THIS APPARENT LIFE

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.