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

The gesture solidified
makes type.

The figure of type, reduced to mark,
is an alphabet.

An alphabet, trailed through
is a mouthed gesture 

tracking the dissolving

as it returns to gesture.

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.

Writing may be 
dreaming as a glove turned inside out.

Reading and dreaming may be the same experience registering on different sides of the glove.

Yesterday I invented a memory.

Today I invent in memories.

Tomorrow I will test an invention of forgetting.

Max Klinger

The book is meant to stand in for the person. 

The book is an elaborated name.

Can we not all be named by all names?

The king’s man is beheaded on The Kingsway.

This text is redacted on Royal Way.

Names and trails mark the passing.

In the naming of name, which is scored throughout the book; in the naming of the name, which is found in the reading and in the dreaming; in the read and the dreamt which sail together, so do a multitude of papers flutter to a standstill.

It is heard as the one to be heard. 

In standing still, a name is heard. 

The hearing of one name which is calling the full passing, the full trailing, the scratched pendant of person.

Stillness is therefore writing the whole book.

Of every fragment and every broken stature a secret task; to elaborate this statute which says: language.

Which says: that this dreaming and this reading may so continue into all that is done.

This dreaming and this reading may so continue, snagged on a nail, pulled off between teeth, dropped in the woods.

All done is turned inside out. 

The journey is always unrecognisable.

Everything reflects
I said
looking into the special example 
of gold leaf rolled onto the wall
and up into the ceiling
and on the statues one could find it
wrapped over the naked stone feet
and gold smeared down their arms
and gold rubbed over the heart.

But all matter reflects.
Everything reflects and the extension of this is that reflection is a special form of division.

All light is divided all ways. 

In this manner the spectrum of colours and the colours called wavelengths, the patterns and the electromagnetic forces; these perceptions are facilitated by division. 

Division is a special form of reflection. 

Perception is an analysis of reflection; division further divided.

All perceiving is a daily participation in the infinite.

By reflection the world is infinitely, minutely, and exquisitely constructed. The core of this construction is an infinitely divided light. This unending division is a reflection of a source pouring out which is yet greater than the infinitude of its own division.

Reflection is our manner of infinite and exquisite perception; the more our division of the divided the greater the entanglement in all that this perception was divided from. 

Our reflection is enmeshed with spectra. 

Consciousness knots together each reflection with each source and shape. We in perceiving are forever shaving off and reducing the source and the object, and yet these beginnings always remain and in their remaining there is an action. 

The action of being capably linked to division; the beginning of infinite reflection. The beginning for to be perceived must yet be already reflected. Each start point is also a division.

If reflection is division, light divided by light, then consciousness becomes multiplication. Consciousness is that reversal of reflection by which the infinitely divided perception becomes infinitely multiplied.

The shine of the scintillating is reflected (divided) consciousness. Divided consciousness seeing its own reflection is a light multiplied infinitely. 

How is it that the eternal becomes perceivable? 

Infinite division is sparkling in reflection, becoming the sovereign and rock-like shine of infinite multiplication. 

Such division returning to the multiple may be called consciousness. To call such an infinite process consciousness is in and of itself a reflection. Consciousness is a rock. The rock reflected is thus divided. Consciousness is divided and thus infinite division again initiates a reflection upon its own rock-like (yet evasive) centre. 

The initiation of division entangled with an initiation of light consciously multiplying light, and on occasion perceived as such, becomes a special form of reflection. It may be termed an aeroplane trap.

Garden airplane trap. Max Ernst. 1935

Premiss of the infinite is an eternal source. The nature of infinitude is reflection and consciousness moving in a single entangled relationship. This entanglement of division and multiplication precludes direct perception of the eternal. The precluding relationship, in its very infinity, nonetheless intimates an eternal up-welling of which all infinitude is able to abundantly and continually reflect. Such is the gold light we stare into.

We stare not into gold, nor particularly do we dwell open the fascination of light infinitely at play. Instead we are, on occasion, able to step into a non-reflecting moment called stillness, this is between division and multiplication but we cannot properly assign it to either reduction or increase. (Here we are able to scribble the form of an aeroplane trap.) As the blooms in this garden grow a word is also realised.

A word is sometimes said.

The said in this is neither but it is. It is the honey on which the eternal willing lays down, and in this first sweetness first consciousness is immediately sustained.

Write quickly now
your life will be silence.

And a voice in the dream said: Suppose I open your eyes today? I am teaching you of life. There is no knowing of death. Death is seen as a snarling dog, yet see death and there is nothing but life there.

Life is everywhere singing, what deafness is it then, which cannot join the song? And the dream had a voice even in mute night, a sound breaking through this muffled slumber: What now if I open your ears? Seeing and hearing, there are yet other senses to excavate.

All creation already exists. It cannot come from death as death. Death as death is an absolute ungiving of any energy. To display a flat line is already to be too generous with its information. 

Death as absence has already negotiated with life and hence it betrays its non-being. 

At every point the absolute is compromised by the tender and the possible and this contingency called life. Creation is the knowable contingency of entanglement. It cannot come from death, or it comes from a death already compromised, therefore it comes from life. 

Creation arriving in life must be known. Absence caught within this swathe of sensing becomes relative. Death is our relative and now we are family engaged in a dialectic of sense and nonsense, so the “it” of death is no longer death. It is a form of sharing. 

The mutuality of absolutes, life and death engage as communitas, an entangled surrender from which there is a dynamic reeling out of all that can be generated within creation. We are swaddled in a shadow cast by living light. 

Creation is also destruction yet all death immaculately is not. The fertility of existence and the irresistibility of life asserts an ongoing communication. O soil do not be afraid, the clay of your nature bursts forth in bloom and although the flower will wither a seed will remain.

