Kings Cross Disaster

The ritual building and destroying of compositional niches that are fine-tuning. An itch that keeps moving.
We can not address this itch directly nor outline or determine its whereabouts. We can only allude to it prostethically through these augmented situations we find ourselves in whether in a building or outside.
Some things go wrong. Fire catches on to a straggling piece of paper beneath the ancient wooden escalator stairs of a central London underground station. It is Kings Cross 1989. Signals somehow work too efficiently and people are let through the barriers and down on to the platform just as they are dispatched off from bulging carriages into the smoke-filled pitch black alleyways. It is a death trap and the waves of smoke belch back on themselves at the top of the escalators, driven by the upwards surge of heat from the fire below creating a discreet climate there and then; a tornado-like thrust of fire that feeds itself around and around in the gulp of oxygen it takes from the top of the stairs before it plummets back down as a fire ball into the path of escaping passengers. So the disaster is born; a feedback system of organisational methodical routine; people going down from the barriers, people coming up from the trains that could not adjust in the altered details of this disaster. And so the disaster occurs where the order of an ordinary day on the tube meets the disaster of the unaccountable escalation of a fairly small-scale fire. The fire grows and people, put into harm's way, die or are incredibly burnt, remembering evermore this moment as the moment that changed their outlook on life. Compensation claims go unmet or are shoddily dealt with. People are wounded all over again and while the suffering grows, those in charge on that day seek therapy. No one is actually there to deal with  one another in the moment that is relevant. There is a delay and reconciliation around a DJ's radio program many years later separates each human in a bubble of their own injury, interest, longing and impossible meeting.

Precise

A gesture or inclination towards a certain tendency and how that plays out through the body is the feeling; the idea that reaches through the body. That is connection. Connection is not about a specific intention towards someone or about some issue already in our stock of memory and available imagery. It is something forging into existence there and then; a reaching through a touching into by going through the demarcation even as that borderline is alluded to. We are playing on and off from the there/not thereness of something both definite and untouchable. The fact that we go through these borderlines does not mean we do not reach towards or away from, solidify in condensation or dissipate through the breath. The push-pull of these polarities works together. They create the knot of a forbearance that is situated and shifted, unravelling through its own placement over and over. This is the there/not thereness of our lives where we fill and vacate, creating the circumstances for movement guided on a thread that is playing into countless directives like a game patterning itself though experiential and perceptual shifts that free up further directives by erasing over and over again every impression of momentary dwelling. These dwelling points and the directives they map out; between up and down, in and out, tilting this way and that, balancing on a precipice and falling or flying as an impulse fuelled by these vacancies, is the tipping and tilting circular directive that only knows itself through partial memory. So a tendency to go up goes so far and then reverse into down; a tendency to go forward backtracks in a looped reversal to go backwards. These polarities that seem so exclusive in the singular act of their journey always revers into their contradiction.  And in that word- Contra-diction; against speech, speech evolves in the fluidity of a metaphor that wherever it is placed always alludes to its background context- the twin opposite which will eventually replace it or further it into a differing dimension. As this pattern plays out triangulating itself into and out of each course, straight lines begin to bend and a spherical placelessnes becomes this journey/prohibition, bouncing and redoubling out of a deadlock into a  furtherance of this journeying.prohibition.  This winde/unwinde is a passage of effect that need not know itself  for there is no grand gestalt- no completion of the plan into which we can gaze down and learn by heart. Heart indeed is this willingness to enter into the patterning of the pattern. To get lost in the discomfort or ease that the details bring up and simply to remain until the reversal takes the pattern a little further.

We are swaying and necessarily pulsating between tendencies wrought to us as inclinations or flavours, images or points of recognition. These memory traces seem to reflect a whole that we are constantly alluding to, stretching towards. But they are more like small indications and prompts that are exactly what they are- fragmented and very specific interventions that call into a responsiveness either as a momentary seizure of a movement or as its continuation as repetition, inflection, reversal or re-calibration and that pose a question in us that is never finalized and impossible really for us to formulate. The idea to move, or make a gesture or communicate is bubbling up in these small  high speed affective pulses that are born and die on the wind of our unthinking responsiveness- to fold out, fold in, tilt forward or backwards, upwards or downwards. And this movement in itself powers directives that pool here and here and then here into moments of confluence that then give rise to dissipation and the momentary sense of a greater spaciousness. Over and over again these reversals of containment and release pulse between on/off, open and closed.  We gain a sense of mindfulness only as part of this pulsing dichotomy that somewhere indeterminate in between all that can be alluded to, begins to play out in the actual situation of its arising.

