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

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?

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. 

The transport speaks.
The signal sent into restless circulation.

A privilege of being a pedestrian is to be continually set within story time.

Two vans drive by in livery proclaiming: Freedom.
Immediately behind follows a van whose bold letters proclaim: Sanctuary.
Quickly then, a fourth van pulls alongside and its signage says: Cinderella.

Ah, El of the cinders, phoenix divinity; my mind and heart arise in consonance:
You shall go to the ball.

The harmony of the night will ring out through the world; the star of love shall resonate and re-shape all forms.

We take another step and another. A sign by the junction proclaims:
Diversion
Ends.

How long does it take to reform the psyche?
In an instant.

How long is an instant sufficient to make itself known?

The psyche may be considered as a task.
Its task is to be unknowable.

This impossible psyche is adaptable and flowing even in its most rigid structures.

Form 
persisting and elusive, 
this is the presence of the task.
The task permeates and supports each moment of the person.

Each moment of the person is a tasking of personhood with the transport of the psyche.
Psyche as the moment in its glimmering mode, a vehicle and the track.

There is a traffic jam, and the expression on every driver’s face is readable unreadable, unwarranted, masks of a terrible testimony.

When the task fails it becomes visible psyche.
When the moment cannot be adapted, flooded, folded, run with and ran around, so does the psyche’s structure become obvious. We rage against its charlatanism.

The road is never more obvious as when nothing moves upon it and, throughout the snarl-up, all questions are refused. Know one knows why there is a hold-up. No one knows why they are even attempting to travel in this direction. 

Psychic entertainment will be deemed an illness.
Your fuming bile sets like concrete.





Comply

A submission, adherence to laws, influences and suggestions. Acceptance taken to the level of a perversion; when obedience is this exact it overwhelms the law giver, leaving them lacking in speech and so in awe of the servile entity that their existence becomes untenable without that which complies.

Narcissism 
Vanity is a blindness pushed against desperation to become a trap baited with pride and walled around by fear. Vanity is a built folly that the narcissistic would choose to live in.

It was written in black using a medium thick felt marker pen on the wood of the picnic site: Have sex with my wife or watch us have sex – 100% genuine.
I cautiously scanned the area while opening my sandwich box. I did not want my lunch to be spoilt.
I lift my head above the parapet: a crown appears upon my head; at least I think it is a crown; soon it turns out to be  fortified wall: I lift my head above the parapet: I am crowned; but 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…
Utopian and liminal, these temporary places partially resolved. There is possible the possible of an entirely transient freedom. Inattention or absence or inability to genuinely pervade the entirety of any one domain that is at least nominally a domain; thus a moment become free, marked by a vacating or vacation of power. Liberty and play presume along a threshold of parting and returning.

The blissful romanticism of ruination is as a child’s first step. In such a step the tyranny of automatism need not persist. The craven call of a system’s need to domineer and function without exception need not be habitual.
To loop that thread was to create a foothold by which to swing up into the lower branches of the tree of knowledge. It was simultaneously denied and willed for us in the garden. We, new to liminality, had to take the first bite, by needs we were exiled; it was necessary that, unbidden, we came upon the sacredness of the lost. Losing to which finding is intimately linked.
The key, the concierge repeats, is fine. Perhaps it’s the door which ails one?


In the murder of unicorns we see sexual jealousy while the extermination of dragons is an almost entirely political and material endeavour. That is to say, to remove dragons is sublimation. You now sell snake oil and sell it well because it works for you.
No great thoughts just the endless dirty ones are the thoughts which keep me awake – unless this insomniac’s orgy of ghosts covers, like a thin smearing of cream, something else. Lick me.
It was our first material, the first thing beyond flesh: Night harboured the day itself, an impenetrable anxiety. But if night became our vision then these visions could become malleable, useful, small – if we wished. Now we dared hold it, make a shape of it, and even dredge it for an untainted sun. The key works fine, now turn the lock. Do you have the right door?

