In order
to enter

(one cannot enter anywhere without a glimpse of the liminal).



In order
to enter

liminal space


where
in this liminality (should one notice it)
there to experience the greater potentiality of transformation.

To experience the greater potentiality is also to be absolutely sure of one’s current entrapment.

There must be a threshold for liminality, and thus a sliver of space in which transformation occurs.

As we look for this slat of bright otherness, so there must be a doorway or gate,
an iconstasis or a veil, 
a fence or a facade,

the blank face of actuality – sometimes ornamented –
must be it thrust against the movement of our bodies as a symbol or as an obstacle

an arresting moment which cannot be either here or there

thus for a moment without order there is required an order; the here and there – although these elements are no longer within sensible reach.

Once within the-in-between all order ceases, 
yet it is embraced in structure
albeit a rabbit hole
a gap
the pause
in-breath.



For to notice the liminal, for to enter the transformative potential thereof, thus an initiation. 

Initiation is never about the experience within the new, for that would not be possible to impart; always initiation is a method of approach to recognising structure. Initiation is a trap made apparent. Most times, the structure is not noticed. This is one of the functions of good order; to make its structure invisible – not noticed. Yet a vital function of this invisible moment by moment existence is to acknowledge its own redundancy: Time will come when every order fails. Those who have not experienced a liminal being in freefall, being all potential, will dangerously insist on order ever-after, even when all usefulness has gone from that order. 

To experience the betwixt and the between there must be a combination of imagined and actual spacial awareness; this is a grounding in the creative (even when there is no apparent ground).

Rock is fire.
Fire is remembering rock.
Rock re-membered is our body
shaped around fire.

To experience aporia is to be caught in a tunnel with fire at either end, to be bewildered by clouds of ink or encircled by a net of bubble. No matter how many times you reverse yourself, your are still caught.
Lewis Hyde

Unifying Haptics

Gestures and scripts, narrated physicality made into humour.


The humour is made of the physical; the character stops and looks.


The character stops and looks, accusing
or bewildered

as a piece of inert matter apparently mocks their existence.

The inert matter is willful
accidentally animate
suspiciously willful

and yet in every instance of scrutiny it
the thing
it appears as its appearance


an object
a thing
inert matter

which thwarts one’s gestures
and rewrites the desired narrative.

It is in narrative thwarted that we find humour arising.
It is in the humorous lubricate of frustration that narrative begins.

Unifying haptics, holding hands.




“CAN I NOT GET OUT OF HERE?”

Sharon;s carefullyy calibrated mental adustments for the karmaic force cease to b life necassary


I wrote thus whilst asleep.
Who is Sharon?

Can I not get out of here?

I cannot get out out of her the necessary adjustments.

The force of a calibrated life.

To not get out of here.

Whilst asleep a growing sense of familiarity grows around the day to come and the day just gone.

Waking and the sleeping submerge one another and neither can quite remember the other.

It is home. It may not be your home. Here is an alluring body, here are a known set of pleasures.

The connection is already set, introductions are hardly necessary.

Beneath the surface there is everything, yet we slide one over the other, always on the surface.

Familiar old patterns.
The limits are also the comforts.
Sharon;s carefullyy calibrated mental adustments for the karmaic force cease to b life necassary

“CAN I NOT GET OUT OF HERE?”
I wrote thus whilst asleep.

A cloak and a box for the hungers
the degree
and the shadow

of the disallowed
as means by which to define the body.

There is no single hunger

other than life. Or there is but a single hunger called life, endlessly nuanced

unto the raging obesity of the civil.

Original stuff, not yet differentiated stuff, this shapeless clay of being: Being in need. The mud born of deep sea vents, super-heated chemosynthesis, the discharge washed ashore as a tidal friction of the possible.

The body as medium by which to format the great hidden greeds. A clay mesh of combed and re-combed base information. 

This ongoing savour can be read and re-read

forming different aspects and different bodies 

and difference is the inheritable means of re-reading inheritance. 

We both take in and express the nuance, we twist and touch the marks, live in hunger, live in the manner of our reading.

Abreaction brings expression of the hidden to consciousness. A ragged shoreline of living and re-living; waves of relief and leaving, a saggy pool of thought in its own purgation. 

Walk along this beach. If the line is continued for long enough, then the expression may be integrated. Integrated lines are woven into bridges. 