Gradually the body becomes unintended from itelf and is a series of connections between movements, gestures and momentary pauses that manifest in and beyond the body and through which the body shows its form. These are carried through temperature and light gauges, velocity and speed thresholds.Thought is the pulsing between emptied residue and reformulation as the body disintegrates and remakes itself on the cusp of this versatile connectivty

Catching in

What is the floor we arrive at? The surface ground upon which we touch in? How do we recieve it, enfold it into our dynamic journey and send it on its way? What ideas does it have and what ideas do we impress upon it? Is it a part of something else and are we a part of that something too? Are we the missing parts to each other linked in an unavoidable dance that we do not so much operate but rather that takes us into its patterning? Is the patterning of this dance an idea that enfolds random events into its texture? Where do we rest? Or are we resting even in the pattern that is always making itself; that we never know in full but which implicates us and through which we emerge?

Can we move through this floor whilst also impacting on it? How can we become such a floor to one another; transparent and yeilding but with definite momentary limits and points of impact? How would such an interaction inform the nature of address between practitioners and children or adults with neurological and motor difficulties? Is the nature of this address a constellation recognised even in the hit and miss tangents of our lived situation? How is this timed? Is this what care is? Alluding to the practice of pattern-making through careful timing rather than to fixed ideas of each other. This is an outline for the aesthetics of contact.

About forgetting

A pattern that makes itself, touching in. A prompt to what? A memory trace that has no content and no directive. Yet a semblance of some kind of journey- like an opening- a possibility with no end. How far will it go? When will it run out? Does it need to be formalised, formulated? Is there this trajectory that always looks and feels the same? Or does it wobble between moments of equivalences- strange deja-vus that never really fill out as an original model simply done again and again. Can we go backwards? Rewind the order of events- like a bit or two of info that simply inverts and plays out the given intervals back to front. The mirror- image that knows it is an inversion because there is something out there that is the real thing? I`m not sure about this anymore. What is this thing we call learning, aptitude or know-how? It's some kind of collectivity that shuffles through on the briefest of touches. A mere reminder with a missing content- like an empty frame, a transparent box that bursts like the bubble it is on touching.

Working now with children with highly sensitised nervous systems- who spasm and redouble back and forth into and out of any given limit on the briefest of landings- how do they learn? Unfold or unfurl some kind of reaching out- some kind of stillness within. A connectivity that is undone as it makes itself. This dropping away from the context of repetition is actually a gift for renewal; an enquiry that is never-ending.

OCD- Obsessive Compulsive Disorder or the carrying out of the same thing in the same way over and over again. Or the ritualistic pattern-making of autistic people- placing, ordering and sequencing their landings here and there than walking away and glancing back. The trace elements of an absented choreography still glimmering in the reflectivity of a bouncing light. Where all sounds give rise to this echoing as they double and redouble cascading in and out of themselves. What is the original? Is there a demarcated zone to move towards or away from? To move in and out of?

In the garden, the patterns built up over time with bricks and pieces of wood heaped into a pile or straggling out like the roots of plants and trees seemingly absented under the earth. Worms burrowing through the mud making porous this heaped-in earth. A means to an end that cannot be seen, that is not intentional in the blind thrusting of the worm amid the particles of earth; mineral and decomposing life forms. A kind of reshuffling in the compost that is mimicked in these lines and swirls of execution above ground. The sculptures that seem almost to make themselves as the footballer is guided by the ball  between two possible landings at either end of the pitch that  is never really arrived at- just this detraction and interruption; this foreshortening and prolongation that is the game. So to create a group sculpture or a group dance is a process of taking away- of decomposition as sensory and muscle memory, kinaesthethic pathways and visceral potentials are pulsing open and closed through a composite quality of light, sound, temperature and neurological, chemical  and fibrous firings. This on-off computation is a lived experience not a code set apart. It isn't a device for composition or for feeling. It is more like an aggravation away from the slavic execution of given functional procedures; the techniques and stories of getting from here to there, of lifting, of setting down, rolling over or keeping still.

