And neither in the first instance
both wave and particle
dot point dust
flow wash stream
the photon is considered as fundamental
clearly it is mutable and elusive.
Neither wave nor particle
until the unit of observation is attached.
Our perception is either wave or particle.
We are of dot and point and an aggregate of dust.
We are flowing, awash, we are the fundamental stream.
There is no mass, but we are all weight.
Light is gravity.
We curl into being, we snuggle into the curvature of existence.
Our light is darkened into becoming body. Moving into becoming body, so do we tap down the surface and planets are made into perfect pies. The savoury crust, the sweetness and hotness of a most desirable centre.
From the centre comes weight. All the surface is fly-away, the dancing place of photon, the fecundity of light. The light in the centre is a murmuration.
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.
around me, a veritable wall
a grand array
of cheese variations.
The feast is atomised but available; stacked high, and yet hand sized, mouth sized, fist to bite size; this rotovation is the mighty mastication of plenty.
Cream cone crenellations are erected and all too soon digested. This immaculate defence is thus internalised.
Although some have asked if I am pregnant, in fact it is that I, by steady accretion of adipose tissue, become impregnable.
To carry this much weight is to be the greatness of a visible and confident storehouse. My barns are the brag. My feasting is bravado. Surely one must be royalty in order to drag along the street so vast a weight; I do not need to run away. I cannot run. My societal wealth is immersed in this fatty connective tissue, my vast round is on show and certain.
Tradition demands that such bounty be returned.
My uncanny stature must, in due course, be returned to the ground.
Instead of my wobbly royalty it is suggested that we gladly sacrifice obese children; other children. The future is only ever a threat, after all. So to sustain my stature hereby welcome the suggestion of how the cheapened excess of neglect can be squashed under a shopping stampede.
In the central person, properly defended, this great breadth of person, who is after all an entire system, the sovereignty of fat is a candle. This corpulent burning cannot today be extinguished. Too big to fail; such is my belly. In this long night one must not snuff out the individual largess, which we have now agreed to call light, for otherwise it will prove difficult to raise the bowl to one’s mouth.
Reflection is a division.
All light is divided all ways, in this manner is the spectra perceived.
Perception is an analysis of the reflection, a division further divided.
We daily partake of the infinite in this manner.
(( Neither is there a smallest part of what is small, but there is always a smaller (for it is impossible that what is should cease to be). Likewise there is always something larger than what is large.
— Anaxagoras ))
By reflection the world is infinitely and minutely and exquisitely constructed.
The construction is light infinitely reflected, light reflected from light.
Reflection is our manner of infinite perception.
Our infinite perception is entangled with many qualities of the spectra.
Matter is the mannerism of reflective perception, a spectrum of qualities.
In the spectrum of qualities consciousness is reflected.
Consciousness knots together reflection. Light multiplied by light.
The eternal, that which holds the infinite, is subject neither to division nor multiplication and therefore it is beyond perception.
The eternal is open to awareness via an infinite reflection. From what may such an incomprehensible force reflect? Its own light, which we the knotted reflection cannot perceive.
Primordial language generated as an awareness of incomprehension.
A sheer surface of mute return, this word as the first reflection.
Reflection, refraction, perception; first consciousness as a knot woven in an infinite drop.
A light which balls around itself; in this curling motion the finite is invented. Therefore by perceiving the falling the falling does not go on forever.
The curl is the first shape of creation.
The curl instantiates infinite light, invents its finitude, and insinuates eternity.
in this galaxy we find planets
planets from another galaxy.
Orbits stray, we meet at a distance. Planets mesh in their patterns and begin to depict a new set of orbits.
The interior field becomes exterior and sometimes after this beginning growth it may well be that we abandon one another.
Our planets part, our patterns sag, become disconsolate, and one orbit or another must eventually leave the galaxy. Infinite space is deemed a room too small.
Sometimes entire galaxies are lost.
In the scheme of things, one should not get overly protective about planets. These elliptical strays will have days and nights but they will not have our days or nights. This is a presumption, of course, because days and nights are a lucrative and on-going robbery; they are rarely “ours”. Days and nights are a luminescence set within a bookies tally-sheet.
People are light. People are grandiloquent ellipses formed of free light. We knot and condense and purpose as if other than light. We are not planets and even so we are not so dissimilar to these engaged edges on the frayed far loops of our respective systems.
