Ownership is a drapery
and the deep is an act of the imagination
which cuts

a hole in the drapery.

I see through a hole the clouds. The enormous volume of these clouds, stretched height and length, give to the panorama an assurance of the land’s enormity.

John Constable, “A Cloud Study, Sunset,” ca. 1821.

And the volume of the land below, stretched and pushed, still conclude in the vastness of rock below. The visible land drapes across an invisible mantle.

The roots underneath and the clouds above and my time as a smeared volume running between. 
There is a mereness to the meeting. 
We can peek; these the meek scales, these the timings we cannot attain; these are journeys already made, the length which continues 

beyond and outside of the seen moment.

Our imagination is continually absconding from the tumult of dimensions, but vastness is the duty of imagining.

Here is the urban drapery.

Here is the studded surface of attentiveness.

The chemical and the electronic gather as the armed do muster in the feld and as castle formed the manor. The robes of the legendary are not long enough to cover our immodest awareness.

Often the shallows are as impenetrable as the deeps. 

Often the greatest depths will flit away without note, entirely insubstantial.

Often the surface of a building will stimulate one’s memory. Memory is another drapery.

The imaginable shallows are a drapery of heavy grief, sometimes lifted in order to flirt with the disowned and unseen depths.

Vastness is the calling, the horrified call. And response to the call devastates chronological time.

These devastation are moments of transition.

We are in transit.

We are devastated

therefore the drapery has been lifted ruffled cut

or otherwise


other-wise is 
and will be therefore 
the irruption in moment. 

Non-time in time and no-place in this place. Therefore the irruption of moment in moment is this

and this is forever transformative.

And we in brief mortality
harried and tied as a knot
can barely but begin
as to wonder how 
to enter the heart of our vow.

World sinks within world, heart sinks within heart, being begins as being. There is a let be spark which is our dark memory of creation. It strikes a double darkness and this is all our illumination.

We are pathless apart from our awareness of the path.

As the future is in the deciding, bring intuitive knowing to each decision, folding awareness into awareness. The intuitive act of now is being beginning. It is a smell of heaven and of earth and it is on our bodies. Heavenly heaven and earthly earth, our perfume; you stink. 

World into world to purify world. Heaven into heaven to fructify heaven.

Use metaphors as a means of transport. The transferring of a word is a word travelling into word. To transfer, signifying change, is to bear forth, to carry. Our mouth is a cart.

A change word in a changing reading of a changed world; to hear that word is to experience the changing. To experience the change is to become the changed. Being begins, becomes double dark spark.

A story can only ever be properly told by an orphan. An orphan or a version thereof; the other made other, the side stepped, the beginning of being. Professional orphans were fools and bards, deliberately decoupled from the parentage of a royal court, and this was allowed only so a changing word could occasionally be said.

And yet the questing structure of the word placed alongside word is one wherein parent and orphan seek to be reconciled. The story is both deliberately subversive, undermining the presumed necessity of parentage, and expressly conservative, restoring order wherever there is order to restore. A spark doubly dark, for the true parentage relies on an orphaned vision to see and the foolish spoken word demands the ears of hierarchy to be listening. 

The story tumbles out of the cart. What is it doing? If ever it is doing anything, and sometimes it does nothing, then it is doing only the in between, the beginning of being beginning. Once upon a time…

A pluripotent cell 
holds in restraint certain possibilities. 

This a non-genetic adaptation which even so is added to generation after generation. (The stably heritable phenotype resulting from changes in a chromosome without alterations to the DNA sequence.)

That temporal adaptations can be passed in intergenerationally by means other than culture.

That culture itself may nonetheless be an expression of previous temporal adaptations,

Play and play amongst species cannot be dismissed as a means of moulding the response. The moulded response may inspire a change over time, and this inside time and biology may be passed on.

Play “pass it on”.

Altruism as play. 

When play is logistically difficult altruism may not be.
When altruism is generally not required playfulness most certainly will be.
When altruism is not required play can now become apparent.

Bacterium love to share.

Seeded information transcends species barrier. 

Altruism and play are instances when both social and species barrier may be blurred without the requirements of predation or consumption.

Pass it on.

Any one species may be found.

Any one species may be found as a moment.

Any arrested moment may be found as species yet species may be found to be community, an instance of trans-entity in cooperation. 

The shape of the cell is a multiplicity. 

The shaped community is a collection. 
Temporal adaptations are held in an a-temporal pattern.

Myths tell stories literally told in the blood, even as those blood stories can over time become become distorted by a miasma of fantasy.

