Wait

All the inconsistencies;  the temperate leanings that get started because of the suddenness of sound, of touch, of an exposure to a passing wind that catch in to this body as it veers this way and that. There is a kind of incessant seizure as first this impulse and than that impulse catches in, cutting into obsessively to re-divert  before the act is done. What is the act? Some already consigned function with a clear trajectory; a beginning, middle and end that swoons irresistibly and seamlessly one into another to make this pre-fab action; a function of the body; a normative curved loop with no wrinkles, no kinks in the material. Is this you? Is this me? Are we composed as if abstracted around a common unspoken commitment only waiting to jump start into life's little prompters; the business of this and that- of tables and mugs, yogurt pots and spoons, words and their referents?  Are we too a referent of  the word we signify- something  that needs to get it right and so live up to all the definite versions of being human melted back down into the smooth texture of  unbroken acts?

The boy who wobbles over, prompts me into the remembrance of a rough and ready game that is never really the same game but anyway calls me into a responsiveness which without this child, would leave me at this point in time, inert, slightly collapsed, not having a particular idea of what to do next; how to fashion my limbs or voice usefully. He gives me a reason to engage. But the engagement as it follows from one thing to the next is a series of episodic jerks with smooth leanings somewhere along the line and frazzled end-pieces that explode or die away in muscle contractions and un-modulated vocalizations. Until again I forget the pattern or my attention wanders and again the boy needs to prompt me back into existence. This prompting  is a kind of falling; a falling out of integrity of a perfectly consigned symmetry of equally limbed body-parts engineered and collated from a central nervous system that is pulsing and firing like a well-oiled engine. No it isn't like that at all. There are glitches and burps, eruptions and involuntary moves. There is laughter and there is stretching out, rolling over, curling up, tilting this way and that and pausing  in a moment of still poised touch that he very slightly leans into; some kind of balance point that is a knife-edge of existence and would be unthinkable- unlivable without all these eruptive cataclysms that stretch out and compress in again the body as one, the body as a combination lock joined at the hip with another- a push-me-pull-you kind of existence of lean-to's and momentary collapses. Revitalization happens on the cusp of failure. It is the rebound out from disappearance  This act of un-presenting is a running together in a timed exposure of pulls and pushes, tangential journeys and back-tracking that creates a double-take of reverberation that blossoms until the act and the imagined or anticipated act are inseparable  And what will be will be. This is a faulty mix made visible where this confluence of affects somehow parts mid-sentence or inter-ups and hesitates on its own utterance; a tongue-twister.  Gestures are the pulling away from this rolling and tumbling momentum. They are the end-pieces of  our parting company. So also are words that are the lost and orphaned sound-tones of a rising falling sea where tendencies mesh and change places endlessly before they are ever known in their separated forms as initiations or responses. This two and fro undoes directionality as it undoes subject and object and simply there is a pulsation that is both concentric and expansive - meshing  and washing through one another in and out endlessly.

I think that ideas are the patterned shapes of these movements. They are shaped according to the stops and starts that glide and interrupt one another as we interact. These interactions occur at the very fault lines of a smooth automated act that is perhaps more a distilled concept than a fact of life which is always already an interjection and splicing of this impulse meeting or splaying apart that impulse. And such impulses as they are, are mostly automatic at the level of their activation- more an aggravation or flooding out in an over or under exposure that creates vast ranges of light, sound and visceral, kinaesthetic thresholds that lap and crash in on one another like waves hitting  a shoreline  that was unanticipated. So the meeting is never prearranged but is a series of on-the-spot adaptations where the very flesh and heart of the encounter is shaped according to speed indications and how we playfully intensify or moderate the force of a meeting. Meeting is always traumatic but it can be played into finer and finer filaments of nuanced approaches and retreats. It is never a clear on-off contact but is a modification of delay and heightened reach so that the patterns becomes a long and drawn out exposure or at times are bleached white; becoming  an invisible and perfectly smooth plate, where the acid of affect has over-done its business. It's in the small gaps and fault lines of a mismatched encounter that ideas and recognition formulate, making something out of nothing where there is pause or a simple vacancy- a letting go and uncoiling out of the high tonality; the intense investment for an ultimaton.
The close of a story-line or the resolution of a sequence of chords is somehow withheld- denied its happy and ending- splintered and fragmented or drawn out too long into repetition until we are momentarily blinded in this identical reflection and back and forth becoming nowhere at all. Then it is that we both just rest where we are- together and apart making no difference. Gestures of reach and intervals of separation are one and the same. They occur without us making an obvious move at all. Functionality is let go of and the thing- such as it is- simply unfurls from a center that is never to be found- always redrafting its possible location but always gone when we arrive there too heavily. So we wait and the untold story wraps and unwraps in the changing gusts of wind.