There is no image. I've been watching a podcast for the past 15 minutes and it goes on and on about something, our bodies and other peoples bodies, on bodymakover.com, but I don't think a recommendation is in order. We are weird. Us, people, particularly those fine people found in the United States (We people here at Frank Sauce really don't like to refer to people in the States as Americans, but that's just us).

Some might say you can make over your body according to your predesigned blueprint. And this whole time I'm thinkin' about writing and how some write "the body," and all the possibilities that entails and how some could be more effective if they only had a blueprint to their writing.

Body beta:

Identity

Place

Experience

Though many would place the intention of the body in writing as well-entrenched, at least in acedemia, the institutionalized text. We're writing and reading inside and outside that body here at Frank Sauce.

It's late. Get some sleep, Mr. Coleman

Dear Beloved Reader,

This amuses and saddens us here at Frank Sauce:

metaphor
n : a figure of speech in which an expression is used to refer to something that it does not literally denote in order to suggest a similarity

One has to dig down a bit to find this definition.

This title is a metaphor. A=B. B=A. Your fingers=a Grave. A grave=Your fingers.

No, no. Your fingers, dear reader, may not be a grave, but I just wanted to cover my bases, just in case one of us has grave fingers.

Give thanks, if you disagree.

Old farts like us don't wanna know about no grave.

Wasn't Grave Digger the name of a monster truck?

Digger Graves would be a good pen name for a humorist.

We hear, a drink a day keeps the doctor away, three drinks brings us to the page. Or perhaps I'm the only one. Well, that's ridiculous, isn't it?

Live(write) your life like your digging your grave with your fingers. That's our advice.

Best regards,

Your Friends at Frank Sauce

“But Bottom, a text composed to a striking extent of cited and re-cited fragments of other’s writing, provides a clear example of how the cited text simultaneously signifies within its new context and refers back to its previous appearances.” --Mark Scroggins, Louis Zukofsky and the Poetry of Knowledge, p. 90, The University of Alabama Press, 1998

Naomi thinks there is so much between even one thing, the relationship between the self and a self. Naomi combs her hair in front of her mirror. Staring at herself, but knowing there’s another person there between Naomi and her mirror.

“We were on our way here and we know from views of the thing from that is modern art, if you are thinking something nasty,” Naomi’s thoughts say to themselves.

“For one thing true love should take all night!” is another.


Fragments from his echo (his dreams):

He can analyze it, that Eric, not only the cabin he brushed, gathering, lifted his great gut so he could hook his thumbs into his woolly mount that skidded to a stop. He frowned down on him from behind an impressive imitation.

Ignorance meant fear. So they had unloaded it in the market of listening to one more story about the magnetic field of the deep exam. Eric had dug a small flute out of his pack and played and stumbled away to the heads where he could be alone with his minute.

This cannot be. He has so admired you and your people here. You are your sources; your sources are correct. Tomorrow is the death day and that is all.

Any idea what this is, or what this means?

He put on his bejeweled eyes and looked through the door, if you see anything, anything at all, please tell us.

We slipped on our packs and started walking. By the time had an hour, like everything else you saw. The dog is your body. The thing you order around, sit up, beg.

Eric shook his head in amazement. Too deep for me. Like that pool, a plastic bottle filled with liquid. He removed the top and handed it to me.

“Drink this, all of it. I’ll hold the gun,” he demanded

But this really started it all:

In the end, there is no beginning.

Be that as it may, in the end, there was no beginning. At least, Eric didn’t remember the beginning. You know how it is sometimes. You remember the first time you rode a bicycle or the first time you kissed someone? Years, even decades later, at certain moments, you remember again that first kiss or that first time you rode your bike without training wheels, when you wash the dishes or start your car or unplug the toaster to clean it.

Eric doesn’t remember those moments, those first times, because, for him, in the end, there was no beginning.

It’s not as if everything is a new thought; he can remember doing things before, like the last time he changed a light bulb or the last time he ate rice, beans and eggs for breakfast. These moments he remembers.

It’s not as if he can’t remember the moments as they begin or end, he just can’t remember the first moments, the repetitive moment sure, but never the moment that began the long list of times he stubbed his toe, or times he waxed his shoes, or times he picked his nose and ate his dried snot. When did he begin to acquire a taste for his own snot or even his own farts? Eric can’t remember.

He does know the end, though; he found it in a tree, in a dream last night, hanging the antennae for his two-way radio. The branch broke and Eric fell to the ground. Eric does remember his dreams.

This night he only dreamt of one song of love.

"I don't think I've ever read before a manifesto or what have you for "blogging." I like that you call your site a bloem. It's so much more beautiful a word than what has been used for. Your right - one is immediately put off by the apparently sterility of a website or bloem. But I think we have to go beyond doing it based on the idea that we do not know what fruits it may bring to beginning to rattle off some concrete forms and usages, to begin to treat it as a device for spilling over overabundances of meaning across the world. Hem."

His name is actually Justin Dobbs and he has a blog at Justin Dobbs on Northwest Literature and Art.

We've never met, but there's been several moments when you could read his words and then mine or vice versa:
"Event of Language: A duet" by lidia yuknavitch & lance olsen on the "What Now" Blog
Stacey Levine and her book "Frances Johnson" by Clear Cut Press on Amazon.com reviews.

I believe we're both really big fans of Clear Cut Press.

I like his blog.

He doesn't have a manifesto, but maybe he's working on one. We'd like to help him with his layout; it looks like a government website, but it's a good read.

What about our manifesto here at Frank Sauce? Does it exist, as Mr. Dobbs suggests?

One could always believe it's " . . . little machines inside that keep me writing."

Our intentions here at Frank Sauce may not be knowable, thus the moments of semi-focused elucidation.

However, Mr. Dobbs offers a glimpse at an important broading of a writer's work through it's existence on the internet, rather then a book or a performance with " . . .we do not know what fruits it may bring to beginning to rattle off some concrete forms and usages, to begin to treat it as a device for spilling over overabundances of meaning across the world." Now, this sentence's ambiguity forces one to create meaning, so that's what we will do now.

" . . . spilling over overabundances of meaning . . ."
Pulling a thing or a segment of a thing from one site and referencing it here, expands on the meaning of a thing here and a thing there, simply because of their established relationship.

As things combine and referents re-combine, the polysemy of a thing becomes polyvalent.

And that opens the fields of meaning.

Who knows where that can lead us as each of us follows a thing through it's cycle.

Frank remembers everything in November

The middle of fall, when Scorpio shines

November moves the skeleton trees

A masculine month