five grappled steps in the making

ahhmm,…the making of writing

“… she had tried… really tried for quite a while now… to do it, but the animal would not go into the blasted thing. This time she was able to pause though, if only momentarily and acknowledge the ridiculousness of the situation before she stuffed it down the front of her blouse. And she did feel she didn’t care, didn’t care a hoot if anyone saw, if anyone was looking,…which was something...”

Making. Making is always something. Something particular. It is an approach. There is the making of the known, there is the making of the unknown from the known, sometimes known as the something to the maker and to some makers invisible. Then there is the making that is not making any one thing. There is the making of everything. There is the making that is special. Special making. There is a making of something that is nothing special. It is made for making only, and for watching that made becoming. It is not made for the watcher to make of it, a made, it is just made... it is nothing, making.

There is the unmade. There is fear. For a long time the trial of making makes fear. Something doesn’t come. Nothing. Everything. Something beautiful doesn’t come. Then the trying to make will become of just anything made. Some thing to come, some real and still thing made to become.

There are slips. There is felt loss. Once many times over the making will be a sort of nothing handed emptily back. This will repeat till tired out; and so with nothing, one will lean towards the break into the many of bitterest and sallow.

And this will repeat. But with each there is more now than the one making, the one making the made. There will be many tenuous holds. All will be something added up to. Something much more. There will be above all no shape that will hold anything... open. But there will be one shape. Of making.

In the making will be a strong refusal to lie still.

But inside the refused the maker will find. A way. To open the closed as all open was stilled and held. This is the awe/fullness that holds at the edge of all probabilities a possibility that spills and speaks the unnameable. What pours what flows out is an overflow withdrawn from the pressure to stop. To stop the making. And this is finally something.

The pressing will lisp anxious, gulping at instances. The made will become the  centre. It will emerge as the solution and is known as made and so sure is its becoming something some - one - thing that it scalds all other tenders shut and goes forward and onward inside itself. Inside itself. Itself made.

This then is the method of making which contains wider circumferences.

1. method of…(its field and the paths across it)

“… the processes that occurred outside, on the surface, sure,  on the thing itself, once the chlorine had been applied… appeared straight forward and deceptively simple. It was in essence, she knew, an orderly process. There was something. Then there was nothing. But within its own parameters, how it worked was a riddle to her. The bleaching, it felt, well it made her skin crawl. To the grey blouse that she’d put on fresh that morning it was an instant bleed. A type of blind haemorrhage. A move forward into an other state of blousedom not possible to go back from. As she spilled it towards her it burnt a white hole on her and then she felt the damp begin in on her. If it wasn’t for her foundation who knows where she would be at present...”

There is always two. There is a surface, the ground.

There is the substance on it.

       There is always two. Always too. There is ground with substance on it, a mark

a word, an utterance, a cry. As one with one other, with line a gesture. A meander, a script, a chisel. (If given two words a sentence. Then within the inherent a sense a repeated rhyming of a rhythm breath. There is ground with rhythm on it.

There are two.

There are two.

There is first one, then another. Then there are three. Three.

Ground. Mark. Field.

Field is sufficiently third.

There is field. There is the element meaning. There is the bleeding between the two the three. There is the between the one two three. Bleeding between.

There are substantial spaces. Between. The substantiated as space is full. In that fullness they are then empty. This is the field. (Within all substantiates and the substructure that translates are alot alot of parts, in good part, a little, in measure, a piece, a say, a share, a scrap, a cause, a concern, an interest, a party, a member, an organ, a limb).

    the field

“… inside that multi-storey, underground pay as you leave, the car was somewhere… somewhere waiting for her to find it. And this she believed most strongly. All levels appeared the same to her and this was partly true. There was concrete and the ramping and other people’s cars everywhere...”

Fields are more fundamental than matter. Mr Eckhart cried on Monday…

‘It is a field’. It is a field. A field.

Fields flat. Curved. Fields that are impossible space, improbable time. Fields potent full. Fields never literal or reasonable or is in any sense, anything any one thing.

The field is openness, an expanse, a ground on which a battle is fought, a region in which a force is effective, and the force exacted in such an area mirrored repeated back mirrored rythmed.

The field is slow.

There is a patience to a field.

There is a patience to a field as it concisely connects in fundament and extreme, to itself, over and over and over again. It constructs with grace and is grace.

