Rocking our world

In a rocking perturbation something rises, unfolds, spreads out and sinks back down to the ground. Only to repeat this patterning again and again, rising and falling on the edge of its own disturbance. It is the disturbance that brings out the patterning in a movement at first reckless like a tangent or a distraction that seems to cause a missed beat to an otherwise perfect symmetry. But this symmetry is only our idea of the body; of a plan; of a function. And it is peppered with arrested development; unforeseen environmental beckoning or the simple uneven lay of the land. How to iron out these fault-lines? And where would we be in this uncreased landscape; if nature was such a good housekeeper that it equalised every nook and cranny; erased the tumultuous fluid and larva-filled rumblings of our ancient and not so distant past. In the perfection of an unmarked landscape we would be erased our history never begun. For it is one thing after another; one interruption or slight of hand; one slippage or runaway rumination that fashions our oblique disposition.

Yes we are swaying in this world which itself is one large swing hoisted who knows where subject to weather conditions and sedimentary shifts in the strata below our feet. The wind blows. It sinks into the hollows of our sunken cheeks. It screams out its escape hollering over the wasted episodes, blowing up a storm and making child-kites that flutter and glide, swerve and remain poised for seconds at a time out of the paper bags and polythene wrappers of discarded groceries. High up in the stratosphere they are balanced between jet-streams; submerged in the crevices of circuits that contradict one another, swaying with ease where at another level; in another split second, they might collide and crumple to the ground.

We are breathing; rising and falling; making and breaking these volatile patterns in our every gesture, our every hesitation. For in these split second coincidences; in these circuitous rebuffs and momentary mis-matches, there is a folding back onto itself and out of itself  in the mad dance of making and re-making an origami paper-weight bird that acquires some kind of gravitas not through its near transparent substance but through the passages and tail-ends of its own formation; the ground-swell of our own restless hands, our agitating bodies and the buzzing insistent distractions of colloidal sound-scapes that break in upon the flow, cut it up and re-assemble the pieces out of the fallen stars of our dreaming imaginations. This is where we come to rest; out of and in the midst of our own and one anothers continual agitation. We are dreaming the same dream and it is the same dream, out of which we meet as one or annihilate one another. Both are possible and both are playing out together.