Light set free from the minimum and yet repeatedly drawn to walk again as shadow, as a show of circumstance.
The circumstance of light is that its showing is absolute. As the absolute knots up it becomes shadowy, less showy, and so light in its condensed materiality will on occasion doubt its own absolutes.
Life on this occasion is the expression of condensed materiality. A gelid tally-sheet.
Life only appears occasionally.
Life may be revered as this; the impossibility of shadow woven up into an actuality.
looking into the special example
of gold leaf rolled onto the wall
and up into the ceiling
and on the statues one could find it
wrapped over the naked stone feet
and gold smeared down their arms
and gold rubbed over the heart.
But all matter reflects.
Everything reflects and the extension of this is that reflection is a special form of division.
All light is divided all ways.
In this manner the spectrum of colours and the colours called wavelengths, the patterns and the electromagnetic forces; these perceptions are facilitated by division.
Division is a special form of reflection.
Perception is an analysis of reflection; division further divided.
All perceiving is a daily participation in the infinite.
By reflection the world is infinitely, minutely, and exquisitely constructed. The core of this construction is an infinitely divided light. This unending division is a reflection of a source pouring out which is yet greater than the infinitude of its own division.
Reflection is our manner of infinite and exquisite perception; the more our division of the divided the greater the entanglement in all that this perception was divided from.
Our reflection is enmeshed with spectra.
Consciousness knots together each reflection with each source and shape. We in perceiving are forever shaving off and reducing the source and the object, and yet these beginnings always remain and in their remaining there is an action.
The action of being capably linked to division; the beginning of infinite reflection. The beginning for to be perceived must yet be already reflected. Each start point is also a division.
If reflection is division, light divided by light, then consciousness becomes multiplication. Consciousness is that reversal of reflection by which the infinitely divided perception becomes infinitely multiplied.
The shine of the scintillating is reflected (divided) consciousness. Divided consciousness seeing its own reflection is a light multiplied infinitely.
How is it that the eternal becomes perceivable?
Infinite division is sparkling in reflection, becoming the sovereign and rock-like shine of infinite multiplication.
Such division returning to the multiple may be called consciousness. To call such an infinite process consciousness is in and of itself a reflection. Consciousness is a rock. The rock reflected is thus divided. Consciousness is divided and thus infinite division again initiates a reflection upon its own rock-like (yet evasive) centre.
The initiation of division entangled with an initiation of light consciously multiplying light, and on occasion perceived as such, becomes a special form of reflection. It may be termed an aeroplane trap.
Garden airplane trap. Max Ernst. 1935
Premiss of the infinite is an eternal source. The nature of infinitude is reflection and consciousness moving in a single entangled relationship. This entanglement of division and multiplication precludes direct perception of the eternal. The precluding relationship, in its very infinity, nonetheless intimates an eternal up-welling of which all infinitude is able to abundantly and continually reflect. Such is the gold light we stare into.
We stare not into gold, nor particularly do we dwell open the fascination of light infinitely at play. Instead we are, on occasion, able to step into a non-reflecting moment called stillness, this is between division and multiplication but we cannot properly assign it to either reduction or increase. (Here we are able to scribble the form of an aeroplane trap.) As the blooms in this garden grow a word is also realised.
A word is sometimes said.
The said in this is neither but it is. It is the honey on which the eternal willing lays down, and in this first sweetness first consciousness is immediately sustained.
Write quickly now
your life will be silence.
And a voice in the dream said: Suppose I open your eyes today? I am teaching you of life. There is no knowing of death. Death is seen as a snarling dog, yet see death and there is nothing but life there.
Life is everywhere singing, what deafness is it then, which cannot join the song? And the dream had a voice even in mute night, a sound breaking through this muffled slumber: What now if I open your ears? Seeing and hearing, there are yet other senses to excavate.
All creation already exists. It cannot come from death as death. Death as death is an absolute ungiving of any energy. To display a flat line is already to be too generous with its information.
Death as absence has already negotiated with life and hence it betrays its non-being.
At every point the absolute is compromised by the tender and the possible and this contingency called life. Creation is the knowable contingency of entanglement. It cannot come from death, or it comes from a death already compromised, therefore it comes from life.