Attention then is this slippage between tracks rather than a staying on track. And the aggravation that tilts a tendency this way or that becomes the only given route at that moment full of the pulsation of every other affect. Not than a deviation from a norm or a well-known nursery rhyme somehow ruined but the only authentic movement possible under those circumstances. Desire and repulsion, they are always in the making and they are rather than interruptions to an ideal state, the very stuff of motion and stillness. This pulsing of tendencies that never quite gets going and never therefore finalise are the provocation that encompas the calm through all the minor and major eruptions of our motor, kinaesthetic and sensory networks. These networks span terrain and travel through air, water, walls and furniture. Bodies also come into it and become conduits for this passing pulsation. This is not so much an information network as an affective streaming that splinters and cascades, builds under the dam-like conditions of an obstruction and torrents down hill and upstream against gravity or towards a natural but unintended pool. This pool is not social- it is not meaningful- it is simply shaping and absenting on the brink of memory and forgetting. A memory that is un-localised and micro co-ordinated even as it is falling away from any semblance of organisation.

What is forgotten? What is prompted only to vacate all known semblance of a repetition? What is provoked, caressed, lent into, felt as a moving through, dissipated as a sense of freedom of breath or contained and catapulted out of a choking compression? These become useful or usable impulses not at a functional level of normative behaviour or sense-making totalities but in the very fragments and pieces that splinter like the debris from an explosion that is not original- not the one-off big bang we are all somehow recovering or rearranging around but the minor incidental and random firings that excite and dampen simultaneously enlivening and deadening in execution and decrease as a thinking pulse. An idea that has no origin and no place to land. A seizure that is calm and composed through and through. A rippling outwards and a containment within where centre and periphery is a liminal criss-cross in which the circle is made and remade like so many light spots on the cornea of our eyes; unseeing.

Something about the tragedy then that is always occurring- can never be tidied away within a media-friendly version ready for public distribution. There is no safe version. No life story or functional remedy for neurological over or under responsiveness. There is no cocktail of a sensory diet or program for behavioural fixity. There is no pill for attentional longevity or for staying on the case. We wobble and slip, fall and reorganise. In the gaps and in what is not remembered something that prompts us into momentary attentiveness takes us or drops us somewhere we could never prepare the ground for. This is the basis of the Care-connection that is unknowing. Not towards or about anything or anyone in particular, but open  to  what is occurring as a flow of specs on the wind or a person sitting next to us in the park on a rainy day. Where it is hard to remember or think about what the sun felt like until it actually comes out again and so momentarily changes the way we are.

Take away

What does it mean to take away- to simplify?

Create a formal structure- a story, a meal, a garden, a physical practice of some sort, or the subject matter for what is to go in any frame; a picture to make it literal. Concentrate on this holding frame and play out the precise details like a series of placements the subject matter of which is more or less random but the placement, quite exacting. Detail in then the intervals- in time/space in which these details come to show themselves. Perhaps these are sound-tones sung in a particular order like the Kotodama: A, U,O, E, I  or the tendency of pushing down and release that then manifest in a series of learnt sequential movements, or the strokes and lengths of a brush over the surface of a piece of paper, or the back and forth methodical journeys in order to prune or water, compost or plant in an on-going garden; the pile of bricks and found objects that gather - as if by themselves- to heap and collate, stretch out and trail away within a given space over the weeks and months of different people visiting this habitat. Or simply the places that one finds to sit down; on benches, on a wall, on the ground or in a cafe in the day to day journeying between morning and evening.

