This project was written and produced on the stolen lands of the Wurundjeri and Bunurong peoples of the Kulin Nation. Sovereignty was never ceded. Published by IRL Press, 2017. www.imcendiuiiiradicallibrary.wordpress.com / occupy space, which is to say, i am always grieving Chi Tran 1NCENDIUM RADICAL 1— LIBRARY—1 (1.1) One. Memory, like decomposition, is a process accelerated by warmth. I place a ball of wax on my tongue, close my mouth, a soft crumble. Someone writes the word controversial but I think they might mean cruel. Then blood and pleasure are, once again, made normal, and I remember what I had been told to forget. The ubiquitous need for temporary measures is a matter of survival. I press my feet into grass that did not grow from the ground, and I wonder if this is what it means to have good fortune. Two. There is volume in labour and so precision is the only way I know how to talk about myself. No matter how much is lost in the process of transmission, sound is the proof of my embodiment. I pour the bile from my gallbladder into a cardboard box and I light it on fi re. This is how I eat. I drop a ceramic plate of raw meat onto the gravel. This is how I speak. Three. I come across a child I do not recognise, lying on the pavement, sweating ink in a veiy deep shade of blue. The ink pools around her body, as she tells me that she is tired of biting her tongue. Her body sinks into an abyss, into a puddle of chemical phenomena, into a glance that resembles hunger and that resembles guilt. We seem to begin and end with loss, registering form without pause. I occupy space, which is to say, I am always grieving. Four. I see and I have value, but I will not make myself privy to a process of evaluation. I seek to inhabit dissonance without the threat of collapse. The conditions of my existence are about to expire, so I ask, what kind of gaze would a free body be under? How to break something apart, gently, firmly, without causing fissure or cavity. Five. A figure is always incident to something else that breathes. i Identity is not an either-or choice; i my politic is not capable of being nor becoming singular. For example, I can be fog, I can be vapour, and I can be light. I can be pulse and rhythm, door and colour, boy and form. Six. I grow with water. I leak from the base with every gesture, and I take full responsibility. Because although it is learned, it is mine to change. I Seven. I have come to know myself within a culture of power and desirability, which makes me wonder, will I ever take off this dress? What is my physiology and why do I care? I talk of process over product, yet language never fails to matter. Eight. We sit, we fold, and we bereave our own waste. | Nine. I am selfish in that I would like to be loved in a world where the concept of replacement does not exist. I like to accumulate losses, and so my sense of futurity is necessarily tied to the dying plants in my kitchen window. And ten. I eat myself to articulate my state of injury. And so tonight, I eat my own body, uncooked and whole. i (1.2) one memory like decomposition is a process accelerated by warmth i place a ball of wax on my tongue close my mouth a soft crum ble someonewrites the word controversial but i think they might mean cr uel then blood and pleasure are made normal once again and i rememberwhat i had been told to forget the ubiquitous need for temporary measures is a matter of survival i pressmy feet into grass that didnot grow from the ground and i wonder if this is what itmeans to have good fortune two there is volume in labour andso precision is the only way i know how to talk about myself no matter how much is lost inthe process of transmission sound isthe proof of my embodiment i pour the bile from my gallbladder into a cardboard box and i light it on fire this is how i eat i drop a ceramic plate of raw meat onto the gravel this is how i speak three i come across a child i do not recognise lying on the pavement sweating ink in a very deep shade of blue the ink poolsaround her body as she tells me that She Is Tired Of Translation and she is tired of biting her tongue her body sinks into an abyss into a p uddle of chemical phenomena into a glance thatresembles hunger and thatresembles guilt we seem to begin and end with loss registering form without pause i occupy space which is to say i am always grieving four i see and i have value but i will not make myself privy to a process of evaluation i seek to inhabit dissonance without the gift of collapse and the conditions of my existence are about to expire so i ask what kind of gaze would a free body be under? how to break something apart gently firmly without causing fissure or cavity five a figure is always incident to something else that breathes identity I is not an either-or choice meaning my politic is not capable of being nor becoming singular for example i can be fog i can be vapour and i can be light i can be pulse and rhythm door and colour boy and form six i grow with water i leak from the base with every gesture and i take full responsibility ) because although it is learned it is mine to change seven | i have come to know myself within a culture of power anddesirability which makes me wonder will i ever take off this dress what is My Physiology and Why Do I Care? i talk of process over productyet language never fails to matter eight 1 we sit we fold and we bereave our own waste nine i am selfish in that i would liketobe loved in a world where the concept of replacement does not exist to accumulate losses futurity is necessarily tied to the dying plants in my kitchen window i eat myself to articulate my state of injury and so tonight i eat my own body uncooked and whole. (1.3) one like decomposition is by warmth like decomposition is by warmth like decomposition is by warmth like decomposition i place wax on my tongue close the word might mean blood and once told to the ubiquitous need for temporary measures a Matter Of Survival my feet did not grow from good fortune two there is labour and precision and i know how to talk of sound of embodiment and of sound and of embodiment i pour bile from gallbladder into cardboard and eat a drop of meat three i am lying in a very deep shade of blue her body is tired of biting sinking into chemical hunger guilt seems to begin and end with loss registering form without pause i occupy space which is to say i am always grieving four i have value i am privy to process and i am privy to dissonance with the gift of collapse five a figure is not singular i can be fog and form six i grow with water i leak with every gesture seven i have come to know power and desirability which makes me wonder why do i care language never fails to matter eight we sit we fold and we bereave nine i am the concept of replacement futurity is tied to the dying i eat myself to articulate injury i eat my own uncooked and whole. (2.1) The imposition of a failure encourages a kind of self-economy. I wear a shirt attached to a system that functions by clenching its teeth. We tend to measure time through physical change and humour through crisis, and so I use my adipose tissue to store my refusal of anything not strictly necessary. Today, my sleeve begins to fray, as I lay idle on a thin sheet of metal. My bed seems to take to the sounds of my body falling apart. I am concerned with being intentional, like zeros beside each other. And I am concerned with being exhaustive, that is, at least numerically, where soft and cold can be reconciled without the need of an apology. I draw a line from one end of my room to the other. As my palm grazes rotting wood, I am reminded that money is only palpable when it is not touching me. I am reminded that money does not exist. I have dents in my skin from holding too many cotton balls. I can almost feel the power, and I know it does not signify nothing. And only because of my forgetfulness, do I know how to survive by rote. (2.2) The imposition of a failure encourages a self-economy that functions by clenching its teeth. We measure time through crisis. I use my adipose tissue to store my refusal of anything not strictly necessary. Today, I lay idle. My bed seems to take to the sounds of my body falling apart. I am concerned with being intentional, like zeros beside each other. And I am concerned with being exhaustive, that is, where I can be reconciled without apologising. I draw a line from my palm when it is not touching me. I am reminded that money does not exist. I have dents in my skin from holding too many cotton balls. I know it does not signify nothing. Only I know how to survive by rote. (2.3) the imposing function of memory causes us to measure time my refusal is necessary i am idle bed and therefore body are falling apart i am still concerned with being intentional like zeros beside each other i am concerned with drawing an apology from my palm, dents holding, signifying surviving by rote.