Some lines dissolve. We hide our trail beneath splash marks, we float out to sea on an inflatable.These dissolved lines make for a monstrous immediacy; these are the sea-devils. The sickness of panic. 

These forms, not welcomed, refuse to form, and the unformed must be urgently repulsed. They are pushed back beneath the cloak. 

The sea is a cloak. 
The cloak must stored in a box. 
The box is built of shadows, sunk in the sea, buried in the earth. 
We wear the earth as our body.



The gesture solidified
makes type.

The figure of type, reduced to mark,
is an alphabet.

An alphabet, trailed through
word,
is a mouthed gesture 

tracking the dissolving
type

as it returns to gesture.



On a shaft driven bicycle
I found

the carved unicorn

the dogs loose

a river and a factory
with cloud semaphore

and I also found tidal mud.



Every tree dreams of being a forest
We are that dream. 
We are that tree, dreaming a forest. The wood is felled and hewn into the side of a great ship. The ship is launched quietly, in the night, and now ears are listening for a wind.

A deflated void has an impossible weight. 

The mute language of onion skins is trying to tell me things.

In a meaningful universe one desperately seeks out nonsense.
Then, in a meaningless universe, one desperately seeks meaning, hunting it out from wherever it may be found. An infinite tide of greener grass on an equally infinite retreat.
Sinuous sputum, spectacular spatula, baroque stupidity. 
To portion out the oblivion of one’s life.

The forest is not destroyed by a wooden hut – nor will it be harmed by a gingerbread hut – it is the path to that hut which wounds. And if the sugared prison is broken apart by a savoury woodcutter, then the forest will begin to tremble. 


Nonsense is something of a revolving door. 
Anxiety in my ears, the septic build up of years, a waxy re-routing of tears. Not deep thoughts but slow ones.

No wind yet.

There is an injustice in having to be in one place at one time. One suspects that we are creatures destined to be multiple and connected; all points, all places; and then one will be very still.

The concierge says that the key is functioning perfectly. Perhaps it is the door that is causing you problems?

He was writing a novel and had to stop because everything he wrote came true. Someone suggested that he carry on but give the novel a happy ending. And who, he asked, would buy that?
He wrote: Jimmy’s amazing jissom astonishes his gang as it leaps through his blurred fist to dance before them in animated tableaux. His come forms an amazing cartoon into which they enter so as to rescue the Princess. Twice they succeed and twice she is recaptured. Jimmy’s friends are enthralled by this adventure and yet on Jimmy’s third and final orgasm his spunk is done and the vision gone and the gang are horrified for it is all over and the Princess remains locked up and they, although shamed to admit it, feel responsible for this. They suspect they have unconsciously conspired to allow for the easy recapture of the Princess. Jimmy’s balls are aching, spent baubles; all he ever wished of his special juices was that his friends would appreciate them. Instead those friends now turn on him, and ridicule him so as to cover up their shame for the failures of their inglorious adventure. 

The liquidity of thought will erode or otherwise attack any concrete expression. Through the dumping ground of brain and mineral heart this fluid, disallowed from common or open flow, is a leachate of dissolved magnificence and terror.

Eroded like a frozen lake skated upon, the mind has a regular pattern of grooves around its edge. In the middle it is empty apart from a gradually frosting over crack, a hole that opened briefly and then shut on top of a child.

The Skating Minister by Henry Raeburn
Go conk me pan: Waiting on the stupid inside of you like a classroom caught agog at the sight of a pile of books precariously held aloft by ajar door and door-frame
A spray of glitter, pillow stuffing for a prison existence. 

When digging a hole keep digging but ensure that one changes direction. Now one is tunnelling.

Beyond its stretch marks this universe is satiated with the love of its own conception. Stars and void suffer from a sense of loss. 
In separation anxiety there is a deep seated desire for connection simultaneously linked to an oft destructive wariness of intimacy. 
We are all twins of the broken bond, our better sibling abandoned in the womb.
We are both jealous of and saddened by this absence. 
We are frightened of the unspoken knowledge of how questions posed in one nebula may be immediately answered in another. If this is allowed, so will hurt felt in one place be immediately experienced by the entire body.

I lift my head above the parapet, a crown appears upon my head. I think it is a crown at first but it turns out to be a fortified wall.
I lift my head above the parapet.
I am crowned, the crown turns into a wall which make me safe, although my kingdom is small.
I lift my head above the parapet; the sight is astonishing, as if all the world were mine. From out my brow there grows a crown; it turns into a fortress.
I lift my head above the parapet.


