First
there was an initial apparition
a dog and a goat walking along, 

the beach, a long, curved, low pebble rubble.
Out there, grey sea
a white sail cutting 
triangle slicing the porridge coloured sky.


Next
we are are waiting to be executed.
There is great anguish at the injustice of this.
Our investigators had demanded total surveillance
and we shut our eyes.
Our executioners now demand a blank space
and we look.

In the meantime there is much paperwork to be completed. All gifts are slotted within an extensive filing system, only after this stamped and duplicated abdication can the propriety of murder proceed.


First
there was an initial apparition 
the white sail cutting blue sky.

Next
we are are waiting to be executed.
There is great anguish at the injustice of this.
We look out to sea and wait for the sails to become larger. 
The wind seems to be against them. 

In the meantime there is much paperwork to be completed. The gift of free will must be slotted within an extensive filing system, only after this stamped and duplicated abdication can the propriety of murder proceed.

The first execution fails, throwing the entire process into turmoil. We are able to leave but must travel a long route through poisonous marshland, bitten by insects and sucked at by leaches, until eventually we find the boats pulled up high on a gravel shoreline.

First
there was an initiation,
instant appraisal and blue sky.

Next
the family and I are waiting to be executed.
There is great anguish at the injustice of this.

The first execution fails, throwing the entire process into turmoil. We are able to leave but must travel over a high mountain pass, camping on the snowy plateau and waiting for the route to become clear.


On wheels 

shaft driven
cycle rattling I found




an aggregate future
the reduced past.

It seems that the tasks of milling flour and of shooting film are linked 
in the family of Rank.



On rabbits and hills.

The way through the head / the never before thought / way of thinking as one / mind body person / making new. // Get your self of knowing / as never known before / outside of the knowing and has known knowing all / at the root afresh / of who you are.

Thoughts about 18yr old Harehills and in the squat self. […] Opened the curtains and sat and a rabbit was here on the grass in front of the window, a perfect echo of the [rabbit shaped] cloud I saw yesterday evening. // The first [rabbit] just ran back in the opposite direction with a second. Meanwhile the mountains are in the process of being engulfed within a rolling bank of cloud, vanishing.
Hare hills; rabbit clouds. I remember a hare running down the middle of the road as I cycled along behind. An empty road somewhere in the Vale of York, the hare and I, and a single oak leaf stuck in the spokes of my front wheel going clickclickclickcclickclickclickclickclickclick.

The only other time a hare has run down the middle of the road in front of me was that time when I was coming down the very steep wooded hill on a bike heavily laden with panniers and a tent strapped on and a rucksack on my back. With this kit I was too heavy for the machine, which had spokes too loose and kept shedding its chain at the merest touch of a gear change. The brakes began to overheat, I zoomed past a couple mid-sandwich, their bites hovering around crumbs as I walloped by. At the bottom of the hill a slight rise over a small bridge lifted me from the tarmac. A startled hare shot out in front of me and ran down the middle of the road, I followed and, carefully, touched the brakes. Immediately all my luggage fell off and became entangled with wheels and gearing. I fell forward, clinging onto the handlebars. The handlebars were wrenched into the opposite orientation, and I was on my back on the road and the hare careered to left, disappearing into the woods.


