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.


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

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

The shadow of the shadow

there is no expulsion.

The shadow of the shadow, there it is; behind, before, beside. 

The shadow is not always your shadow. A hand is pushed out of its substance, a hand which one can hold. It is a child’s hand. It has no words and it is alone.

(Downstairs I have left the heat on underneath a pan of stew, and the grill is on, and in the front room the television is on. The program shows Peter Ustinov, he is talking about science. A John Coltrane record is on the turntable. I am on my own.)

If the body is treated like an object it will develop object-like responses.

The body is treated as if it were a coherent awareness, the loving receiving ground of a highly developed consciousness, which even so shows every capacity for near-unlimited further development; if so, then there is indeed no such thing as a persistent vegetative state.

Like loneliness the act of writing, like the act of writing the near-unlimited further development of consciousness.

In each, in every instance, so their own being (being lonely, being written, being consciousness) must be resolved in its own being.

Each instance reaches into itself in order to transcend its own measure, and this by means of its own materiality: Matter, material, text, thought, the walk, and the shadow of the shadow all bear forth their own seed of overcoming.

Myth and dream first come to surface in the greasy fingerprints on glass and in the stew left over in slightly charred pots. Sharing across the table, there is the snatched light of a dream, there is the shadow of the shadow playing fool again, telling a story again. 

There is no expulsion, only an investigation which walks. There is no expulsion, only integration. Each material instance transcends its own, and tantalisingly it returns to its own. 

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

disturbed

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…


The key 
to transformation seems to be 

experience experienced in the process.

Where is caught experience?
Where it is transforming.

Inhering potential is received as change and change is received as an inheritance. Our wealth is of an inherent probability weighted toward change.

Thought process itself will be subject to process.

I have built a grilled fish as if it were an abstracting machine. 
But I have not built the fish.
I have burnt fish on occasion.


The abstracting machine is also a tasting machine. 
Here in my mouth it goes to work.

Transformation is indeed tasty but when I bite down on the key I break my tooth.





Everything reflects.

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.