“Constellation” is, for me, a big word. I mean: it is a big word. But more than that, it’s a word which looms large in my thought.
I feel isolated at times, but I know that I—everyone, really—exists within an often shifting web of contexts, entities, persons and concerns.
Writing poetry is, at its best, a most excellent constellating practice: a form of resistance and alternate world creation.
Constellations aren’t hierarchies.
Constellations are environments, microenvironments and pinballing Ids.
That concludes this afternoon’s sermon.