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.



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.



From its inner glow 


come 

the pleasure and euphoria of chocolate.

The gods on high had a monopoly on the thick elixir, and we humans were condemned to live in ignorance. Ignorance of euphoria is an equivalence of reality without fire. The fire inward and the fire of cooking and light. The fire needed to cook chocolate; the pragmatics of releasing an inner glow.

Quetzalcoatl stole chocolate’s secrets for the Toltecs. Is this an equivalence to the story of Prometheus? While the rest of the gods slept, Q. took a few seeds and hid them in his beard, skiddering to earth on the long thread of a spider’s web in order to present these to the city of Tula.

Q’s offering was usurped by the princes, the priests, and the warrior chiefs.

Their palates alone were deemed worthy of glowing inner euphoria.

As the owners of heaven forbade chocolate to mortals, so the owners of the earth forbade it to commoners


The mythology of gift plays in the presence of possibility. One such possibility is that of extinction. 


The gift’s tendency to abundance is in swift politic turned to the rule of scarcity (the rule through scarcity). Thereafter it appears that the given (and the desire to give) is steadily warped toward Scrooge-like tendencies. Presence (prior to the pedagogy of a haunting) will be transmuted into absence.

Extinction is an anxious term. There is an ache of a presence not properly attended to (and therefore the learning must be discovered in ghosts).

A great culture consisting of art and astronomy, of mathematics and alphabet, of architecture and politic; imagine power and prowess corralled around in confidence. All of this ceased.

Historic pollen counts trace rainfall; drought is implicated, disease is pondered; what was the catastrophe?

Gift not given.

These wonder-full evocative images of sudden absence and of dramatic exit are motifs, evocations and laments. 


Gift not given.

It is in this context that mass events are depicted as if a form of charm which one weaves around our hope of survival. Tropes of city and state evacuation become popular with large budget cinema because they are apotropaic. 

We depict global disaster near superstitiously, for reasons of fear we try to out-fear our fear. There may be little which is overtly conscious about this; the terrible lure of the spectacular hides itself from self in its splutter and glitter. The stirrings of freedom become caught in the ungifted trap of our entertaining unawareness.

Awareness was a warm euphoria awakening to the gift of consciousness. Abundance is still hidden within awareness, the “in plain sight” haunting of chocolate and fire. 

That a civil order changed does not indicate that the people of that order ceased. The gift will continue to be smuggled out.


The gift is not yet given.

Without the question

there is no quest. 

CERN, referred to as a temple of science, is a physical echo of Stonehenge. Both are questions. The religious forms and the scientific forms make reality form around the query.

The quest begats measurements. That the besmirched knight fails, trapped in rusting armour, is measure enough to justify the story. 

The story begats the community, the community begats the narrator, the narrator begats the story, the story illuminates the measures, the measures make the reality.


Who collapses quantum wave packets with query? How is our scrutiny collapsing collapse? And, buckled beneath this looking, a veritable crash, a multi-vehicle pile up, so does reality grow.

The list of known “elementary” particles was growing so long that the field was in danger of developing an almost biology-like level of complexity.”

Imagine, the horror! Fundamental reality as described by physicists might bear some comparison with fundamental reality as experienced by insects (and others).

We kiss the quarks and move on. Our questing noses pollinate the time line, a future shifts, our sneezes rumble significantly.

I dreamt of a recipe for eggy bread: slather one side of bread in chocolate spread and then soak the other side in the eggy mixture. Fry in pan on just the the egg soaked side. From dream I ran down to the kitchen and tested this. It is, I assure you, delicious, although I cannot vouch for any health benefits.