wear a campera
(blouse) of green even though statistical theory reminds me that I am
still an inhospitable woman.
24. The height of my hop is proportionate to
the amount of time it takes to hear the soft susurration of the window
opening. I have tried to be an anodyne woman, but no one yields results of
thankful applause because of my mesmerizing self-effacement.
25.Last night, in a dream, I was invited to annotate sentences written by
an ancestor who was thoughtful enough to accumulate ephemera from her short-lived experience as a spiritual leader. I spent hours running my
fingers over the shimmery letters and the infinitesimally small
marginalia. Later in that dream, I return to my hermitage, where I
roughly draw pictures of stars wounded by the envelope of natal clouds
that liquefy any possible detection. When I awaken from the dream, I put
on a campera (shirt), pick a sunflower from my garden, and greet the
tartuga (turtle) who always waits at my front door. I hope we will
remain for me forever.
26. I think sanctuaries and babies are speculative: a casual thought after
staring at the unmeasured dose of dimethyltryptamine sitting next to my
pet salamander.
27. I do not want the magic potion smell but, the magic itself.
28. I
am willing to 等待 (wait) for a more kinetic moment of sonder. My
courage is velvety and sparingly riven with conflict.
29. The Yaghan people
have given us the perfect language for this upcoming election:
Mamihlapinatapai, or "looking at each other hoping that either will
offer to do something which both parties desire but are unwilling to
do."
30. I wear seventeen gris gris because we live in a liquid community. Liquid
keeps us dignified.
31. We desire a folksonomy because a
user-generated taxonomy is more valuable than a calcified ecosystem.
32. I
am tired of these sad intentions: to be obedient and never waffle.
33. I am
running, and my footache is just a witness to the peach pink car stuck
in a swamp.
34. I am bereft. Last night, I dreamt of the Y2K38 superbug, yet
another time formatting error, finding sanctuary in melancholy’s hollow
pocket.
35. While I am often carried off into a sunset of awe, at this sunrise, I
am left asking: What synonyms exist for penis sauce? Maybe a sunrise
resisting its purple unitard? It doesn’t matter.
36. You saran wrap your words to make them sound more opulent, but all we
hear is sick thunder.
37. You’ve got a white car, so conquest is led by
the neighborhood 妖女 (witch), who whispers into the ears of
unlikeable women: “I will gift you many words, sweet, delicate
creature.”
38. And even though the swale can hold a cacophony of
histories, I am still missing from the story. The bar is still too low,
which hurts to hear.
39. Gog and Magog may not be as transparent a reminder of end times; trust me – this is more than frumpy clairvoyance.
40. This kind of pleasure is kaleidoscopic but rarely
superfluous.
41. I heard the chirrión (screech) and instantly had an erotic
yearning to pack up my parapluie (umbrella), then hitch a
ride on the wings of a butterfly. If I cannot accompany the butterfly, I
will read Naruto even though the storyline baits my chronic exhaustion.
42. I eat generous spoonfuls of honig (honey) and make beeping sounds to
keep myself awake.
43. My braids plot the partitions of lands which must now twirl around
the axis of twelve men with the quiddities of a fascist purple car
that pretends it is not a car.
44. I am a soft verb, and you, a dour adjective that haunts all my nouns.
45. I appreciate the Adventists for their nonchalant preoccupation with the
jacket the world will be cloaked with after the imminent second coming
of Christ.
46. The tempestuous outbursts of a stranger prompt me to
appraise my numbness: the world hurts, and I still need to feel.