Maura on the skin as interface between exterior and interior life, which needs to be instructed chemically to halt its dialogue with the other. On the identification of the egg as suddenly other to oneself and its subsequent rejection. These chemical memos shedding traces or losing their way, in effect, in sparse lives. [& as I write now arriving at the threshold with a bus ticket to share & agave plant to resuscitate....]

Happiness a continual bashing against hypotaxis, the ability or desire to categorize, collocate. As instead a succession of specters of the immediately wondrous emergent, afloat—trees doubling as lumière, implausible blue, plum in apricot's place, helical, mannerist back—& stalling the doggedly equipped protestant brain in their thrall one by one by one.

Is this what my Venice book is about—what happens to sentences and sense when perception has no warning against the gorgeousness of turning corners?

More than merely unnarrative—environmental, ambient.

Where to turn to better conceive of the relation between love of a collective, of an ambient life and of an individual—of a less proprietary species of vulnerability in common?

Of reciprocal interference between elements of an enchanted field in, say, the Venetian, versus the Florentine conception of painting....

Perhaps Ruskin, once more, implausibly!

"Search nothing beyond the phenomena, they themselves are the theory." —Goethe, Theory of Colours