I remember another time, rabbit on the road. Only this time it was not running. I was cycling, labouring up a hill, the landscape around me lightly wooded, some fields on the other side of hedges. I thought it strange that the rabbit did not run. Its head kept bobbing up and down, ears alert and then ears low. I slowly came closer, again I had heavy panniers and a rucksack and a tent, although this time the bicycle was more robust and better behaved. The rabbit moved its head but did not move, it did not run, and running is a thing rabbits normally do. I came alongside the creature and saw why it was not moving. Its rear half had been driven over. Most of the spine was smashed and the rear legs squashed completely. Only its front shoulder region and head was unscathed. In its alertness it knew its rabbit-like behaviour. The front paws made gentle scrabbling motions and it looked certainly at where it might go. I was then, and remain, a poorly educated city person, despite jaunts toward woodlands and hills. My first response was to mount a rescue. Call a vet! Get a farmer, a farmer who may have found my scruples hilarious. Just stamp on the thing if you’re so worried about its suffering… But I’m just a poorly educated city dweller who has no conception as to how an animal’s neck may be swiftly broken. The rabbit nodded and ducked and ineffectually wriggled. I dismounted and worried over its agony. In the end, bravely (I thought), I grabbed it by its front shoulders and hurried it into the hedge. At least here, I thought, it might die with some greenery. A small carnivore may put it out of its misery. Repulsed, I wiped my hands on grassy verge, remounted and rode away. This rabbit’s nervous, failing gestures, and its smashed flat rear end, still remain alive in my memory. That it was sunny with a decent breeze. That I cycled past many small inlets and harbours. That my tent broke apart as I set it up that evening. All of this remains.
·        What is this flame, / what is this flame / we call death? // Nothing that was dying is created.
·        “… and I have breathed out nothing that can die.”
·        What is this flame? / This is the passing of appearance. / That which is appearing may die. // Appearing others…
·        Appearing offers a great struggle / to its passing / often. // May we cease to be appearing and / still be, even in / this world.
·        Appearing appears so to / to struggle. // Who is it offering resistance to / the flame?
·        The falcon cannot / eat grass, and yet / there is the rabbit. / The falcon may / float in the sun / but it is rabbit / who translates the / sun, and this through / the language of / grass.
So we had two guinea pigs and a rabbit and one day I opened the hutch and Squeaky (a guinea pig) was dead and stiff and sort of propped like a board over the food bowl and Rabbit, was sitting on both Squeaky and the bowl. The other pig is called Princess Fluffy Bum. Ms Fluffy Bum is with us still.

A time after this and I opened the cage and the rabbit fell out, flopping onto the grass. Once she would have immediately been up and off, making a break for freedom whilst been chased by an inarticulate raving dad and several children wracked upon their hilarity. No longer, no longer. She neither noticed that she had fallen nor ran. The hutch door hung open, Ms F. pushed back into shadow and stared at me, not moving, most certainly not escaping.


I scooped up the floppy animal and inspected her, and then I laid her down briefly once more, and I closely looked some more. She was still alive but breathing shallow and rapid. I got a kitchen towel, spread it on my lap, and sat down with Rabbit draped over my legs. Once, perhaps twice, she weakly kicked a back leg.

Slowly, slowly; the sun shone. I sat with our pet rabbit over my legs, her breathing getting weaker and weaker. Her mouth fell open so I could inspect her front incisors. I stroked her, I talked to her. Gently, slowly, over an hour or so, she ceased. 

When the rabbit was dead I called the children out of the house and together we dug a grave and buried it. I cried and my daughter was astonished.
·        [In the dream] I realise how flimsy / wire is all that keeps / them in plane. They / all leave. One / realises they have records on [indecipherable] / here – she turns / around and goes back / in order to find out / all about herself and / why she has been / contained. Woke up / with the word / Ensign.
·        “Anything in which there is no force is dead… For the Spirit [force] is the strengthener and the quickener.” [Hildergard.]
·        Dream of the mountain / a large empty mountain.
·        The mountain begins the book.
·        The hill stands / within a mountain / and the mountain stands within a range / the range stands / within a mountain / and here we have / our frame.
§  The volume of
§  clouds
§  stretched even
§  length and height
§  still conclude
§  in the enormity
§  of land below
And the volume
of land below
stretched and pushed
still conclude
in the enormity
of its roots below
§  the roots below
§  and the clouds
§  above and my
§  time smeared
§  volume between
§  even now
§  concludes
§  in the mereness
§  [meetings] meeking set against
§  the scales                  (meeking – training of horses)
§  timings  {meekness} we cannot
§  attain
§  journeys only already
§  made yet only
·        in the moment of
·        vision our imagination
·        absconding
·        from the tumult
·        of dimensions
·        if it should
·        be allowed.

.

.

.

The simple line to be walked as nous.

The knowing line to be walked simply.

The walking line, simply.

The walking nous, simple line.

What is the abyss but nothing?

At the end of the line; the drop

:
:

.

The abysmal nothing is known as a huge transfer of energy.

From nothing to nothing to appearing.

This energetic presence known through its abyss.

I am known from absence unto absence.

Woe to the one’s who bring harm to these little ones; better a millstone be tied around their neck and they be thrown into the abyssal depths.

Here is the millstone.

Here is the void and the weight worn by all.

Even so, even so; a smallness will grant access through this hole. Wriggle through and drag through, you bring an immensity of light into this dead depth.

A simple line. A knitted together line. An energetic transforming line, neither nous nor knowing, and not not knowing. Ours is the cold seep community. Ours is the broken open mantle, a steaming vent of fecund mineral.



