Mark making as continuity

through life and through drinking and eating. The mark is made, here in the utensils, here on the utensils, here through the utensils; marks made, teeth sown, hands gripped; the shapes and traces speak of hunting, reaping, death, burial, copulation and birth. All this made in a mark, a scratch, a pattern grown from haptic necessity.


In the proliferation of mark making which follows the first indent… It is always possible to follow that continuity.

The continuation births the mark, the mark propels continuation, and that which continues follows awareness.

Our awareness scribbled in the perception, the contemplation, the rumination; our idling, our doodling, our wasting time, and this is the sacred boredom which becomes manifest in a visual itch. 

The scratched becomes imagination, the rubbed imagination produces a sign. A sign is a made mark. The marked is also an extension of reflection through body, through the fleshy extension, through the hidden electrical discharge suddenly becoming an expression of skin and chemic. 

This is movement. 

Movement is called imagination; the tracery of gesture is mark made toward the real. 

Going toward the real we discover only the ever new. 

The real is the future, which is not here; therefore the real is not reality. Therefore we store up our mark making against the possible betrayal of actuality.



The mermaid
is not resting
on the rock.

The mermaid is not serenading from the rock.

The mermaid is chained to the rock. She is chained and she is lamenting for the depths which are now lost to her.


The mermaid combs her hair. She is searching for the pin. In amongst the thick tumble of these locks there is a pin, and with this she intends to pick the lock and loose the chain.

Even so, eventually, it is not her determined worrying at the lock but a great storm which breaks the chain. She is able to swim free and deep.

Her freedom is weighed down by the residue of this long captivity. The chain was affixed to her being, pierced through her flesh. It is a persistent, rusting wound in her tail, and it drags behind her to the length of one metre. It keeps her down deep, it catches on rock. Her freedom is difficult, the swimming is hard, and she has not swam in the full liberty of a current for many years. Aggressive eels come out of hiding specifically to mock. After the initial exhilaration, all that seems to be left to her is exhaustion. 

The dead weight, wrapped into her very muscle, pulls and pulls and pulls, and eventually the mermaid slips over a precipice, falling into a dim and alien world. The eels she meets now are all blind. They do not mock, they simply try to eat. Thrashing this way and that with the last dregs of her energy, the mermaid falls into the influence of a volcanic forest. A fierce array of burning trees. White eyeless crustaceans hurry from between the sulphuric slurry and attach themselves to her body. From head to tail she is now smothered in armoured shrimps. 

As the ravaging heat makes the waters flow in violent circles, so is the mermaid buffeted. The albino crustaceans form a thermal armour around her body and, although they are beginning to devour her, as she slips into the volcano mouth, they also save her. She is pulled through the earth’s broken mantle, trapped in vortices, and tumbles deeper and deeper, beyond anything she ever imagined possible.

Now she is splashing around in a new sea, a sea of magma. The mermaid dressed in white slips through molten rock. Her chain dissolves. 

On rabbits and hills.

The way through the head / the never before thought / way of thinking as one / mind body person / making new. // Get your self of knowing / as never known before / outside of the knowing and has known knowing all / at the root afresh / of who you are.

Thoughts about 18yr old Harehills and in the squat self. […] Opened the curtains and sat and a rabbit was here on the grass in front of the window, a perfect echo of the [rabbit shaped] cloud I saw yesterday evening. // The first [rabbit] just ran back in the opposite direction with a second. Meanwhile the mountains are in the process of being engulfed within a rolling bank of cloud, vanishing.
Hare hills; rabbit clouds. I remember a hare running down the middle of the road as I cycled along behind. An empty road somewhere in the Vale of York, the hare and I, and a single oak leaf stuck in the spokes of my front wheel going clickclickclickcclickclickclickclickclickclick.

The only other time a hare has run down the middle of the road in front of me was that time when I was coming down the very steep wooded hill on a bike heavily laden with panniers and a tent strapped on and a rucksack on my back. With this kit I was too heavy for the machine, which had spokes too loose and kept shedding its chain at the merest touch of a gear change. The brakes began to overheat, I zoomed past a couple mid-sandwich, their bites hovering around crumbs as I walloped by. At the bottom of the hill a slight rise over a small bridge lifted me from the tarmac. A startled hare shot out in front of me and ran down the middle of the road, I followed and, carefully, touched the brakes. Immediately all my luggage fell off and became entangled with wheels and gearing. I fell forward, clinging onto the handlebars. The handlebars were wrenched into the opposite orientation, and I was on my back on the road and the hare careered to left, disappearing into the woods.


