Movement Currents

An array of possibility- on the cusp of every aggravation- every dead-end. In the extremity of a solo direction there is a necessary inertia- a running out of fuel- an abrupt atrophy. This limbless torso rolls in on itself probing into a depth for a slight flicker -a sign-  a provocation at the febrile level of nervous excitation- on the verge of nervous exhaustion- on the very verge of giving up- of reconciling to a self-referential that self-soothes in the habitual loop of oblivion. Can we use up all our energy in this way? The death-wish- either unto ourselves or by cascading and imprinting aspects of self on to other who simply play the part of this double enclosure? How to break free of this doubling and redoubling unto ourselves? The locked-in space outside of relationship.

It is scary to move out of this- risky- at the edge of need and abandonment- longing and betrayal. How to open up the relationality bit by bit on the cusp of an interior affect? At the very point where inertia and atrophy spasm into a ricocheting of distant echoes that seem then to break off from the main body- to go their own way- to become Other and to push the interior more and more in onto itself as a defencive blockade- a wall of circuits that keep travelling beyond the moment of touch into  the evasions of images of self and other that cohere and burst by their own excess.

How then to keep the tensile resolve on the edge of aggravation at the border-line where new growth- new proliferation takes place?

A body- what is that? A body curtailed in a wheelchair - in an excess of affect- in an assault of sensory impulse that hits it like flotsam from the sky onto its passive surface- and marks it here and then here. Psychological markings are abundant because the capacity for movement- for absorption and integration goes missing. The articulation is set in limbo-  in a vacancy of space where there is no definite ground- nothing to push against or pull towards. The gravitational flow of  drawing towards and away has become dismembered from action. And the thought about action- even the idea to act- which is a form of deep imagination flowing from body impulse to action- is curtailed in the body restricted from both internal and external response.

The border as interchange between different levels of affect; its very depth reading as co-existing in  the milieu of an environment is not foretold. There is no reading- no literacy at all which when it occurs is the exquisite delicate exchange between affect and manifestation. Without the clear signs of behaviour, there is no signs or impulses drawing towards potential care-givers, educators or play-mates. And so isolation ensues. Deep aloneness in the midst of the overwhelming bombardment of affect.

So there needs to be an intervention- a slight warp or waver in the line of demarcation. Where skin packages and enfolds flesh, blood and inner organs, then something, anything; just a slight indentation, needs to give. There needs to be a flicker, a ripple, a hesitation, the momentary holding and release of breath so that in this detour- this minuscule de-railment of habitual patterns of self-enfoldment, something catches in,  something splays out and in this minuscule roll, a slight questioning is opened; the gap between self-reference and co-dependence. Here time begins to move as and from the moment of each new affect. In the slight lapsing of time- into the neutrality of a pause, new life begins to configure at the interface of what before was a border of exclusion.

How does this actually look or feel in practise? Practises may be diverse- Gardening or farming for instance, building or demolishing houses, parks, schools and roads. Or the accumulation of marks and colours on a piece of paper. Or the excess sounds that interject and rise up through one another into un-foretold harmonics. Nobody summoned these up out of a set plan. They emerged in the relationship of beats and tones to create an exegesis that excelled the input of this tensile system to overflow into a new kind of adaptation- a new life-form- that is not representational of something outside the system but is the very composition of a life-form struggling on the verge of its own possible extinction; its own possible adaptation. Every line in a sketch is this- a limit point of a certain kind of pressing down- a certain type of temperature reading- only to bounce out of that deposited trough into an explosive rebound that configures as mark-making into a new area of whiteness- soon to be undone. So the image fashions itself out of the limit points of its own tolerance for touching/for any kind of contact; its own provocation where paper becomes skin and feels itself out from the inside into a face; an exposure face now flickering through. Individual lines and dots that ricocheted on and off of one another in the making- with no mind or plan of overall features or expressive content, suddenly bounce out and cohere as a unified expression; a configuration that is born out of non-local, non causal synchronic explosions. These are self perpetuating affects which tell back the story of how that face, diagram, map or territory was brought into formation through countless affects beyond the content and frame of what is there depicted. The viewer- and there may be many from all points of view- is the relational absentee partner of this facing whether human or non-human; not now a mere surface but a touching through into what is deferred- can not be directly apprehended or seen- out of the exclusion zones- the dead-ends; the curtailments and abrupt endings that any frame demands.