Home becomes not home.

It is never to be recalled.
It is never safe.
Our home is the impossible, it is never the destination.

That great love, that want to act, that which once stood here in equanimity, this place where humbly all was possible.

The wall equally positioned, all around.

Home becomes memory.

Before our nakedness and this insufferable need
there is a desolation wherein no clothing and no satisfaction will ever be possible.

Memory becomes not memory.

Memory becomes refuge.

The world ending is ever capable of generating approximate desolations.

Refuge becomes not refuge.

Refuge becomes path.

The world ending ever generates new worlds, ever ending. The incomplete completion, the succour of devastation.

Path never ceases.

Path becomes home.


That wall equally around all.

Path becomes memory.

Path becomes refuge

Refuge dissolves into the possible.

The abysmal bleeds its own abyss. Between walls of nothing and nothingness of wall, the equal touch, an energetic vastness.

This is possibly our home. Ever ever does that great love need to act.

Our home is the impossible, a trembling memory, a tumbling path, an open refuge;
it is never safe,
it is never the destination,
it is never here to be recalled.


Splendid rebirth, when black and white are together
and do not make grey.
“Who you are” is not to be considered the spurious identity of who one thinks one is; or who one imagines one would be, could be, should be… “Who you are” is not the product of who, or what, others would have one be.


This identity we are edging towards, which is the actual of your personality, this is a base subjectivity, a raw understanding, and it is here alone where one is able to make some account of experience.
Memory is that which negotiates between raw understanding, with its account of experience, and all other forms of identity. All other forms of identity cluster around persona, ego, and expectations. These forms each in turn offer up something of use, beauty, and desirability.
From use and beauty and desirability come a seductive insistence.  Use, beauty, and the desirable will be; in so being these qualities do not easily yield to having their persistence questioned.
Persistence of form above content will break memory.
If one cannot remember then one cannot trust who you are.
The breaking of memory is a complete undermining of identity.
The identity which is undermined does not then surrender to a state of being without identity. Much worse; the memory which has gone leaves raw understanding as neuter, and in this combined absence all those other versions of “who you are” are set to pillage, plunder, and expose themselves.


If memory is not to be trusted then self cannot be trusted.

If the landscape and the recognisable journeys around these spaces are lost, shattered, or stolen; then it is memory which suffers. If memory suffers then identity becomes a competition between phantasm, ideology, revenge, and general bluster.

General Bluster demands bloodshed. War is always raged over the corpse of remembering. 

Here it is where black opposes white forever, never to mix, and all that results is grey

As the ways
of chivalry,

so the current ways of doing commerce will one day be arcane. The mysteries of the round table were also the tabulations of exchange. And in days to come, should those days arrive, then the mysterious manner of knighthood may be at least as distant and at least as impenetrable as the current urgency of exploitation and electronic usury and the leverage of false scarcity.


Yet the troubadour sung trail of the chivalrous is a dream which still marks our trail. The city is mustered around heraldic banners and its names are heaped atop of old stories, and those squeezed out, paled, redrawn, elaborated and once more forgotten memorials still run their course within our consciousness. 

Maybe these stories, sunk just below that which can be approached in the presumptions of rationality, are actually those forms around which the new myths of finance and banking take shape?


It all comes down to a moment when the red knight, the green knight, the white knight, and black knight commingle in a quantum affray. The white sheep are black sheep, the black sheep are white, they cross the river and reverse, they cross the river and reverse: the black sheep are white sheep, the white sheep are black.

I stand at the Cripple Gate, a solitary beggar awaiting sustenance from trade. Elusive trade of the city, my rags speak me as a poor traveller, a stranger. My manners are alien. 

Grand towers arise, sparkle and glory, the king-in-deed. The architecture is sovereign in expression, and its role is to make beggars stand at a gate through which royalty will never pass.


The ripping aside of structural memory
this is trauma

and traumatic furthermore is
this tearing away of memorial architecture

which is not the anguish of others

the living in this or that region has no safety
the impact is general
for it is our memory

and it is our region, where
shit bricks and the broken
the architecture collapsed 
on our nest

it falls.

Our archaic experience is now

now challenged
as are the migrant birds above
who cannot comprehend how



an entire island has vanished.

Entire islands vanish all the time.

All time is a string of vanishing islands
their trophy worn beauty

wearing thin.