I wrote a post, and the title was all that was left. it didn't even save the whole word, just a portion of it. 

I've learned my lesson: don't write in a browser. 

I'll try and restore what I lost, although I think some of the aura of the original is lost:

could I understand a tree on its own terms, without interpreting it at all, without trying to reduce it to numbers or to a metaphor, without trying to make it like myself, but make myself more like it in order to understand it, a sort of reverse hermeneutics, a sort of de-interpretation, a sort of anti-solipsism, a sort of exercise in exteriority, a sort of alienation of myself. if what marx suggests is that we are alienated, and constantly at that, then perhaps furthering our efforts to become ever the more alienated from ourselves is what it means to be human. maybe we are not meant to become more human, but the human eventuality is to become less human, to become more alien, to become more like the tree by ceasing to bring it into our interiority of human experience by removing it from itself through reducing it by metaphor (the tree is like me) or by numbers (the tree is inches tall) and rather, I would think, I could stand in the field of snow like the tree, I could hold my arms out like the tree (but even then that is still a metaphor). so maybe even then the effort ought not to be one of my trying to become like the tree (see my article “dog-ness”) but instead let’s suppose that that I ought to learn all the ways in which the tree is alien to me: the alienation of trying to impregnating a tree or being impregnated by a tree, of developing a relationship with a tree, of cooking dinner for the tree, of sleeping in the same bed as the tree, as trying to explain my relationship with my brothers to the tree. the obvious problem of being alienated by the tree and really reveling in that alienation, making the tree even more alien from me than before. again, I think this is a resistance to a hermeneutics and an honesty at the alienation of the tree, the incompatibility of the tree and my own experience. not a lamentation but an ode or in praise of alienation. 


in praise of alienation:
impregnating a tree
being impregnated by a tree

when we kiss, where do I put my mouth
where is yours, not to mention where I put all mine
and where all your erotic zones be

but I’m assuming eroticism upon you, tree
what can you possibly assume about me, which then feels like a meta-assumption:

if we could just produce one child, between the two of us,
if we could just make one child, then we could bridge the gap.

funny how bastards make the best bridges.

I don’t mean to be erotic with my poems, but I am interested in the functions of parents and children and families and the processes of the human genealogy, so I can’t help but have sex and sexuality be apart of my project. I imagine god and god have a lot of sex (seeing how many spirit children they have given birth to). and now I don’t think that god produced all his children in a factory like way (I suppose its possible), nor do I think that he just took in a deep breath and blew and all these people started popping up, nor do I think that god farmed us all (planting us like little seeds and then harvesting us like little pikmin), nor do I think that god has a mold or a clay wheel that he spins us on (using his spit as the clay’s lubricant), nor do I think that god spoke us into existence (as if he called that log jerry and jerry came into existence), nor do I think that he programmed us or copy and pasted us. no I believe that god and god had sex, just like mom and dad, and god gave birth while god held god’s hand and they sat in some dense forest, or some dense tundra (what did it matter they were momentarily spiritual), and you or me or jerry gave out an eternal cry that made rocks shed tears and caused time to shudder a tiny bit, small enough to make room for a new body. of course you were an only child, jerry was too, and me.