Can we use these frames; the frames of endings- abandonment's that we make of others and that others make of us- to tease through into a relational identification?

The lived body of a boy in a wheel-chair taken out and held briefly in my arms; laid down on a mat. The treatment is already there from the first apprehension even before touch. The touch a mere touching in, in order to release out. And I am reading through into the mobile body; the capacity for movement; the recollection of organs, these channels and neuro-circuitry leanings tilting into a totality that builds and dissolves like sands at the edge of the sea. The provocation becomes an accepted part of the internal milieu as warmth pervades and settlement ensues. The interior bulk of the body settles and lands and the torso begins to spasm - to lift minutely off the ground and to settle back down each time a little more.  This incremental re-settlement is sending through into atrophied limbs that curl and infuse back into the interior as M thrusts his whole fist deep into his mouth. And there is nothing for me to do; no sense at all in un-doing this knot through even  minimal force even with the best of intentions. For that is simply reinforcing the separation and the need to defend an interior self-referential system against an outside attack. Rather as the interior warmth pervades and the ripples of excess and redistribution escalate and release through the belly and spine, the neck and chest, the  face and the temples, the top of the head and the feet, something seems to tighten and then unfold in the hips and pelvis and this ripples out into the chest; it flows down through the arms and into the fingers that are sensitised; linked to the flickering questioning eyes that follow internally this visual, kinaestethic and visceral journeying of the senses. Organs uncurl out of the very spasm deep at the core of the body provoked and released in these first touchings.And then much later and as if of their own volition, fingers and hands uncurl and tap into the space just above the body- clasp my own hands in pulsar waves of holding and letting go. The rhythm builds and there is a playfulness of heightened contact that leads to a light spasm or rigidity and then its instantaneous release and unfolding into movement. Movement patterns begin to fashion themselves out of the sensorial   compression and relaxation that occur as waves and now become configured into a communicative link that is nearly play. This is on the edge of imagining the body in action that it then shapes itself around. Limbs, hands, feet, head, neck, throat and voice literally grow out of these imaginings.

And the boy becomes adept in playing through from passivity- to provocation- to tightening- to spasm- to release- to movement pattern- to functional use. And so he fashions his limbs and body- parts as composite growths out of a core reflexivity that is induced at the border between his body and mine and brings us both into this composed relationship where we are together with one another in the treatment room- and where I talk with him casually and he understands and gives me signals back. Or I hold a limb; an arm in a neutral floating position and I wait. And he shows me because he waits with me for long enough to have a sense of this limb hanging there in space- supported-as if in water- very lightly; almost invisibly. And then he spasms-really just on the edge of spasm- and releases the spasm into counter-flow, showing me the direction in which his arm begins to swim with a new-found volition all of its own- like swimming up-current against the tide- as I lightly support it but do nothing to direct it- for the direction is internally given- now beyond both his and my thought-about volition-and yes he has manifested this action- not by some prior intentional goal but by listening acutely to the impulses at the border of the contact and then using the provocation of that contact- not to habitually ward off the feeling of the contact and enter instead a recursive loop of continuing rigidity, but to use the initial rigidity in order to release into a movement current. This is how he sets his body free- incrementally- through use; by imagining it to be so in each particular detail of its manifestation. And so it becomes this to him- out of his own experience made possible on the very cusp of an inhibition- a fright- that would threaten to push it in the other direction, towards rigidity and inertia. This is the contact interface and by keeping open with awareness this place that is equally the place of curtailment and growth, limbs are imagined and are given life-vigour in the freshness of these imaginings. They are always linked to actual sensations; real provocations, real adaptations according to each emerging set of circumstances, describing  through affect the situation as it is unfolding. This is our felt experience; our pain threshold and its new given use into life-energy- into a sharing. The fear of abandonment, of betrayal has been reconfigured anew on each occasion into the use we put ourselves in according to our on-going relationship to one another and to the ground. This is love. It is at the basis of our capacity to communicate. This is based on us seeing and feeling the relevance of this communication in order to come more fully into being ourselves as a way of being with another. it evolves out of a continuity which is always changing in form yet is unbroken, whether we are physically near or further apart.

The contact then becomes a way of configuring these changing intervals and the space between becomes our grammar of continuing contact; always reconfiguring from moment to moment between Independence and dependence. A better way to put it perhaps is a continually up-dated style of interdependence. This is the playfulness of imaginings- grounded as always in real events- real experiences- real kinaesthetic and visceral movements of being drawn in and out of different levels of clarity and discharge.

