If there is a perfection
of the hidden self

then self hidden is perfect
and that it is hidden must be part of this perfection.

For self to be self
which is to come to its perfection 
self must yet be turned out into the world.

Wide Wanderer they call self, Wide-Traveller. 
It is said that the self will re-shod your horse. 

Leave it by the smithy overnight
no payment
just an appropriate gift.



Self to self giving. 
Self to self given over

the wandering, turning self out
from the hidden to the open 

road travelled to seek the activity of the perfect
tattered paths of the simply sought.

The perfection of the hidden self
which is hidden therefore perfect
cannot yet attain perfection anywhere but in the open.


The wreckage of destabilised tribes.
Stones in the dell.
These stubborn dreams still trip us up.

The self in the world is ever an imperfection;

the scruffy re-run
the back and forth vulnerable
made available, made safe, made and unmade.



“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.

Coincidentally beyond coincidence
by the sheer fact of multiplicity.

One for sorrow,
Two for mirth,
Three for a funeral
And four for birth


Magpies line up in the hope of meaningful significance, their message yet ever extended into meaninglessness.

Four and forty birth birds mirthed of the earth. In the tree the sorrow, up the sky we scale. When the sky was hollow we all began to howl: Now was not this a pretty fowl to sing us through the day?



Only when the magpie population attains the critical mass of becoming lumpen – a large entity onto which significant projection may be secured – then will the flock be transformed from the accidental and to the meaningful.

It will be single.
It will be singular noticed. A cursing sponge to sop up all our unease.
This is the point at which a determined eradication programme begins.




From a ceaseless wandering
until an ornament of demise

being prepared to go with the shrug of freedom,
being prepared to take the scrying and fill in the detail.

The curlicues and corners of culture

am I reflected there, in this environment
made so much the human.

So much I am

I am also reflected there but barely,
slightly distorted.

And in the throws of distortion I also
push in my image. Pushed in, despite,

creating the line and loop
this ceaseless wandering.

Mental conditions for freedom 
under-gird the material.

Conditions for the material conditions of culture may be continued
in and out of division 
in and out of prison 
on and on.

To act freely is not taking freedom from another,
therefore freedom is always an exploration of relatedness,

a ceaseless wandering relationship with the ornament of demise.


I stand in this built environment which is designed and 
ordained so much to reflect
the owners
who imagine they always own

therefore I am excluded
except for my ownership,
for which there is none,

therefore it is in the excluded I am.

This made-so-much-the-human is a temporary fake
a human imposition on an inhuman profusion

of nature always grander
of nature always pressing
of nature which will inevitably reclaim 
and is rigorously excluded, now, of this
I am
in the curves and curlicues of of the pressing 
in the fluids and in pollen and there dispersed.
Vividly here, I also vanish

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.



We have but one memory
everyday this is stored or retrieved, stoned or recalled.

We have but one memory ever, recall of our long and single being.
This solitary complex recall, wholly present in-all-in-all and yet

the forgetting is beguiling.

If there is a solitary memory, complete and available, distributed over all the remembering connections; so there is a single opportunity to forget. The pressing need of the day-to-day-to-day seems to be one of disconnect.

We have but one memory and in our multiplicity chase it down so we many turn off connection after connection after connection.

yet every storing and every storage and every rupture and each dangling line

every memory made to narrative
plunges on for the wise.

The one memory is ancient and not ours. Sometimes we resent this, and our scissors and switches are pushed toward fury and fragment. This is to say; this little mess will be ours, and not that.

And yet the calculation
of a single memory
need not be so
complicated.


Doing as he is told
in this country 

we expect commerce and industry, local and national government
to take account of the differing needs 
and tastes 
and opinions of the people.

We expect
those who influence the lives of 64.1 million citizens to base their work

on facts

to find out
what people really think and feel and prefer

to help people
in management
make decisions

never appear to be bored by anything a respondent says
nothing is more likely to irritate a respondent than the suspicion that

you are uninterested in their opinions.

Obtaining a full answer
to an apparently straightforward question
is not always the simple matter it may seem.

Respondents tend to answer questions
indirectly or go off
at a tangent

they
give answers so vague that they hardly qualify 
as answers
or be so hesitant about expressing a definite 
opinion that
they will say don’t know  rather than say what they really think.


They may also say don’t know out of apathy
or laziness
use vague ambiguous 
adjectives
like nice or  good
or say
                          I like it
and give no reason
as to why they like it.

In all these cases make another attempt to get a fuller answer.




First
there is much paperwork to be completed; another dream concerning the alphabet
All the tokens are to be slotted into an extensive filing system and it appears that to manipulate the letter is to manipulate the reality.

Every meaningful unit of narrative must be collected. There is a movement in and out of walls, travelling up and down the building, always gathering up a new community of people.

We are smothered in sticky propriety.

We are persons requiring rescuing and yet we are the only people able to enact such a rescue.

Every move is a meditation upon a letter. Letters, movements, and meditations; these are all as one.



Next
we are are waiting to be rendered and made present, wondering if it is correct to sometimes trust the punctuation of others.

You lay the line, they make the sense of this.
There is great anguish at the injustice of this.

Our invigilator says there is a must in the sense of another.
The line has implemented blind actions.
They do not see us as we are. 
We do not see us are we are.
Waiting for the bell to ring, everyone has shut their eyes.