I remember another time, rabbit on the road. Only this time it was not running. I was cycling, labouring up a hill, the landscape around me lightly wooded, some fields on the other side of hedges. I thought it strange that the rabbit did not run. Its head kept bobbing up and down, ears alert and then ears low. I slowly came closer, again I had heavy panniers and a rucksack and a tent, although this time the bicycle was more robust and better behaved. The rabbit moved its head but did not move, it did not run, and running is a thing rabbits normally do. I came alongside the creature and saw why it was not moving. Its rear half had been driven over. Most of the spine was smashed and the rear legs squashed completely. Only its front shoulder region and head was unscathed. In its alertness it knew its rabbit-like behaviour. The front paws made gentle scrabbling motions and it looked certainly at where it might go. I was then, and remain, a poorly educated city person, despite jaunts toward woodlands and hills. My first response was to mount a rescue. Call a vet! Get a farmer, a farmer who may have found my scruples hilarious. Just stamp on the thing if you’re so worried about its suffering… But I’m just a poorly educated city dweller who has no conception as to how an animal’s neck may be swiftly broken. The rabbit nodded and ducked and ineffectually wriggled. I dismounted and worried over its agony. In the end, bravely (I thought), I grabbed it by its front shoulders and hurried it into the hedge. At least here, I thought, it might die with some greenery. A small carnivore may put it out of its misery. Repulsed, I wiped my hands on grassy verge, remounted and rode away. This rabbit’s nervous, failing gestures, and its smashed flat rear end, still remain alive in my memory. That it was sunny with a decent breeze. That I cycled past many small inlets and harbours. That my tent broke apart as I set it up that evening. All of this remains.
·        What is this flame, / what is this flame / we call death? // Nothing that was dying is created.
·        “… and I have breathed out nothing that can die.”
·        What is this flame? / This is the passing of appearance. / That which is appearing may die. // Appearing others…
·        Appearing offers a great struggle / to its passing / often. // May we cease to be appearing and / still be, even in / this world.
·        Appearing appears so to / to struggle. // Who is it offering resistance to / the flame?
·        The falcon cannot / eat grass, and yet / there is the rabbit. / The falcon may / float in the sun / but it is rabbit / who translates the / sun, and this through / the language of / grass.
So we had two guinea pigs and a rabbit and one day I opened the hutch and Squeaky (a guinea pig) was dead and stiff and sort of propped like a board over the food bowl and Rabbit, was sitting on both Squeaky and the bowl. The other pig is called Princess Fluffy Bum. Ms Fluffy Bum is with us still.

A time after this and I opened the cage and the rabbit fell out, flopping onto the grass. Once she would have immediately been up and off, making a break for freedom whilst been chased by an inarticulate raving dad and several children wracked upon their hilarity. No longer, no longer. She neither noticed that she had fallen nor ran. The hutch door hung open, Ms F. pushed back into shadow and stared at me, not moving, most certainly not escaping.


I scooped up the floppy animal and inspected her, and then I laid her down briefly once more, and I closely looked some more. She was still alive but breathing shallow and rapid. I got a kitchen towel, spread it on my lap, and sat down with Rabbit draped over my legs. Once, perhaps twice, she weakly kicked a back leg.

Slowly, slowly; the sun shone. I sat with our pet rabbit over my legs, her breathing getting weaker and weaker. Her mouth fell open so I could inspect her front incisors. I stroked her, I talked to her. Gently, slowly, over an hour or so, she ceased. 

When the rabbit was dead I called the children out of the house and together we dug a grave and buried it. I cried and my daughter was astonished.
·        [In the dream] I realise how flimsy / wire is all that keeps / them in plane. They / all leave. One / realises they have records on [indecipherable] / here – she turns / around and goes back / in order to find out / all about herself and / why she has been / contained. Woke up / with the word / Ensign.
·        “Anything in which there is no force is dead… For the Spirit [force] is the strengthener and the quickener.” [Hildergard.]
·        Dream of the mountain / a large empty mountain.
·        The mountain begins the book.
·        The hill stands / within a mountain / and the mountain stands within a range / the range stands / within a mountain / and here we have / our frame.
§  The volume of
§  clouds
§  stretched even
§  length and height
§  still conclude
§  in the enormity
§  of land below
And the volume
of land below
stretched and pushed
still conclude
in the enormity
of its roots below
§  the roots below
§  and the clouds
§  above and my
§  time smeared
§  volume between
§  even now
§  concludes
§  in the mereness
§  [meetings] meeking set against
§  the scales                  (meeking – training of horses)
§  timings  {meekness} we cannot
§  attain
§  journeys only already
§  made yet only
·        in the moment of
·        vision our imagination
·        absconding
·        from the tumult
·        of dimensions
·        if it should
·        be allowed.