It is the ability to alter the focal range or intensity that allows us to stay present with ourselves in relationship to other. This is a continuing attunement and it is durational - long-term-  through every interval that in a sense holds over and makes valid the point and intensity of each contact. This is how it is put to use floating and moving effortlessly, lightly configuring between the charges of more intensive contact. Movement is the natural overflow and discharge of this contact intensity. Where it is prohibited or disallowed it will create psychological repercussions. This is how physical contact, movement and the psyche are all interdependently linked. It is the imagination that links, transgress and translates one aspect of experience into another linking the physical and material with the virtual and transitory. Language and communication is the sign; the marked residue that points not to itself or to its representational aspect of denotation but rather to the apt placement of touch or feeling contact and its exchange into the realm of movement discharge. Language naturally fashions around this right consolidation of focus and its release into energy. This is also the pulse of  the in-breath and the out-breath continually replacing, replicating and re-composing one another into a unified presence whose aspects are inseparable but never fixed.

The Dam Release

A session with M today at the school. He is coming into contact. Getting stronger- I am feeling his presence. He is using his own jerks and spasms as brief excitations - just before release. I am using this same pattern- high-lighting  the blockage like a small dam build-up - then to let go- give space and let the pattern flow out as if from a nebulae that splays cylindrically all the way out. Shiatsu/Seiki touch is this- it is  the precision intervention of a blockage- not in fact a circulation or balancing act. For in and of itself it can do nothing- or perhaps nothing other than provoke and heighten a compulsion that has become a habitual gaurding into an interior. By piggy-backing on this same pattern it flips it back out- provoking the halt or seizure at a precise juncture then as the liquid flow builds up and builds up, it creates this momentary swelling- like an over-flow- and then as the contact is released there is a vacuum that immediately is flooded with a charge of substance that goes in a multi-directional way from centre-point both centrifugally and as an outwards dissipation. This double-move creates a momentary suspension- like a line drawn in the sand- a marking- an indentation- which is timeless, spaceless. Thereupon this void arises a back-swell back into livingness and - like a man choking whose channels are filled with water, there is a sudden eruption and the passages clear themselves out by the kick-start engagement  that this provocation and turbulance creates. Out of the ground-swell there comes a magnetic pull the other way like the pull of the tide back towards the ocean current and into its dark depths- sucking back into its own integrity and force from the sandy shores where it ceaselessly comes and goes.

So with M he is learning to orientate his limbs, his internal organs, his breath, his bowel movements, his heart beats and his voice all from the same source. This catching in and exposition out that occur simultaneously as a double-take that is extensive and recursive- that is manifest and deep within the fold; that is the point of contact- of communication- and the point of seperation; of reliance and independance, joy and pain, elaborate through one another becoming the play of one another; a dance of up and down, in and out that together create a small insertion- a pause-gap through which we glance back at ourselves with humour and kindness, then let it go and sow the seeds of this merging with other, as  the preliminary of our aperception of another.

Only in this unity where we get to feel the biting in of force and counter-force curling in and out of one another; upon the banks of one another- do we then have the imagination to interact with another- as a part of ourself that we hold apart - and then leap over through this man-made gulf to create emergant patterns- signs and symbols- communication networks- soundings and vibrations; the pulsar on-off vibrations of  muscular contractions and their instantaneous release. It is the release- the letting go- the streamng through which is the journey of our seeing/feeling/kinaesthethic volitional action. Yet it is set on the banks of a seizure- a near-death interiority- a contraction that seems endless- leading towards oblivion- until miraculouly it stops- glances back at itself like a mirror gazing at its reversed image- and then unfolds back into exposition. For this miracle of reversal is life- it is health- it is well-being.

On Waiting as doing.

This tensile wait is an end in itself. Leaning through from potential to outcome it is neither. More delicate it is the straw bridge between these poles strung out between these erected pillars that are so convoluted with expectation, yearning and disappointment that they are compacted into substances; blinded in the realness of that accumulative dream.