Phantasms of bad blood.

The brutalism of biology as competing communities whence competition is stripped of its playful core.

If the telling of blood cannot participate in the playful community from which it came, the pluripotent cell as original ground, then there is a “must” inherited also. The “must” of it wallows in this strange fug of species domination and predation.

Illusion as an adaptation to timelessness within the strict grain of time, this humourless game.

A temporal adaptation called utility.
Use value denies that everything is given and this may be useful, for a moment.

What is it which changes a culture, what is which changes an inheritance? 

Collective unconscious may provide a flow of good order, running still even beneath fug, miasma, and illusion.

Individually and communally there is a response to the flowing order. A revelation which can be transmission, unlearnt learning.

Knowing is always recognition and this occurs before it is cultural elaboration. 
Deep memory is always prior to a rational or competitive testing.

Testing is not telling.

What you know you know as participation. 
It it is the telling of an original moment which is a-temporal and dynamic. Time without time within an instant.

Those hearts 
which keep us alive
cannot be grasped, although a surgeon’s or a killers hand may easily fit inside the chest cavity.

Those hearts which are alive and for living are a rhythmic labour of connectivity; a true pattern of partaking resonance which may never be copied.

True pattern cannot be replicated, it must yet be lived. It can only be lived. 
To live in a true pattern is an act of participation.
What is true about a true pattern is that it lives. 
As a living process of connectivity it continues wherever life persists. 
To copy such pattern one must first kill it.

The murderous heart of those who would operate via possession rather than live in a process of participation.

We all cling to such murderous hearts. They are the generators of illusion.

Such bloody chimera are disgorged as rotten overspill, the wreckage of the living
Such excretory hearts are not those which keep us alive. 
It prefers to destroy the telling re-telling which reconnects the possessed to their dynamic non-possession, rather than lose hold of any one illusion; such is the toxic heart of holding.

Those hearts which keep us alive cannot be copied.
Our non-reproducible hearts are such a consciousness which, once it examines itself, cannot determine the end of itself. 
The pattern of itself may only be navigated with an open hand. 
The telling re-telling is always a story of a relatedness, it cannot determine the end of itself.

The equations are as barbed wire
lines of denial

cutting across our way.

Both this way and the equations require roundness, and only once they 
no longer snarl and snag 
will the potency which can mathematically strip flesh from bone
transform to become a pattern of path lived under flashing

So much for supposition. 
In the meantime language is aligned to landscape and to body. As memory is lengthened by the corroboration of landscape and architectural theatre, so the images of words reside in the theatre, and so word-image is set alive by the way through a landscape.

In the meantime we are presented with a prison and a cryptogram; corporate ennui encultured as an aperitif for conspicuous consumption. 

The tangled wire is all around and boredom is stripped of the right to mean boredom.

Through the constant application of engulfment, conspicuously so, the round emptiness has been swallowed. It bowls along, and it voids all the voids. We avidly continue to avoid, this is the circulation of an exercise yard. 

These equations must be complete for that which they describe is already here. How is it that they bar our way to their own conclusion? Turn and turn again, this is the exercise. The snares and the stops; an algebra of liberation.

Suppose my voided centre glows in a soft expanding sphere which encompasses the limit and continues, merging and delighting in the delicate shimmer of your growing endless edge. 

Suppose infinite curls become infinite straight roads.

A breath expanded over these lines lights up like music, notation appears in each direction. 
A resonance returns we know not from where, and yet it sings. 

Thus by breathing do dimensions resound.
The knotted dimensions untie, this is the humming sound one can hear on very still nights. 

Now the wires snarl at their own dischord.

And there we walk

the Victorians are less than a metre below us. At the dump they rise up in order to be merely a scraping away.

We are built upon them and often build right into them. They persist in this fabric, the cloth of our constructed present. 

Beyond the metre there are others.
Below this scratched tissue there are others.
We are built up on them. These who persist in the seas, the bogs, along river runs; all the depth and all the changed.

Presently wet or archaic and arid; of some seepage are some and some are in the dust. The dust is the sum of it all, an unaccountable sum. The equation is baked under sun, a tremulous mark of all that was. 

All this powder of them, crushed in a rain drop. Some drainage may raise them up once more, the surface of the hidden at the centre of the root. We are fed on the unbidden and in our own food we now build.

This fogged memory teems with life. It is the ravishing solvent and the nurturing soil. We now build forgetfulness. We work up the shape of the real in a momentary lapse, even whilst using the material of the remembered as our clay.

And here we walk.
Our path worn down into remembering.