Passivity

Passivity- the open space of irresolution;  not going this way or that way-neither good nor bad. No positionality sitting tight from which to mark an alternate wished for or discredited domain. Just this aching opening that courses through the limit-limitless conundrum and plays cat's cradle in the movement between  the palms of two hands. What are these hands made of? Flesh or the interim space between these pads of meat? Some kind of winding through with no outcome or leave-point as a recourse to a set perspective.
Is this tragic? Lostness? Some kind of wandering away from the homestead? No because there is no integrity of a beginning and so no yearned for return- but a coursing through that in its repetitive forwarding and backtracking creates the vertigo of a spherical space that is more like a pulsating- condensing and widening with no grand plan and that is more or less aggravated  into a responsiveness like a simple life-form that turns in and ejects out according to light frequency, temperature gauges or the casual or not so casual prods from passers-by. A fly-by-night kind of synchronicity of  propellants that lean up briefly in tethered support; a yawn that is a kind of usurpation and ejection in fast succession. But this is not read as a welcoming and consequent rejection of  the air currents. A pump; some kind of constrictive working activation that makes of these currents a propulsive current that almost seems to push within the narrow confines of the tubes and ventricles; those hollow regions within the depth of our meat bodies.

Is air a vacancy or a utilizing force? And space-something that shoves up against form crushing it in the corner of an airless room whilst it parties and swings around the vicinity seemingly oblivious to the discomfort of its territorial volume? Maybe not. There is this interspersing so that the animation of the body is felt through this rinsing through of our active breath; of a space not within nor without. We share it but we do not give it- do not take it either. More like a game of catch and throw that plays with never-ending through the limits of given positions and stances. But these are not serious- they are not for real. They are enactments made into events just for the drama of it and as a way of playing space. A chase where the cat chases its tail round and round  getting exhausted in its limited but limitless space. And there is no apparent reason to this. Or a child flops to the floor in laughter. Caused by what? By this momentary letting go into the release of speed and out into the vacancy of a sudden stoppage- onto a nothingness. Suspension- where all angles cancel out one another, all speeds run through or bounce back out from one another. Intense reflectivity as the bounce of mirrors on mirrors; the ricocheting of sounds that extend and warp on the excess of one another. Total domination, crushed to a naught before the word is out. The vacancy not of an absence that used to be full, but an absenting that is the distraction of our every effect; its insessant failure as a mark of differencing. How we feel things as they draw through these endless affects into a disappearing  frontier that in the end is not even hoped for or glimpsed and so is off-set as a permanent running out on itself. This gesture of a yearning, interrupted in forgetfulness of what is yearned after or what is sought after as the homeland is the irritant that, held in abeyance, becomes active suspense. And the recurrence of these given  unsettlements until the countless inflexion is all that there is and in this permanent distortion, in the wry smile, the slanted gaze, the crushed directionality, we meld from shape to shape to shape with no recourse or sentimentality to a lost or yearned for unifying form. For that would take us away from this dance of awkward, tragic, humorous, despondent unstoppable life.


* Written after reading Maurice Blanchot: The writing of the disaster