Anxiety in my ears, septic build up of years, a waxy re-routing of tears.
Not deep thoughts but slow ones.

The estuary beats out its own time and we, at last, are quiet for a while.

Now we dare hold it, make a shape of it, and even dredge it for the untainted sun. 

The key works fine, do you have the right door?

And neither in the first instance
yet
both wave and particle
dot point dust
flow wash stream

yet
the photon is considered as fundamental

yet 
clearly it is mutable and elusive.

Neither wave nor particle
until the unit of observation is attached.

Our perception is either wave or particle.
We are of dot and point and an aggregate of dust.
We are flowing, awash, we are the fundamental stream.

There is no mass, but we are all weight.

Light is gravity.

We curl into being, we snuggle into the curvature of existence.

Our light is darkened into becoming body. Moving into becoming body, so do we tap down the surface and planets are made into perfect pies. The savoury crust, the sweetness and hotness of a most desirable centre.

From the centre comes weight. All the surface is fly-away, the dancing place of photon, the fecundity of light. The light in the centre is a murmuration.


Lattice patterns consisting: 


Patterns sometimes becoming 

present as jewel, as laser, as a hot line rejuvenating one’s eye. 

One eye rejuvenated staring at the queue. It is line.
In line and patterning time, lattice patterns consisting:

Patterns persisting act as cages. Manifested and corralled, lattice and lace up, a conduit for the expression.

Lattice patterns contested; the frozen out queues wrapped around a mound of food.

The food is never old. 

Patterns of present jewels, one’s rejuvenated eye seeing the stepped line. We step out of the cage; we step into the house. The food is delicious

Energy traps this moving and this moving is an energy trap. Retaining the made in phases; each phase is the making of a lattice and its simultaneous unlocking. 


The phased works of the lattice are fields; fields are labour and obedience. The aligned lattice is a road, a rood for one’s back. 


The field and the road are a pattern marked around a trap and a simultaneous liberation.

Lattice patterns consist in the structure of a house. A matrix of some stability within which is one quality, outside of which is another quality. 


Neither obedience nor disobedience will gain entry to the feast. For those who obey as they come out of the field, for those who disobey as they return from the dead; the feast is always available. A pattern marking the trap and indicating a simultaneous liberation from the trap.

The owl is not caught.
The suburban edge, near the seashore, is turned into a funfair. Horses and mythical creatures are projected into the air.

There is a climb up to the owl’s perch, one balances on the pole in order to gain the heights.

For the owl to come to you it is necessary to present it with a garlanded cradle. If the owl steps into this it is re-captured.

It flies away.

Later the owl returns, you climb the pole, you hold forth a beautiful posy ring but still the bird will not allow itself to be caught.


It’s meant to be fake, of course its fakery
that’s why it works.


Cover-up star cover star 

up star stared upon
the starry deceit seen not 
covered deceit star and seen deception star…

Our eyes are twinkling.

The falsity star misstatement; oh that was just an accident, a slip,and 
it really meant 
nothing 
at all.

Star perjury brings fine rewards.
Star witness, nice hotel,
maybe just four star really.


Prevarication stars.
All tales told
tall tales
deep tales
long tales make for the star turn

conjuring and surgery, masks and masks, spells and fixes to control a creature whose control is largely given, already within the remit, a creature of combustion, of chemicals and mechanics, flow and rigidity, exhaustion and centre, gravity negotiated… Gravity negotiated in most instances…
 

But socially it seems this creature is wild. These social rules are all its own, only this creature makes the rules, and yet so often it is only this creature which refuses to abide by the rules. Here this creature becomes strange.
Body.
It becomes a body, as if by magic, and this is why it works. 
And this is why it is wild.
The put upon and torn at and pushed around body

and in the fierce locality of utterance, of will, of dispel and ego, of the great swelling, world conquering, the swift surety of knife, and deep booming resound of a transaction

this how it works

noisy, unanswerable, beauty imperious,

an underground empire of need

needs body

whose needs are slavery resting upon a lie of reward.

Do not rehearse the future. Reverse from day dream and rest in this moment.

Turning and change lead nowhere; stopping we progress.

One day your just doing will not do.

Lament not you eyebrow’s broken symmetry.