Create then this space of attentiveness to the passing of what occurs within this open frame of reference. Like a lived meditation; a meditation taken into movement. In the therapy sessions with the kids, set up  the self-same space from week to week; random but then repeated and predictable inclusions within this bare room that becomes a stable holding space; an environment. Then as the stops and starts of being in that space together with a child actually play out, allow for absences, omissions, deletions and forgetfulness.  Leave out the anticipated next tone in a song but leave the correct spacing or interval that this omission implies. The same with physical movement practice; begin to engine the sequence but  then create hesitation, halts and slurs. So that pressing down is no longer driven into expansiveness but must simply flip this way or an alternate way through the vacuumed absence that begins to act as an inter-meshing that is impersonal- not driven by will or goal, intent or planned result. So with these very small stimuli affects that used to be placed very formally within given routines, begin to drop away from this routine while still sounding out trigger moments within this mostly absented pattern. In this way create the field of myth/story through physical practice as repetition without actually living the repetition as a consigned narrative. Play off the story line and introduce memory, utterances, gestures and sounds not by requesting the deliverance of an anticipated answer, but by leaving this vacancy more and more blank until a humming and resounding interaction gradually takes shape of its own accord. There is not one right answer- there are many versions of partially wrong answers or slippages. These give scope as a field in which more and more can be taken away or left absent. In this absence, which is the indentation of this structure of overflowing fullness- very precise gestures, utterances and touch engagements can come through and these are apt like welcome guests returning after a long time away, fresh and clear-headed with stories of time away. These are the absences which are capable of, there on the spot, being very full- precisely there and then not there again.

So create a lack or a loss that is not negation of a required result but is the field of  any passing occurrence  Use what has gone before  not in order to get back to this or to compete and better it but enfold in and out of what has gone before and experience spaciousness and freedom out of the minutia and continual absenting of a background rigor that is still driving and resounding even in its disappearance.

Then when the garden goes, the voice cracks mid-sentence, the body falls through a missed footing or an uncertain core, this becomes part of the practice and there is a moving through even as there is this usable slipping away. Without this continual absenting or making of space nothing can really occur. Contact; touch, engagement,  physical and mental application and manifested shapes, patterns and sound are these placements that charge a greater freedom in their absenting  We can't know this freedom without letting the the placements we so methodically build up, play endlessly into this unraveling. Repetition is not the mindless stability it seems to imply- particularly in the diagnosis of Autism; a pathological dead-end to be broken  through with an acquired sense of individual agency where a task is forwarded by a sense of a given result and a reward to follow; where the idea is in the mind before the body delivers what is required.  Repetition is the patient wait for the slip-up which operates through this difference or differencing which is the way experience begins to feel itself in the moment of its operation; something impersonal and ever-expanding- as frames within frames begin to cascade into and through one another as relative myths, stories and patterns of playful encapsulation that a moment later burst on the borders of another whose very life is a metamorphosis between unreliable shapes that coexist but cannot be felt to coexist within a single frame.

Use

While loading an image, in the time it takes for that thing to manifest there is a play of pixels; a dance across the blanket emptiness of the computer screen where first this collection and then that collection gather and superimpose one at a time at the given intervals required. And yes to begin with before the system is totally up and running there is that sense of spaciousness in the in-between of these gatherings. As if a certain freedom of expression could be found in the left-undone totality that never was. We are all too ready to read forward or backwards- to a time of given completion or a forecast of event-closure once the system's overload starts bit by bit to constitute its missing parts. And it's not only in this obviously temporal landscape of a decomposing and recomposing code tablet that the assembly/dis-assembly is taking place before our eyes. There at the British Museum standing an arm's length away from a painted vase shattered and rebuilt, the varnishing and ink-work all but a dream. But we are prompted into this idea of completion by the helpful sign beneath the glass cabinet; "A Goddess wearing a split skirt holding a bird in either hand" Oh so now we know. That is it of course.There it was before our eyes and now it is pointed out to us, well yes of course it is this. We stand a little further back. We squint and the vase could be nothing other than what is described.

Back at home I am listening to an ancient Bob Dylan CD- still working off a sound medium that can be physically scratched and re-rendered; distorted on the surface of a round translucent disc that in this way can then affect the reception and/or perception of a sound. But I am lucky it is playing at all. And that is a hit and miss thing since the 10 year old C.D player is losing its laser grasp on these inserted discs and randomly it seems, draws a blank; a mute disc where the song plays in my mind not on the physical apparatus that usually corresponds and slips so identically into this memory trace every time it catches in so that the two are inseparable  So it is playing- and I think really playing in the room "Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowland". But it is slipping and regurgitating itself in any which way sometimes cutting out and then doubling up in speed only to halt and fixate on a distant segment somehow plucked out of the blue. I cannot actually recount any words beyond this remembered phrase or is it simply the Title Name that plays over and over in my mind whether it is physically apparent at that moment  in terms of the track sequence or not. But yet all the other placements of this song all there with their own sound qualities are there as relatively heavy or light insertions held apart so that like the well spaced-out crowd in a large stadium who are strangely quiet and restful simply dropping into place in a crescendo wave of applause when it is their turn to be heard in this panoramic display and then disappearing from view. So there is this semblance of a whole even though at any one time only a single notation or rhythmic emphasis is actually occurring at any one moment. It's as if my own body is tilting and beckoning in and out of these dips ad crevices; the deep timorous accents of the voice and the shrill harmonica interspersing yet never becoming one. It's in this splayed out dissonance that some kind of aggravated mood that is swinging toward a closure that is never totally fulfilled sets up this mood of familiar yearning which is the song before the words mean or refer to anything. What do they refer to? They refer to themselves at that moment- the sound-intervals that float up and sink back down like bubbles that then pop on the surface.