A new half-life awakens, stimulated by its vanity

but otherwise, anxiety dying makes anxiety anxious. 

Its vain persistence is the only assurance anxiety may find.

The abysmal nothing is known as a huge transfer of energy.

Our fear is sent down to suck this up.

From nothing to nothing to appearing.

This energetic presence known through its abyss.

I am known from absence unto absence.


Vain frittery, this scuttling half of a half of a half

a life of gesticulation

whose failure will guarantee the anxious stimulation

of anxiety, who is set to live

:
:

.

I met the broken man yesterday. He said he was a shadow of the whole, yet when I looked at all of the shadow it was surely and wholly black. An abyss of an abyss is nothing.

The broken man was laughing, weakly, and bleeding all over the pillow. 

I said half life quartered is still anxiety dying. And blood on the sheets is still a stain, he replied. The smallness or otherwise of unease is no hindrance to the leverage of uneasiness. Once it has a gesture, it will trip you.

It was then that I invited the broken man into the wholeness of the shadow. It darkness will seep between your shattered parts, I smiled.

It was then that he asked of how, if this were shadow of the whole, and from where did the light come by which the black could be spilt? Surely, he reasoned, if this is the whole then the light also is of the whole, and can it ever be possible that the source of illumination is also its own dark terminus?

Is what is in between whole or is the wholeness only that which holds the between?

I asked then if a ripped and shattered body made it easier to talk. I was not threatening, I was simply pressing my finger through the already existing gaps.

He was silent.

People talk about shopping a lot.

People talk a great deal about television and DVDs.

People talk often of their holidays.

The elsewhere moments line up between my broken flesh, the cast shadow, and the unseen illumination on the far side of an object I cannot comprehend.

.

.

.

The simple line to be walked as nous.

The knowing line to be walked simply.

The walking line, simply.

The walking nous, simple line.

What is the abyss but nothing?

At the end of the line; the drop

:
:

.

The abysmal nothing is known as a huge transfer of energy.

From nothing to nothing to appearing.

This energetic presence known through its abyss.

I am known from absence unto absence.

Woe to the one’s who bring harm to these little ones; better a millstone be tied around their neck and they be thrown into the abyssal depths.

Here is the millstone.

Here is the void and the weight worn by all.

Even so, even so; a smallness will grant access through this hole. Wriggle through and drag through, you bring an immensity of light into this dead depth.

A simple line. A knitted together line. An energetic transforming line, neither nous nor knowing, and not not knowing. Ours is the cold seep community. Ours is the broken open mantle, a steaming vent of fecund mineral.



Home becomes not home.

It is never to be recalled.
It is never safe.
Our home is the impossible, it is never the destination.

That great love, that want to act, that which once stood here in equanimity, this place where humbly all was possible.

The wall equally positioned, all around.

Home becomes memory.

Before our nakedness and this insufferable need
there is a desolation wherein no clothing and no satisfaction will ever be possible.

Memory becomes not memory.

Memory becomes refuge.

The world ending is ever capable of generating approximate desolations.

Refuge becomes not refuge.

Refuge becomes path.

The world ending ever generates new worlds, ever ending. The incomplete completion, the succour of devastation.

Path never ceases.

Path becomes home.


That wall equally around all.

Path becomes memory.

Path becomes refuge

Refuge dissolves into the possible.

The abysmal bleeds its own abyss. Between walls of nothing and nothingness of wall, the equal touch, an energetic vastness.

This is possibly our home. Ever ever does that great love need to act.

Our home is the impossible, a trembling memory, a tumbling path, an open refuge;
it is never safe,
it is never the destination,
it is never here to be recalled.


Splendid rebirth, when black and white are together
and do not make grey.
“Who you are” is not to be considered the spurious identity of who one thinks one is; or who one imagines one would be, could be, should be… “Who you are” is not the product of who, or what, others would have one be.


This identity we are edging towards, which is the actual of your personality, this is a base subjectivity, a raw understanding, and it is here alone where one is able to make some account of experience.
Memory is that which negotiates between raw understanding, with its account of experience, and all other forms of identity. All other forms of identity cluster around persona, ego, and expectations. These forms each in turn offer up something of use, beauty, and desirability.
From use and beauty and desirability come a seductive insistence.  Use, beauty, and the desirable will be; in so being these qualities do not easily yield to having their persistence questioned.
Persistence of form above content will break memory.
If one cannot remember then one cannot trust who you are.
The breaking of memory is a complete undermining of identity.
The identity which is undermined does not then surrender to a state of being without identity. Much worse; the memory which has gone leaves raw understanding as neuter, and in this combined absence all those other versions of “who you are” are set to pillage, plunder, and expose themselves.


