It is raining here. It should be raining over there too. I look at the clock, and then at the calendar. Fuck. There’s not much time for anyone. Not in this context, and definitely not in this climate. This climate -- all of it.

Cain sent us a photo of Marcus rummaging around in the green. His back is turned in the picture, and he is hip-high in grasses and stone ruins. I don’t know nearly enough about Yogjakarta to place him. Up it goes on the instagram page. It is an image of release from the images before, of the dark haunted interior of s/W/s cluttered with his globes.

I did this to myself. This lack of time. I convinced myself of my goodness. By going for only twenty two days I will assuage a father already ill with cancer that I have less time to contract malaria or fall into a crevice during an earthquake (there was an earthquake on Java last month ...) Between cancer and the assails of natural disaster there is only so much contingency a body, linked or a lone, can stand. It’s not bourne alone, energy, disease, anxiety spills over, is shared by supports. It winds itself into you too; something sacrifices, you bend, you absorb. But perhaps there is another way -- to refract?

Old wounds, old contentions. Blindsided by them. I’m also blindsided by the blink of time coming my way. How does a body withstand all of this and allow itself transport into another context, to absorb its feeling, its histories, allow it to work yourself into you? Perhaps the question is not about withstanding but about absorption. About expanding. About allowing.

And erecting checkpoints. You are coming with a history ...