"...the 'production of novel togetherness' is the ultimate notion embodied in the term 'concresence.'" (A. N. Whitehead, Process and Reality, 21)
Queers in organic communes, heirloom tomatoes and basil on Sundays.
Jazz and justice, far reaching prayer, annointing oil and Bea dancing on Sundays.
James' body softly searching and sanctifying on Sundays.
Silence on Sundays.
Space on Sundays.
Tour of duty begins 8:00am on Mondays.
Full length garb, no jeans, name tag, pager and sign-in on Mondays.
Immune Clinic, arrogant M.D.s, so-close-to-suicide souls on Mondays.
Freedom in the routine that begins on Mondays.
Structure and sacred service on Mondays.
Two worlds: Sundays and Mondays.
Fancy a dark roast brew of coffe,
black like the regur soils of India,
filling gaps between ice cubes large and evenly dispersed
in a glass mug where all-things-alchemy come visible and plain.
Consider the first five seconds before homogeneity,
when the recently poured half-n-half bravely and distinctly
searches, swirls and summersaults into pre-existing tehom.
Consider the first five seconds before homogeneity.
Concresence is like that.
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