something i forgot about being a child, and certainly wasn't prepared for as a parent, is the sheer utter delight, the pleasures of living, of existence, now, here at this moment, at this space, at this pitch. spinning around in circles for the joy of doing it is an activity you might forget about, as you grow up dutifully taking yr irony pills, that signals that life, and its terrors too, is such a fucking rush. lately, nicholas has developed the habit, when that undefinable joyousness takes him, of squealing at such a pitch that, my god, my eardrum bleed. he does it because it is fun, and like a poem, it is both sign and signifier of that ineffable, i don't know what --

and so check out the blog and vispo of david-baptiste chirot. a high example of his art is this piece of text and visual poetry.