African drumming

African drumming. A cacophany of progressions. Nudging and pressing each other. Damming up letting a directive spin arond on itself, balloon off the interuption, deepen. Then let fly out again. I imagine air bubbles all bolstering up one another, pressed and josstling through the water that they press into. The seals of these bubbles do not know detachement- could not sense a free-floatingness of maybe this and maybe that directive. There is no choice. Only an acting out through these invasions and introversions held in check. They flatten and pulsate into one another demarcating in multiple cuts the area surface of contact. There is a many sidedness. Each breath and gasp becomes a pulsation that transpires through the miriad. All tiny unsettlements become at once accomodations or are pressed down upon remotely like something barely apprehended that influences and involves. Just the tail end, corner, wisp of something long gone.
The fractional details of each involvement at the interface sends out radars that are sent back simultaneously. There is this fit and match to every reapplication. There is no target to reach. There is no return to sender. But this slow emanation has the immediacy of something concieved.  In the intersperses affects take hold.
A slight angling or swivel- the grainniness of a sudden reversal that makes the smooth affinity of surfaces that almost share a membrane suddenly bristle, recoil become rampant for an instance- like an intense  impossible scratch dealt with from all sides by the many handedness of drumming inflections pooling as if into a single impossible point of attraction. Then again sliding back into transparency, invisibility. Wetness and dryness pervade one another suckering free rides or soumersaulting out of a sudden stuckness to launch and break into an excess speed. There is no movement from place to place. All the space is accounted for in the thick recursiveness of beating. Only these wave-like rolls that iradicate and smooth back down again one another like the whip-lash of a tail flaying at the end form its own constant use. There are inconvinenances, checkpoints, a running on the spot so as not to lose the memory of a pulse and be exhumed from it; thrown out and left derelict.It's important to keep the consistancy. Once it's gone the raggedness can never recoil. So that the idea of each fittingness begins to stretch and give. Bubble after bubble pops. The memory arisen out of  this co-existance thins and leaks like oil on the surface of water. Colours dissipate and are sliding over one another before becoming a feint impress glimmered in snatches of light on the way home. No, there in the midst of it a kind of leverage is forever gripping making something out of nothing as bubbles invade, press into a haphazard mesh that locks and bolts slowing the melt down to become this immaculate device of pulsation that conjointly sways. The dance. Something that could never be concieved but is felt and acted upon  in the immediacy of a many sidedness. The dip and rise become the fashioning at the seal where the air pushes out the water, the water hunkering down and presses back against this colony of air pockets.
It's there at the seal that minute inflections ricochet into an impact that is everywhere and nowhere. Because again and again it is replicated into this compound body, this compound eye, this compund ear. And out of the body of each unit reflective and doubling in and over one another there is this continuously morphing aspect; this shaping. It is this nudge and push in the thresholds of finer and finer discrepancies that has become an indicator of all that is felt. This feeling of following and investing is renewed out of this shifting of attentions. There are so many attentions that operate as one now coming apart and coming together again like the viscous fibres of a single muscle. This muscle is everything we are and everything we are not. The hard and the soft as it shapes and drains away.