(one cannot enter anywhere without a glimpse of the liminal).
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
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.
Yes, you heard it
a door slamming will do
or the slow scraping of twigs along glass.
Yes you heard it.
Nodding off on the bus, top deck, and the branches smack in the face
and then the wooden squealing as they scrape alongside you
a trumpeter trying to get out off the corner
of their tight composition.
You heard it, now wake up. Be
convinced by the importance of those words,
pinion stratified structures: words flitting above your head
whooshing and sweeping
and branches arch over the whole road
bending down to vehicle bidden ground.
A door jamb will do, the shudder of the lintel.
You heard the opening and the closing
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
as a piece of inert matter apparently mocks their existence.
The inert matter is willful
and yet in every instance of scrutiny it
it appears as its appearance
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.
the mark making gesture;
the abiding with powers which in another circumstance might destroy.
In this process a new aspect of knowledge. A communication of this knowledge is returned to the social realm. It is spoken of around the fire and one by one, following steps which have by now become safer, the group becomes a series of individuals as they witness – alone for a moment – a power at once familiar and yet new. To experience directly this fresh understanding.
In the shape of our novel, so in the shape of the cave, the shape of cognition and being. Both thought and thinking about thought begin to change.
The process of differences serves an internalisation and reordering of gesture. A movement through language is a tool for processing the different. Once gestures become connected (stepping down into a cave, moving earth into image, putting a hand against a horse’s flanks) so do these movements become aspects of a new knowledge. We partake in the changing world.
The novelisation of our imagination is an evolutionary expression of being. Gestures and creatures are related and formed into marks, the marks form gestures which allow one to approach creatures. Differences are set in relation to one another. Each difference and each act of relatedness may then be rediscovered in a newly invented society.
A society exists for as long as it carries a unifying haptics amongst each of its parts. Gestures and scripts link the body. A narrative conveys one safely up until the very point of meeting a power able to dissolve and utterly dismiss that narrative. Now there is new knowledge, change is encountered, a new dance amongst new mark making. Change is encountered and this is either a new story or the end of all stories.
The novelisation of our cave is an evolution of imagination.
Woke from worlds
and worlds awoke in me
photophobic soil dwellers
It is decided that memories are best bought. There is a heavy stone trough, redolent of daily life in a rustic setting. It is imported into my garden. I do not have any livestock which may drink from it. When it came to installing the plumbing for the hand pump, I ran out of money. If it rains, the trough is full of water. There is moss, and eventually a certain amount of slime.
Worlds awake from the stone.
Ghosts of horses
ghosts of dung
the flower beds are trampled all over.
Awaking from the green water, strange squiggles of living things.
Soon the insects bite.
Woke to the words (and it is only ever words which wake me):
be prepared to be
on your way
on that last day.
The same shone first (and if ever anything wakes me it is only light).
Shone first, shines within, and this same light will shine out at last.
The word wordless when these, wordless, have many sayings
yet little string to hold them.
So how is it, wordless and stringless, they have their world strung together?
Time in both directions is inconsistent.
Any inconsistency makes time timeless.
The space runs without knocking any edges off.
We are one and we are another, without edges.
Paucity and the deceased. Beauty and the least. The boat pulls out, escaping the intricate device
of the word worldless, of the heist, a sea stolen of its ground. The bottom dwellers struggle, finding not the bottom.
The paradoxical catalyst
changes actively and
the most urgent to say
the most unspeakable vastness.
Of this there comes
a soft persisting and particular ethic.
From hearing the story
it is recognised
we do indeed know the answer
indeed we know
of how the unity urged upon us
of how this is in accord
and this which is of the creative
this is held.