Eroded 

a frozen lake skated upon. Around its edge, the mind has a regular pattern of grooves. 
In the middle it is empty. 
Empty apart from a gradually freezing over hole. The crack opened briefly for an adventurous child, and then shut.

Waiting on the stupid inside of you like a classroom caught agog at the sight of books, piled precariously and held aloft by an ajar door; Go conk me pan.
As if the foot were not already an embarrassed aching of the floor.

And as driving is an ability to miss things so is the daily lyrical, a spray of glitter, pillow stuffing for a prison existence (made a prison because one repeatedly misses the walls).
Terrorists are failed artists who are failed terrorists while musicians are only confused djs and djs are writers while writers are kitchen porters and the waiters are always actors who are waiting to be politicians and they handle larger budgets than terrorists.
When digging a hole keep digging but ensure that one changes direction. Now one is tunnelling.

Twins parted at birth, lost to each other and yet sensing a residual shrapnel from the broken heart which is buried deep in the body; so does the expanding post-inflationary universe suffer from separation anxiety. Stars and void suffer from a sense of loss. This additional dimension of emotion cannot be explained, nor admitted to, unless stars and void move into a lived dimension that our un-living observation will find difficult to pursue. Beyond its stretch marks, this universe is satiated with the love of its own conception.

In separation anxiety there is a deep seated desire for connection linked to an oft destructive wariness of intimacy. We understand this because to some extent 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. Such intimacy re-attained – the unattainable – implies a connectedness that rapidly reaches a state of unconditional telepathy. The universe is pulling back from speeds greater than the speed of light, just as we are frightened 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. 

How is this space, both around and intimately within us, to pass through its own sense of elasticity? To turn a hysterical stopping from ravaged apathy to heavenly stillness. To move from tripping over a complex of blockages to building blocks raised in contemplation. 

Of mountains and people, in condos and complexes, of insects and water, of blue sky; clear blue vast azure; mountains. Of ankles and photography; prayer, wind, and heat haze; of a cloud coming, of a tree pointing, a lake batting against a damn. Of walkers and hikers and elevation and rattlers imagined and birds blown by in bad poetry, barely an attempt at note taking. The air is thin this high, although that does not do as an excuse. The air is brilliant, snow draped extravagance. The pen must, by its very nature, fail to stand up against this landscape. Yet also fools must scribble thus in order to say: Look, small furry things bouncing up scree. And what are they one must wonder, while the rodents blithely chink chink chink. The lake beats out its own time and we, at last, are quiet for a while.
How is this space, both around and intimately within us, to pass through its own sense of elasticity? It is impossible to ever possess this land, such is the conclusion from the high place. Even if it were offered, it would be impossible to possess this land. At most one may be able to put a mark upon it. And for a time, perhaps, one could put a claim to that mark, but nothing more. More is miserable fantasy and even mark-making can become something of an embarrassment. What poor temptation is this idea of possession!
The true morality tale or the truth of a moral tale does not lie in its closure. Messy, because it is messed in with our lives, and yet we are able to make stories. So there is no closure although we can draw to a close, which would be to pull up a moral without necessarily having directly heard it in the story. Nothing here may be true and yet we can still see that the truth will seek us out. And there was Dr Ruth dancing on the wing of a downed Stealth Fighter in a field in the Balkans in a war at the end of a century, laughing and jumping on four hundred and thirty million. She was saying; “One should really not have any hang ups anymore.”



Escape

The opposite of escape is freedom.

Stone
Hidden in the rock there is all that negates the occult.
Rocks always reveal themselves.
“Nothing has been created as Ultima Materia – in its final state. Everything is at first created in its Prima Materia, its Original Stuff […] for alchemy means: to carry to its end something that has not yet been completed.”
“Decay is the beginning of all birth…” (Paracelsus. 1493 – 1541.)
And so, in the fixity of stone there is the absolute fluidity of a universe whose nature, as the Absolute, will not be absolutely fixed.

Original first published in Inventory: losing, finding, collecting. Vol.2 No.3 1997