26 Moves

*Note: This post relates to a twin blog wwwmovements.blogspot.com
also called 26 moves- of a series of drawings. Those in turn were activated by some of the work done in Daniel lepkoff's workshop in Frieburg, Physical Dialogues, between 31st July and 6th August 2010. ( The only way to get to the Movement blog is to click on the link in the blog roll).
R.
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Bodies placate into one another. The outline absorbs, thickens, bends, absolves through the repercussions of something that keeps coming. Keeps bending.

There is nothing there when you look because you are hopelessly drawn into it too. Line for line. Echo for echo.

But there is a hesitant blink between the thought of it and the reaching for it. The blot of there/not thereness that is a jolt, a scurry, a scribbling and a scribbling out.

It is too terrible to look at these up close against one another like bodies in a morgue. Better that they fade in and out of one another recalibrating so that the multitude works as one.

The placement and demarcation of units of attention. With the yawning gaps where the lines run out into a bend in the paper there is a channelling into and out of invisibility. The blank pieces are a gulf at the limit that does not exist so that we stagger, hesitate, draw back into some kind of tottering brink that takes our body over the edge whilst remaining it where it is.

A wobble both drawn into gravity and propelled into light. The movement keeps running and running and is simultaneously seized, encapsulated, condensed. Called into blood and bones, muscles and sinews that implodes in that snap-shot.The blink of a flash-gun. The fall-out, the picture.

This tear in our livability that allows us to consider an act. That teeters on the verge of being toxic. A break in the on-goingness like a gasp invading the chest. A sudden revolt of that which we would swallow down. This neutralisation of the grit of surface to surface propulsion that gives each action a direction is a question. It is also a problem or a physical condition. Now a gut explosion quite impossible to contain. Then an inability to let go. In both a recursing on the tried and tested insensitivity of digestion, of elimination. It is a gasp of contradictory affects- of stop/start. A halt into the melting mutability of this shaping as it is lost and found. Something is fixing it- imagining it- recording it. Holding it up. That something is us.

In fragments of stasis thrown out of range that are many moves in excess of something collectible we organise and disorganise. A torsion sewing through the body and between bodies and things. Beyond the demarcation of  lines.
The impact of surface to surface on one another. These are felt impressions that are lingering so that skid marks in our affability- in the traces we leave- in the blotting and patching of an impossible light are sent around the office, altered re-constituted. An inefficient time consuming filtering system that brings up more than it is worth and is seen to exist in the very heart of life. Kept on despite its near continuous lapses. For the reading takes its impetus, runs its course beyond the material impressions that we ponder over. It gives our movement back even as it is almost vanquished, turned to white in the bleach of absolute matches- of absolute reproduction, in the impossibility of this double encounter. Point for point it is eating itself.

Here but inconsistently fading. Flailing under examination. That is why every change of attention is a get-away car- a chance for a new life- an ability to remain alive for an extended amount of time.To remain conscious. Because in the constant light it is failing bit by bit under our eyes. Memories are erased, eroded from certain areas of ground that give way or embrace bodies repealing an event, disallowing the possibility of it ever completing- changing the nature of what it is as it becomes swollen with counter-indications.

It may appear lurching from here to there picked up on one radar or another. Reinventing itself like a rope uncoiling. It is hard to track. There are lines of  attraction and instances of revulsion scoring into one another and cross-hatching all of our interests, all of our senses. This is the only way to describe the body.

That kinetic buzz in the ears is muffled and cossetted in the here and now. Yet it expands beyond our bearings. Can we follow it? If we can only isolate a wish for even a fraction of a second.

It is doubtful.We cannot even read it in stillness. We sometimes leap into these bare bones of brokennness that are all that remains in order to cancel out the violence of the gesture itself- walk right through them like cob-webs that become our new glistening skin, layer upon layer. That is as far as anyone can take it in this backwash tide of trying to deal with what is there.

There's an accumulation of affectivities- of sensitivities -that score our bodies through and through. Yet our aggravation creates relevance like mimetic folds through which we make up on the spot expressions on our faces. A reachability far beyond touch yet that is bantered back and forth over the surfaces of our entire bodies into the felt vibrations of our organs in atunement with one another. There's a mutuality- a resonance so that even as we stand here quite unenthused amid gestures that are lingering beyond the execution of any single origin -a twitch, an unresolved falling, an unassociated laugh that comes over us in a flash- the push and a pull begins to build on something- to make something of it.

There's an on-going torsion that pulsates. We are sent this way and that way through filaments of attention that are cut out beyond the immediate impact of our senses; of our ability or wish to respond. This listless- even bored and distracted listening, keeps our attention in many places at once. Our unique listening skills onmany occasions save us from traffic we could never see.

These influences that are real qualities of leverage and vacuum rather than a wish list for affinity infiltrate slowly or rapidly because we stay around for long enough for that to happen. We absorb movements- a movabilty- before we even get around to knowing the moves. These become our value systems. Impossible to describe but activated and sent onwards by everything we touch or set eyes upon or even smell and that disturbs or compels certain mannerisms out of any fixture while bodily we remain where we are.

That is what staying in one place is about. (That is the release technique?) A tolerance for an affectivity that is not immediately absorbed into another or that calls impatiently- out of social, moral, functional obligations-for a stringent meaning or set of outcomes. It plays off of a resistance, a mis-match, a hesitant delay on the back of experience. There's an on-going taste for habits that have been procured and twisted endlessly and have increased our attention for discernment whilst not particularly having to do anything about it.

That may allow us to fidget in a public place. Play with our hair ends next to a stranger. Spit on the pavement and follow the course of that evolution from wetness to dryness. Twist an object in our hands or twist our bodies around that object.To turn towards and away from a distant figure one will never speak to coherently. To create a pattern that lives on somewhere between. That we care for without  knowing how or why. Without possessing because there is no way to return or to loop it back around into an obviously recurrent theme. Or even to close a gap equally from all sides as one does when closing a hand.