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

Woke from worlds
and worlds awoke in me

photophobic soil dwellers
scurrying away.


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.


Lifted fire
twisted around this fallen knowing
of forgetting a candle. 

Neither fire nor smouldering
just the gathering

in anticipation of together.

Another note of repose

enthusiasm prodded toward meeting in the future.

Life is life is
life all the way down.

For life not to be found, 
there can be no life

yet here is living seeking living,
here is life peering toward the possibility
of no life,

being therefore,
seeking, all the way down.

One wonders at how a combination of death
may produce the seeking life
who investigates its own vestigial absence.


The rooms of the narrator get written in.

Language blockades: what is the external situation of going to conflict?

In the midst of their social being
which is also a mist
they write up the quality and quanta of exile
and describe a rootlessness as the world.

The narrator dwells in this room.

Their story is in another

rood

or the beaten situation.

One listens through the wall and all is recounted propely,
thus:


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.



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.



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.


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.