Leaning

Every leaning is a proliferation. Yet is keeps to the centre. Or refers through the centre out and in again. It is not a bipartite bitten off bit that grows into a separate unity. It is not an equation to be set against an ulterior additive or negative. It is a bridge. A splaying through in the tendrils of separation- a proliferation of spindle-like limbs- of catapulting fibrous growths through which the thing itself - our selves- gathers cohesion buffeted and held in suspension on all sides from these invisible threads. The rocking tumultuous sway of our movement is drilled through and through from out of our core bodies into the earth, and form out of the core earth into our bodies, rising up into the space above us. We take shape between these ulterior tensions that are seamless because they go unseen. But what is seen is this instance or that instance of a sighting between one leaning and the next. We go up and down, tilt back and forth, seem to accelerate forward or hold back receding incrementally into the vacuous atmosphere. Yes we seem to appear and disappear in the blink of an eye. We wipe our brow, feel the feint breeze upon our lips in the still clear morning sun.

Birds ready themselves for flight. They stand erect on the plateau, necks long and beaks all pointing the same way over the lean of the hill into the hazy moisture of  a dew-filled Nature Reserve. Runners have began to gather. Dog-walkers are calling their dogs to heel in the excitation of morning smells- of marginal signs on the edges of what we are able to see, hear or smell. A man calls "Lady...no...". The ears prick up for an instance then fold back barely a break in the pattern of movement. We too are trailing directions, limbs giving way and holding firm-over and over again- the fall is captured in the proliferation of steps. We walk, sit down, dawdle in the the near companionship of others seated elsewhere in this early morning vigil where recognition is held in the balance- the approach and the retreat excruciatingly tipping forward and backwards, wavering on the brink of something... The birds take off, wings flapping, throats croaking over the horizon. But we are already down below awaiting their arrival which is always somehow held in abeyance as their flight is prolonged even as they do not seem to make headway. We too are between the take off and the landing- between steps; between moves.

How do we feel the movement? Let unfold the idea of movement in the actual movement itself? Let it be the premonition- this launching out into the faintest of sensations that do not know where they will land. They have no plan but yet each point in the trajectory is precise, gathered out from across these fibrous tendrils that tease out the sky, press into the mounds of grass, squeeze between blood vessels and fascia lining;  ride down the inner tubing of our guts and change places across the thresholds between one cell and the next. Air becomes blood, blood becomes carbon dioxide. Food and wastage change places- and we look into the eyes of strangers or hold apart those we have known all our lives.

Habit is a killer. Can we remain alive in the fall- where pain resides? I cry quietly behind my sunglasses in the early morning gathering of a man with his three dogs on a far off bench and an older man with a walking stick and a bag-full of old bread that he is chucking teasingly at the dogs. We all have our own tables spread out on the grass verge some little way back from the canal and the bridge. They both have their backs to me. I am looking out beyond them into the haze hearing the rumbling of distant commuter trains. None of us our moving.  But we are breathing here together in the fresh morning sun. This is the point of connection- just before the action take place- in the hesitancy of a breath savoured just beyond itself; the taste of it. That is why I am crying, out of the sheer relief that this moment brings by resting in itself before any point of deliverance.

The man with the three dogs joins me for a chat. The older man wanders off with his stick askew, glancing behind himself momentarily and the tension comes undone- limps and stutters into this or that story, this or that need un-met. And it is only time before we go our separate ways.