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Redaction/ monument

PUBLISHED: September 8, 2020


When I was a child, I used to speak like a child, think like a child, reason like a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things



Redaction? No, monument: a                .
Redaction: What is not there is not there.

Monument: What is not there is there
As in, the document contains        pages.

The       frames an unlimitedness which has a limit: 
Something was there: Something is there.

It cannot have been just anything—
           has its own integrity.

               : You cannot put just anything
into the place of the                .

Nevertheless, the       withholds itself 
to some extent: to the extent of      .

What are you? 
What do you mean?

—the       refuses. 
To the extent of       .

Each                 has its own being. 
Not an erasure but a making-solid.

      making itself solid.
     . Already solid.

A woman scales a flagpole on the green. 
Beneath her, handheld cameras held in hands.

The statue crumples at the legs: It is hollow. 
So long it stood there, full of presence.

The                 of the hollow statue, standing 
on the green. The                 of the statue’s hollowness.

(Who gets to monument
(Who gets to redact
(Who gets to withhold?

In                 class, were you 
told, as I was, that the                

didn’t exist?

A way not to have to see.

To see, or not to see.

Who can not see?

The       stood on the green for decades.

It became scenery.
It stood for an assumption about the world.

The politician’s face turns red on TV. 
He renames enquiry witchhunt.
He renames law to lynching.

In a world, in a country, in
a century

where in fact, on greens, 
in public spaces, the use

of public space was terror, then 
memorial to terror.                .

That is not lynching
The misused word hides the history.

On the one hand what is redacted might 
be looked around, overlooked,
invisible as a backdrop or a scrim.

On the other hand,                 is a presencing 
of what has been absented. The hollowness

of the books I read, the statues I saw, politic 
articulated for me until I could begin

to articulate for myself another way, a politic 
of the           . A presencing of what

I have absented, whether I knew
it or not.

I am trying to chronicle my reading
toward                .

As a child, one could perhaps be innocent (when 
I was a child, I thought like a child).

In the form that is History, or that is Literature, 
no innocence.

(This I learned from others 
whose work precedes mine, 
makes it possible.)

Now I am an adult, trying 
to learn to see the                .

A hole in history? Not not 
there, but not redacted. As I had thought.

                I had not had to learn 
to read, therefore never did.

A monument should not be redaction
a new kind of monument, not

my monument—nevertheless, I too must 
make (actually make) a space for the                ,

move myself
out of the way for the                ,

which takes its own space, is
its own                .

On the green of Literature, of History.
On the public green.

On the green of my mind. 
On the green of my life.



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