But between landings and before the flight where is anyone, anything? How are we locatable? Not in and of ourselves. There is this pervading sense of settings infinitely and minutely adjustable as co-ordinate points that is this Waiting. And the Waiting becomes a verb "To do" no longer a position to take up. It is loaded- both compact and spacious- impacted and yet transparent. It's the circulation of air - the wind currents, the temperature shifts, the atmospheric pressure and humidity gradients. It is the rising and falling of particles of dust that hang and drop or are taken up on wind currents to be dispersed far and wide. It's the glint of the light onto and off of the bark of a tree, the buildings, the reflective backwash of a window. And also the humming drone of chanting cloaked religious men that pervade this area of the park on this Saturday morning; a Shabut, interlaced with bird-calls as they take up morsels of bread in their beak, swoop up into the tree foliage and drop back down again as the morsel slips from their beak. It seems not to be marked as a mis-hap, a loss, an altercation. Rather it is the pulse of sensing matter, following it through into movement and pressing it momentarily with the lightest of grips into matter once again. This is the heart-beat, the breath and the eidetic blink of our eyes that like the tree foliage lets in and screens the widening rays of the sun. Warmth can be felt on my skin where before there was a coolness and a light breeze that dissembled that gathering of warmth so that it did not linger for long enough to be experienced as such.

The birds on the lawn plateau, this plateau now strewn in loose tiny white feathers, are angling towards the brink craning their necks into the same direction, quaking and cawing with guttural throat sounds. Yet where I am now,  that sound is almost lost on the wind until I am more imagining it or transplanting it from an earlier experience when I was then closer to them.

These birds are waiting,  lulled yet infinitely alert in the threshold gaps between tiny leaps in atmospheric pressure, cool and warm interpenetrating swathes of air, slight breezes and their instantaneous dying; sounds that come and disappear as if around tangible corners as their passageway is eased or erased in concordant and discordant air-bands; light frequencies squeezed like bubbles through a hoop to intensify and bounce back and forth like an agile ball  in an impossibly small space. Or else thrown to the skies, the universe beckoning until light becomes a soft stroke that is no different to our experience of our skin;  not a division but a contour through which signals are forged and made meaningful as if in a wide and improvised artist studio. 

These birds are held  in these cross currents. More they are forged in this way only out of these particular vectors. And what appears to be inclinations, decisions or complex programs of coordinated movements based on unknown communication networks; the submerged signals of intelligent flesh, are simply the coming into fruition of all these movements. These do not stop at the border of each feathered bird but rather run right through these bulky squat bodies tainting them with the same brush, colouring them simultaneously from the outside and inside as if the birds were doorways; valves that sense invisible discrepancies in the pressure and speed of air currents, light flicker and sound resonance. And as a certain decimal of frequency is reached in these multi modular currents the birds simply take to the air. They find themselves airborne not because  they have made the move towards flight as if collectively following a good fact by fact Manuel on flying, but because they are no longer landborne creatures; they have become airborne and the relationship between these two states is not simply the galvanisation of skill sets; of muscle collectivity's and metabolic shifts. Rather the ability to imagine flight belongs to all the atmospheric vectors that make it so. And the birds simply lean in to that possibility made real; they simply take a ride on the currents that have informed them of that possibility. They are lulled into this new state much as a new-born is lulled into comfort by the singing voice of its mother or the falling into the nurture of a milk-filled breast that offers up its riches as soon as it is touched and seems in turn to touch back with the very essence of life.

In this sense to talk of the organism-environment is more than to say that the environment attunes to the organism's needs. It is to say that the environment- whether wind currents or the real or imagined solidity of
the mother or the mother's breast, lends itself to the idea of being harnessed in the very way in which it presents itself. "Use" then comes from this merging momentarily into the swell and surf of a sea that carries us and into which we let ourselves be carried. Yet somehow in this carrying we wake up, nearly die from the shock of being truly alone and separate from the object of our merging and then if we are lucky reconcile the mis-match and communicate to one another out of this new dream of a volitional encounter. Holding delicately in the balance between these two states; a merging with and a separating out from- so that we are neither engulfed nor spat out, is the ambiguity out of which the Waiting occurs. And we can truly listen into and sense the conditions in which this waiting occurs so that when we give our trust out into the idea of being carried and of having our weight borne through space by forces other than ourselves it is already brought to us out of the environmental conditions that make it so. It is in the action that we imagine the possibility that is emerging through us into this action at that very point in time.

Imagination is nothing more than this. We are given into a shape and form momentarily out of the tensile currents that offer up precisely this and no other possibility. Where we can lean into these forms lightly and gracefully and then as conditions change, re-formulate these imaginative shapes to a more updated Use, this is how we come into health and connectivity with our environment and with others who like us are manifesting into and out of these same environmental conditions.

