(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.
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.
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,
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
or the beaten situation.
One listens through the wall and all is recounted propely,
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
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,
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
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
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
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
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.
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.