Back in the British Museum I am standing before a stone tablet- one of many- the surface of which rises and falls like the water-worn stone that it in fact is. I feel these creases and undulations like I would feel a questioning on my brow even when the question was gone or no longer relevant and only the crevices of its affect remained. Or the small rivulets of valleys and mountains on the palm of my hand which if magnified would perhaps create a near-perfect match to these indentations that I stand before. That is all they are; indentations; a series of  foregrounds and backgrounds; of reliefs and shadows where the affect of the harsh overhead cool lighting accentuates the soft warm folds of the rock as if it were shaping in the time it took to look at it and simply melting away at other moments of inattention. I want so much to touch this surface but this is prohibited either by invisible laser-beams that ring out at a given interval of human body warmth or by the smooth panels of glass that separate me and the other observers from the object so that what is most significant is our own brief and passing reflections off from this glass behind which are the melting lumps of stone. But look carefully with a trained sense of observation and what is more read the notes inscribed in black typeset underneath each stone and one will gather the correct information about each scene. Look here a man caught in battle thrown midway between his galloping horse and the arms of  his savior or here, a tiger in the moment of a kill with jaws wide apart and  the rump of an antelope between his teeth or the soft supple body of a woman leaning towards her companion who perhaps in a later stone tablet is destined to become her lover. These stories are told in the script below but they in themselves are fragments; part-erased into the locked in details that become islands outside of any connective narrative. Sometimes they offer up strange semantic inconsistencies to our modern eye; a  dislocated hand near a crotch, the hoof of  an animal somehow stuck on the lower thigh of a man. But beyond and before these readings they are simply the hills and valleys of this relief. These are what are humming here on this day below the cool lights inviting us to pause or move away and amid the clutter of broken limbs and smashed in faces that are not the apparent replica of the signs that call them "Woman" "Horse" "Man" and "Chariot" but are something in and of themselves, it is the soft vacancy of almost total effacement where the stone is rendered back into itself as nothing other than stone, that calls us the most insistently  And we know so clearly in that feeling of calmness that it was always only ever this. So that we linger here jamming the procession of visitors on this Thursday morning in March of  the year 20013. And yet this collectivity of people seems strangely fitting; to come together on that day all by itself.

Up in a secluded top-floor segment of the Museum there is an almost -so it says- perfectly preserved  collection of Egyptian stone reliefs dating from BC 5,000 or thereabouts that loop around a landing in a full circle with the staircase allowing visitors to emerge and disappear from the center floor without disturbing this ringed circuit. A man in a blue uniform is walking rapidly around this runway. He never breaks his step but moves onward manically as if his heart were on a lead that simply swung him around and around. When I interrupt him on one of his turns and ask him why? he says it is good exercise and keeps him busy in the two-hour stint he must do up there on the landing before being relieved by another museum assistant. I say it must be a funny job to do; somehow being there but not being there to the visitors who come and go all day long in the museum. And he says yes, they are taught to somehow keep in the background and to become almost invisible; to give priority to the objects and the broken reliefs in the cabinets and on the walls around them. He says its O.K working there part-time but working full-time -as some of his colleagues do- would drive him crazy. Just then he is replaced by a female museum assistant. She takes up her place in the corner of the room where there is a seat that the man had not used the whole time I had been up there and which in fact I had not noticed at all before she sat down.

 British Museum Reliefs and Statues

 
                                     


                                                      "Fragments"

 Gouache on soaked paper with overlay charcoal and crayon. 2012-2013

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.