In Therapy or between Therapies, this active Waiting: the tensile interim space that is not foreclosed into goals and objectives, is the place of Health. Wherever this loose tensile connectivity remains, there is Health. If the Therapist can be this kind of loose Environment then the child can move into action and move simultaneously into the idea of action as the imaginative rising and falling of brief forms.This is freedom and it is the basis upon which connective presence is felt and a relationship becomes possible.

On not taking hold

At the tipping point; a threshold. The backwash rinsing through.

At the extremity of a situation; an action; a contact situation; out of speechlessness, rigidity, incapacity; a coming undone, this spontaneous backlash to all that we keep on a tight meter unfurls and in its exquisite display it is unbehold to anyone, even to the personality of the person doing the action.

It is an exegesis into a wider pattern of relationality and an admittance of affect in this co-dependency.

However bizarre, ritualised, repetitive it may appear it is loosening the strings that hold us tightly into and onto ourselves.

In this case purposelessness is the catapult unfurling of our improvisation that knows itself in the doing. It is of the moment and so despite appearances is more real, more apt and more appropriate than the tight edge of choreographed learnt gestures of social mores.

It is the unwinding part on part felt sensation as it is happening in real-time. So it is an enquiry- facing a deep fear that to act and look out of this consecrated norm is to risk everything; to break down the borders of identity.

Yet it is a necessary loosening in order that the components may shuffle and truly relate through a feedback of holding one position in relation to another.

This accountability; a kind of intricate bodily accountancy where the mind is deeply imbued into the minutiae of each felt sense whether pleasant or unpleasant and hovering there like a bird resting on an egg, it has the patience to wait so that the discomfort, the pain, the impossible yield is held in this suspension warming yet not crushing until of its own accord the light shell of the egg cracks just at the point where new life might emerge.

It is a risk but because the breaking apart happens from the inside; as a new birth and life-form, and not from the outside as an intervention or theory for a better kind of life, it is authentic and there is self-reflection in and through every cell from core to bone, ligament and breath.

Sensory atunement rests on this apt placement and timing so that an accuracy, a settlement, a gesture or impulse however small and seemingly inconsequential, becomes the axis around all else and in that moment may turn and so thrive.

This is a way to value what is there whether a silence, an incoherent utterance, a beckoning or a rebuff.
All are the pieces upon which an atmosphere of coherence gradually evolves. Yet the coherence is infinitely spacious, not packed tight with a mission or a judgement of its worth but simply allowed to rest as it is.

In this sense it becomes part of a wider whole just as each person however seemingly rigid or monotone they appear as a cut-out figure, in a wider connectivity they become too the axis around which all else turns. In the supposed vacancy of these figures, the hollow spaces between one breath and the next, the compulsive and the person in transit- between gestures, moves, steps, sentences, there is a silence loaded with feeling; a wordless message that draws all into conviviality where not knowing is our shared human experience and making it up according to the deep respect of intervals and pauses becomes the grammar and meter of our life together.

Flicker

What is absent? What is missing? A deficit? A link broken? Can we jump over the absence? Scale the deficit? Where are the footholds- between one nothingness and the next? Our markings are the visitations we once made. The places we left behind. The time-spans we no longer fill. This is our trajectory, and our expectation into what has yet to arise; our gesturing through is this premonition between an imaginary past and an imaginary future. We are the bridge here in the present in which we eat up what we trail behind us and what we lean into. We are the missing link of our own gesturing. The hoped for into which we keep pouring ourselves and the mourned for and missed object always askew from where we actually are. In the actual gesturing there is a virtual object which is nothing but this absentee past, this not yet arrived at future. 

It is here in this catching of breath; in the stutter, the momentary delay, the deja vu or regurgitation; it is in these habitual slippages through which we pass our time and consolidate in this evocation of a pause, enough intensity- enough contraction- that like a spring-loaded lever we flip back out into another bearing. In other words we unfold and we do so only because of this folding in. In invisibility, unatainability, in the lost cause, the missing beat, the catched phrase, here is where we gulp back down our pre-aranged words so that they regurgitate into an unknown form; an unknowable consolidation. This is the factory in which our bodies mix. Sensations stew, cook in their own juicies, multiply and converge, warm into one another and fracture apart into the cooked up particles of new planets. We are not the object of our thought; we are the passing object of an idea that is propositioning us in movement- in transition as the on-off eidetic flicker of a light sensitive eye that registers everything without seeing.

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.

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.