If memory is not to be trusted then self cannot be trusted.

If the landscape and the recognisable journeys around these spaces are lost, shattered, or stolen; then it is memory which suffers. If memory suffers then identity becomes a competition between phantasm, ideology, revenge, and general bluster.

General Bluster demands bloodshed. War is always raged over the corpse of remembering. 

Here it is where black opposes white forever, never to mix, and all that results is grey

Prepare your ground well
for it is distortion

and not reflection which absorbs
those long and terrible hours of scrutiny.

The quality of the mirror
creates the quality of reflection.

Meanwhile, the billboard prepares our awareness:


Get ready for close encounter.

Meanwhile our solar system in doused with extensions of our own awareness. Mirrors are deployed. There is oxygen sublimating from our rock, the rock hurtling through space which is ancient beyond the billboard’s easy imagining…

And within a year it is discovered that life is everywhere.

Our secret bodies, hidden echoes within, always knew this. 

We always knew this because we were always already a portion of that extraterrestrial life. Nonetheless; when the news is made official, and it shall be carefully and most tactfully done so, most people will discover they are not ready.

We are not ready for any encounter, close or otherwise.

Let us go back to grinding the lens; this glass is dirty; this cannot be true.

The shadow of the shadow

there is no expulsion.

The shadow of the shadow, there it is; behind, before, beside. 

The shadow is not always your shadow. A hand is pushed out of its substance, a hand which one can hold. It is a child’s hand. It has no words and it is alone.

(Downstairs I have left the heat on underneath a pan of stew, and the grill is on, and in the front room the television is on. The program shows Peter Ustinov, he is talking about science. A John Coltrane record is on the turntable. I am on my own.)

If the body is treated like an object it will develop object-like responses.

The body is treated as if it were a coherent awareness, the loving receiving ground of a highly developed consciousness, which even so shows every capacity for near-unlimited further development; if so, then there is indeed no such thing as a persistent vegetative state.

Like loneliness the act of writing, like the act of writing the near-unlimited further development of consciousness.

In each, in every instance, so their own being (being lonely, being written, being consciousness) must be resolved in its own being.

Each instance reaches into itself in order to transcend its own measure, and this by means of its own materiality: Matter, material, text, thought, the walk, and the shadow of the shadow all bear forth their own seed of overcoming.

Myth and dream first come to surface in the greasy fingerprints on glass and in the stew left over in slightly charred pots. Sharing across the table, there is the snatched light of a dream, there is the shadow of the shadow playing fool again, telling a story again. 

There is no expulsion, only an investigation which walks. There is no expulsion, only integration. Each material instance transcends its own, and tantalisingly it returns to its own. 

Ownership is a drapery
and the deep is an act of the imagination
which cuts

a hole in the drapery.

I see through a hole the clouds. The enormous volume of these clouds, stretched height and length, give to the panorama an assurance of the land’s enormity.

John Constable, “A Cloud Study, Sunset,” ca. 1821.

And the volume of the land below, stretched and pushed, still conclude in the vastness of rock below. The visible land drapes across an invisible mantle.

The roots underneath and the clouds above and my time as a smeared volume running between. 
There is a mereness to the meeting. 
We can peek; these the meek scales, these the timings we cannot attain; these are journeys already made, the length which continues 

beyond and outside of the seen moment.

Our imagination is continually absconding from the tumult of dimensions, but vastness is the duty of imagining.

Here is the urban drapery.

Here is the studded surface of attentiveness.


The chemical and the electronic gather as the armed do muster in the feld and as castle formed the manor. The robes of the legendary are not long enough to cover our immodest awareness.

Often the shallows are as impenetrable as the deeps. 

Often the greatest depths will flit away without note, entirely insubstantial.

Often the surface of a building will stimulate one’s memory. Memory is another drapery.

The imaginable shallows are a drapery of heavy grief, sometimes lifted in order to flirt with the disowned and unseen depths.

Vastness is the calling, the horrified call. And response to the call devastates chronological time.

These devastation are moments of transition.

We are in transit.

We are devastated

therefore the drapery has been lifted ruffled cut

or otherwise

disturbed

other-wise is 
and will be therefore 
the irruption in moment. 

Non-time in time and no-place in this place. Therefore the irruption of moment in moment is this

and this is forever transformative.