Creation arriving in life must be known. Absence caught within this swathe of sensing becomes relative. Death is our relative and now we are family engaged in a dialectic of sense and nonsense, so the “it” of death is no longer death. It is a form of sharing.
The mutuality of absolutes, life and death engage as communitas, an entangled surrender from which there is a dynamic reeling out of all that can be generated within creation. We are swaddled in a shadow cast by living light.
Creation is also destruction yet all death immaculately is not. The fertility of existence and the irresistibility of life asserts an ongoing communication. O soil do not be afraid, the clay of your nature bursts forth in bloom and although the flower will wither a seed will remain.
I was brought to the shore. The sea was at play. Pebbles were cast upon a boulder: See this shape? Count this number. GUSH. The pebbles were knocked asunder. CRASH. New pebbles, new shapes, new numbers. GUSH. CRASH. The boulder’s glistening back seemed to wink and chuckle. We will play thus until the toys are sand and all will be delighted always.
Beneath the bell of the sky, ringing expanding in struck single song. And when this song has indeed ceased there will be silence, write quickly the notes you now hear for silence also sings.
this the needful balance to comprehension. Not compre
is at the end and
We have allowed great combative ignorance to rise up.
To each other our self donated is a combustive and forever fireworking source.
In company we light each other and the illumination over there will here shine me to self.
What is there between our true selves and our true selves at source?
There is nothing between our true selves and out true selves at source.
Nothing is not to be comprehended. The void of this gap that is no gap cannot submit to the seizure of apprehension.
We have insisted on a great combative ignorance, it shields us from our own resource.
Shadow may seem overwhelming
although the light grows
greater in darkness.
Such dark incomprehension
is no concept
and yet therein we discover conception.
What else is there before the singularity of resource? The singularity of returning and the single sure light
which without flicker is your life.
Even here amongst this brawling bawling shadow, refulgent is the radiance and single is the source thereof.
Allegorical is other speaking.
All light can ever do is other speaking.
SINGular the song, set as a gemstone inside a dynamic.
The radiance is allegorically bedecked in jewels because, here, it only has our life to speak through.
Where the light is its own resource there is no sound, no silence, and no radiance. The dark is fully light not comprehending. As the battling unconsciousness suspends itself and fails, exhausted (for ignorance is exhausting), so it begins to speak allegorically, it begins to beautify itself with gold and all manner of art.
This is a shining presence, it is said, and once light is spoken of then there is sudden contour, shape, depth, and height.
The pointing brilliance
on and off from the river’s flow, star stabs, patterns appearing and rearranging.
The pointing brilliance arrows into this eye yet seems to see something far beyond me.
Patterns akin to the light through trees on the distant hill. Flash of wing, a form rearranging and appearing and vanishing. Eyes akin to the wing. Senses fleetingly sure, quick fictioning of purpose, this flash and ripple of light suggesting a search.
Surrender to the searching for a ferment of finding; what could possibly be? Walk the hive, honey the brew. A humming to pull me along the river bank. A purpose on wing, drone rising through water falling, a wisp of grassing friction flicking through.
My pockets are holes. Footprints trail after my stillness. Each hole steps into sand and strategy and memory. The complexity of our smallness pierced by moving reflections. The fleeting persistence of beauty.
Is this light a perception of fundamental relation? This vibration which holds the gurgle of river, the tremor of watery skin; this vibration which lifts the impossible rotation of wing, the song nectar, the jewellery of powders.
What made this vibration, this shaking point of entry? Where is the reaction which gestates electricity? I hold out against the brilliance, calling down my ability for blindness. A stumbling moment is made, footprints smear a quick twisting motion over rock. There is an incline, a waterfall, and pressing through trousers the nettles are rosette scalpels. Light buried in these plants is a pointing brilliance and, lanced by shadow, I am a pierced specimen.
Resistance, the material allowing or disallowing of free passage to smaller materials. The smaller materials also resist, they are also passed through. Each element is a way through for another element, smaller and smaller until elements bequeath particles and on until particles are caught in the act of birthing principles.
Principles also offer up resistance. The vibration of some unknown quality squeezing within possibilities generates a pointing brilliance called light and against this refulgence we squash shut our eyes. We fall into the embrace of a shadow and, now, glazed by honey sounds, we are one purpose sealed to one exploration.
The search is a glittering string dragged swiftly through the night. A dream opens its eyes on a hill, above the waterfall, below the sun.