Stories for survival

There's no other way to say it. The imagery and stories of our imaginings are popped up like water bubbles or burps from the traction and seizure of our bodies. This minuscule pulling and loosening like tugging from the ground on the end of a piece of string on which is already air-borne a disappearing kite creates like a fault-line rivetting it's way through solid rock, lines of association. Hairline wrinkles that course a channel of least resistance. The tautness and flaccidity in combo as tandem slackening and tightening that trains the split along interruptions of give and take. That is the age that we are. A life history so far. A kite reading and interpreting as script temperature zones that clash and become a wind recipe tethered and articulated by the hand below. A seizure riveting along a body into the ground. There are insects pulsing with the gradation shifts between heel and toe as Morse Code direct renditions of that wind potential up above. A menagerie of flustered beetles scuttles below.

Areas of separation come to nought in the shock-marks that run over things, through mediums, entering and leaving bodies, objects, land masses. Devastation like the piercing sound on the far horizon is faster than the speed of light. Birds fly up, scatter and land at perfectly regular intervals along the lines of telegraph wires that straddle the land between erected poles towering into the sky that seem near invisible they have been there so long. Transmission wires. Miles and miles of cables looping like confetti the edges of cities that bulge and swarm past that demarcation, hard-wiring them into the interior; the threadbare inner skirting of common unusable land. Stuck on plinths of concrete to stop them from sinking into the loose-fleshed land ideas are evoked into the white hum of these transmissions.

In the deletion of copy after copy of the separate entities of our attention all is left is the associative binding- the necklace across and through the land- the patterning of skid marks filled with liquid in the passing current  so that it becomes emotive. It's the deletion that lets buzz the resonant sound through the air-waves into such a composite device that is the habitus of our working lives. It is our playful metaphors. Jewels that we find by chance just as the land drops away.

In the school for Special Needs in the first row of houses before the marsh land in the disused playground of now reallocated space, a child with loose limbs uses a similar pulsar traction and release pushing against my hand in order to forge an instance of impact; of usability. Just before that the the floating mass of flesh like white birds drummed up from the lake in the middle of the marshland from day on day of steady rain, makes of his body a putty paste of reconfiguration according to the impulse of least resistance.

He is the opposite to the child with spasm whose bone edged limbs grate and nor against one another with jaws gnashing together at times. Though at times and in part too he is that child. Or the child whose neurological repetitious firing never misses a beat creating load on load stimulation that pops out image after image and story board after story board;  a kaleidoscope of world-views in a single take that makes of a room a revolving universe added to and confounded by every flickering peripheral gesture, hint or intrigue; every thud and silence that echoes and booms from a single location to become drawn into non stoppable expansion.

The loose limbness of the boy makes gravy of him that seeps the shape out of any thought. The body goes un-stilled not because forms and stories mount and displace one another but because nothing gets going for long enough to amass. All runs into the gush of no support like the torrents and floods depicted on the news-where whole streets and neighbourhoods become muddy rivers between the brokering banks of inundated houses; the scraggy leaves of trees bent sideways. Furniture and keepsakes, cars and buses are lifted in the dead of night and re-allocated on a wave of least resistance. Figures on the roof tops filmed by helicopters which drop down a fraction than rise up again as the water smashes into buildings.

Can you use the liquid of non-shape as a pressure? Is it mouldable? If it is fast enough, constant enough so that where that torrent meets an opposing force you could fashion limbs and digits, feet and hands, intents and even tasks out of this force. A two-way shoring up of opposite tendencies makes for propositional forms. These become the workings of our imaginings- the beginnings of play.

It's a constructive enterprise beginning in small localities of dams and enclaves. These may jettison outwards like the shock-marks through the rock or the kite-lines in the sky. It may be one day the beginnings of some kind of associative binding. A knot in the belly felt and made as a tethering resistance against an oppositional tug that only becomes this and knows itself as this by rising to the occasion. We make our bodies in relationship bindings that is not only proximal but covers huge distances in this physical gravitational amassing and letting go that is a never ending practice. It is the law of intervals; a fractional dance of off-setting one tendency with another. Recalibrating by degrees until an enmeshment sends into resonance something situated not exactly at any location but rising between them all. It is a story line. The imagery of  action as sound-event that rumbles and mutters and gurgles up in the vocal tract. That tract itself  is a slackness and stiffening of this riveted connection through environmental clusters, momentary flag-ships, boulders and walk-ways that begin to tweak one another somewhere between aggravation and comfort.

We are configuring the landscape. Predicting  relative arrivals and departures that make this into a hub, that into a dissolution. An inter-meshing of fibres that relax and constrain to warp the weft. We feel the drum on the taught strings of this web knowing through reverberation the composite impact of a landing in another part of the world; a far distant port and a far cry from home. We lean back or brace forward as if steering a wind vessel by the fall and stoppage of our bodies. We become dynamic weights in our own navigation feeling out when to drop down, when to splay out like a bat whose claws have become suddenly wings to dampen or stream-line the rushing wind.

Tethered to a greater affect, loose limbs become simply one proposition in a wider array of tautening and constraining- of pulling in and thrusting away that is preempted out of a wider kinaesthethic sense of inter-connectivity. To use momentary constraint is to remember configurations. Images are not found and lost again; somewhere in the brain mass. They are forged out of this physically attuned inter-relational device between figure and background, you and I, this and that; out of traction and release. Each time we remember we visualize or have in the minds' eye a metaphor which furthers our interest or attention.This is the ghostly whisper of the device that we have together created. So we have again bolted into place the instrument of this sounding out from our highly charged levels of comparative resistance and assistance.

The stories and imageries that our bodies evoke are the result of the dynamic forces out of which the reality of these bodies is momentarily evoked and let go of over and over again. That's the drama that we configure  in the ricochet assemblage of all things near and far that we amongst all other material entities channel before ourselves yet again becoming the liquid and gaseous exchange of more rapidly moving circulations.

There's no other way to say it than this because this is how language comes about. It is our languaging.