I was brought to the shore. The sea was at play. Pebbles were cast upon a boulder: See this shape? Count this number. GUSH. The pebbles were knocked asunder. CRASH. New pebbles, new shapes, new numbers. GUSH. CRASH. The boulder’s glistening back seemed to wink and chuckle. We will play thus until the toys are sand and all will be delighted always.

Beneath the bell of the sky, ringing expanding in struck single song. And when this song has indeed ceased there will be silence, write quickly the notes you now hear for silence also sings.

Not comprehending
this the needful balance to comprehension. Not compre
is at the end and


We have allowed great combative ignorance to rise up.

To each other our self donated is a combustive and forever fireworking source.
In company we light each other and the illumination over there will here shine me to self.

What is there between our true selves and our true selves at source?

There is nothing between our true selves and out true selves at source. 

Nothing is not to be comprehended. The void of this gap that is no gap cannot submit to the seizure of apprehension.

We have insisted on a great combative ignorance, it shields us from our own resource. 

Shadow may seem overwhelming

although the light grows
greater in darkness. 

Such dark incomprehension
is no concept

and yet therein we discover conception.

What else is there before the singularity of resource? The singularity of returning and the single sure light
which without flicker is your life.

Even here amongst this brawling bawling shadow, refulgent is the radiance and single is the source thereof.

Allegorical is other speaking. 
All light can ever do is other speaking. 

SINGular the song, set as a gemstone inside a dynamic.
The radiance is allegorically bedecked in jewels because, here, it only has our life to speak through.

Where the light is its own resource there is no sound, no silence, and no radiance. The dark is fully light not comprehending. As the battling unconsciousness suspends itself and fails, exhausted (for ignorance is exhausting), so it begins to speak allegorically, it begins to beautify itself with gold and all manner of art. 

This is a shining presence, it is said, and once light is spoken of then there is sudden contour, shape, depth, and height.

Sounding built meaning

and sounding is limited, so meaning is multiple. It, the sense of it, is rarely contained.

Sounding is unlimited, and thus meaning is meagre. It, the sense of it, can rarely be attained.

Cannot be contained soundings. Silent leaking containers.

We are greater than the limited. We are greatly reduced.

Listen of the soundings. Listen especially and en-spatially to the nesting knottedness of bird song. Do you have a garden? Then you are witness to empires falling and rising, to loves and passions, to a feudal fury, and the most tender, appropriate compromise. These tragic and triumphant soundings are whistled in through an open window.

Articulated meaning is a single sentence with no discernible limit. The sense of this is nesting throughout out a purling empire, knotting together the planet’s mantle, knitted from the rattle and hum of your silence: consciousness.

The nest of the conscious, always peeping over the wattle and daub, a persistence of articulating. This is why the body is jointed, several shifts through the sieve of meaning. The sounding of this that means, the pierced film of another.

Consciousness is that which balances atop of limited sounds and in the combination of gravity and noise there is this flimsy base of our perception, the flesh. It is the flesh which discovers dance.

The grave drawing down of noise and the suave surrender to lift, such a dance is consciousness and it is oblivion.

Oblivion greater than limited meaning, oblate to the soundings, becomes music.

Becoming music, greater than the limited, mentation scoring its travail across body; body becomes the notation of thought and thought’s vanishing. The invisible and the not noticed and the forgotten also has its flesh, and this tenure of being also has its dance.

The compass of articulated meaning, resonate soundings even unto the music of the spheres. The music of the spheres is also the trembling of black holes and impossible beginnings; such is our compass. It indicates directions other than North South East and West.

But tell me again… What process? 

I’m sure there is one.

One process in many. Many processes aligned.

As one from many can be discerned in galaxies forming clusters and super-clusters, and super-clusters arc around in an alignment illustrating “attraction.”

The pull of process.

But tell me again, what process; for me, here, now, how and where have I processed? Is this question but a scabrous quest for some blotched confirmation?

Thought only arrives at the end of ideas.

Ideas exhausted and withered to vacuity; now may the thinking narrative begin.

Beginning but as thoughts; therefore thoughts be shriven in the white emptiness of mind.

So too, mind. Of course the white emptiness of mind reveals itself as an idea.

The revealed idea seeking a thought and thus processing toward its own exposure.

To the outside of the outsideness of things. To be exposed to the outside.

And the outside is itself, thus

it ceases.

It ceases as you enter.

You enter, you gather; together we take the outside in.

Come in.

But now, if there is any speaking left,

so it speaks.

Energised between

this subject

this energised between subject, between this subject. 

Now start again.

Energised                                                                                         between this sibling. 


again. This subjectiveness destroys.

This destrupping subjict nrging like gurning smackmi chin and shove in anntother in front of the PA with head in cone, 

with this protesting dust marching down across back and 

escaping away…

And away

between the coming to be a knowing, between things as well. Perhaps more so than things, we consider this.

Perhaps we are more than things

still coming to know. 

I am still coming to know.

And in the unmoving perhaps we are so more 
even more than the energised between
and so to be more

the gaze alone can never contain this, and so the solution is never. 

The gaze can never be the solution, and what is contained is full of the in between.

On the between there rolls an energy, this discreetly controlled solution between the grasp and the graspable.

So I wait.

Between grasp and graspable, between the steps of the grasping, the grasping between which produces the interstice and the immensity of this 

alI wait now. All wait with the things.
Get down on the floor and wait 
like things
for things who do not wait.

I wait with the between and the event of this is within the “perhaps” of an energised.

An energised perhaps

not thing-not-between-not the wait.

My great array is a spectrum of a not

this is

an energised between of collated materials.