Primed in the begetting before anything is done; the doing
an undone of fast-forward neural cataclysms held in the muscles, the fascia and
the breath.
Disengage from the fascination of the problem area; a locus
that becomes more weighty than its worth. Instead let float free in the jamming
of a mismatch; of forward-backwards that is hovering there like the lull of a
wordless song. This buzz that is so low level that it is a heart-beat that carries
the breath in the veins and into a sweat-film of precipitation on the
brow; the aching yawn of a throat and
the sweet nectar touching the lips; A kiss- a pucker, so slight is this
protrusion out into the unfilled space. And this evocation like a scent
dissipating running back and forth as a delicate hue across the nostril-cavity,
is unseen but affected; affecting yet without affect. This slow dispersal over
surfaces; throat, pores, entrails, ears and mouths multiplied upon a body marked
through and through.
The body as porous, transparent and filiated with light-
shot with holes in the firing range of this life between the marking and the
marked. Dappled light- pock-marked surfaces; shades of grey and the tinkling
double-take of a dislocated lens where the luminosity of turquoise, violet, red
and blue shouts out above the shock of white where no such colours ever reside.
It is then the breakage; the disarray of a focal convergence
held momentarily apart and in the gap something hums, buzzes, screams, jolts,
quivers, nearly dies from the shock of it all and then carries on.
This low level trauma is not a one-off; not some historical
record to address and re-calibrate. It is the day by day, moment by moment
experience; this coming undone and this reformulation out of the fabulations of
our mind’s fancy. In our truncated flesh-boundaries we rely on these
usurpations; these bleedings; these longings.
They are within us and without us. They are you and I, and
they are nowhere to be found. They are a leap beyond; a step too far; the
exotic parrots that have bred and multiplied in an East London park to become
somehow in each decimal calibration, the dominant species.
This is all quite mindless; speckled in the jerks and
excitations of our flesh; the visceral sloshing and colliding of organs that
can not keep to their own neighbours and are rudely and insidiously navigating
into the rumblings of one another’s stomachs. Intestines are crumpled into the
given space, capitalising on scarce accommodation by reinventing space in the
turns and loops of their own adaptation. And yet there are knots and loop-holes;
widenings and constrictions. The belly will rumble and there is bound to be
retroflection if not vomiting. That is the price of keeping things so tidy.
How to punctuate this process of lively stretching out into
the full capacity; in the face of a shrinking environment?
Remember the anticipated kiss? Not even this. The puckering
of lips and amoeba-like this muscling out into a space already offering a
contact that is forever shifting, retreating, disappearing. Yet left as a
physical compulsion in the body it orientates and shapes this mobile void.
Touch can be this. Not the slamming of flesh squashed up
against flesh but this filiated on-off pulsation that guides and directs back
through into movement, in the capacity or the idea to act.
This is perhaps the lived-in body of hope; this holding in
abeyance to let float like the harmonic decimals of a-rhythm and rhythm
momentarily matched and mismatched; the floating and haunting melodies of a
deserted park before the sun has even broken through the morning haze where the
low and high cooing of bird-life swoops and patterns over the mounds even in
their apparent absence within the tumbling of newly emerging growth.