Of the maker’s field there is the psyche. It is a fielded psych. A psyche in which all matters tangible are tangible. There is a field in the world and it is the same. A trace. A word. It is the same.

It is.

      the paths across it

“… if she kept walking, the keys poised, purposely in the right hand, and raised ready for insertion, if she kept her ten toes pointed forward, one step before the other surely her inner compass or homing device or whatever it was called, would propel her to her means home. Suddenly she remembered she must not at any costs appear to be lost and at that precise point she knew positively she was very lost… a very very lost snoogums. Stopping abruptly with this thought careening through the byways in the space between her ears she found herself lifting her right hand and inserting her key into the lock of a big shiny green car. This was the one for her she thought. Her key slid in effortlessly… She was home. She was home… But now she was most terribly lost. Why she could take anyway home she felt wildly…”

All paths deviate, avert, bend, deflect, differ, digress, diverge, drift, err, part, stray, swerve, turn, turn aside, vary, veer, wander. All paths are in essence a multitude of points. Dots. Full stops. Places of particularity, stages, situations; they are summits and tips. Aims. Goals. Indents, intentions. They are motives and objects they are purpose, reason, cores. Essence. The heart. The crux, the meaning, the matter… Some are linked in streams, some are units, but all are deviations of the field. All deviations are one deviate.

To straighten, itself, is to deviate

To right

To realign

To ward off. At each site, each, there is one or 10,000 points of departure.

The edge is one point. It is a stream a multiple and still it conspires to silhouette. The edge of the body is one point to draw down from, to draw down from the edge. Has it filled from the edge, is it about to be filled? (the child's head silhouetted again and again its mouth sucking at…)

 Matter courses fields that are deviations from the grace.

Words do always push something somewhere. Their placing involves pushing at shapes that are alluded to by further words…The placement of just about pressure is indicated by word in relation to space. All empty. One will swing up, push back, pack down.

The pressure has its own centre...

The centre relates to another centre, and announces more. Does one enter the other, does one stand in defiance… of/to the other?

 “... rather than make tea or wash or iron or knit or clean the pool or do groceries or do anything… she spooled words on the linoleum for hours and hours that afternoon, whirls of words."

2. of Method (the unseen, the unheld and the not recognised)

 “… she had no idea where it had come from, of course. Or what it was… never having seen it before. But she knew she loved it. And, it was hers. Basically it had no label writ-named on it. So she called it... ness. It was her… ness”

This is a deep caress, deeper than across; in three parts. It is not across it from the inside, an inside full of the necessary. It is an outer crossing. There are two methods of making. One made with love and one not. Not made with love. The making with love is the one to follow here.

The other. How one can make the something method is defined elsewhere ad nauseam. It is technique, ‘flatuique’. All is known. So all unknown is held back.

Of the method that is of something unknown there is its approach explored as a way.

There are well versed grips. Forgotten. Forgetting is one. In remembering, the body finds how one can not make method is this way. Three ways. Three ways remove three tools - three knowns.

Here they are…

Remove the eyes as overseers - of the known.

Remove the hand as tool - of the known.

Remove the known - as intention of knowing.

lacking the eye

 “…she began in the bathroom by closing the lid…”

Lacking the eye. Close one eye. I am skewed. If I close both eyes I am one again... liberated. I am placed in. I am in. I am. Inside. The other. The other realm. Through. Into another sense.

Lacking the eye. In there amid great muffled pourings of amorphous amnesty lies an amendment atoned, a slithered skerrick unnamed, a fathom crossed slowingly and by the ‘nth degree of wonder. Another that in dark is everything light. Sense swims out in laps of butterfly to my limbs, and feeling is inside of fingerlings.

 Lacking the eye. Hearing roars. Even every silence is loud.

Lacking the eye. Then touch. All touched is the many one points that lead to the line of understanding… knife tip warmth skin flesh finger held hand.

Touch is a taut string from where to here? It is paper to paper edge to edge surface to surface all over.

Lacking the eye. One faces one's own face as a mass of incoherent texture.

Blind, my hand uses the instrument best. The search off the map for details that be deviations of the flesh. Straight away. Find the thumb slit of an eye under rested by the skim of the ball, mouth, teeth tongue etc.

Lacking the eye. There is a blind where the left hand traces onto paper the tracings of the right as it covers the face, your face. Face.

Lacking the eye. There is the writing of the closed eye ball as it travels in restless spasms across the optical nerve. These tracings are mapped most seriously.

There is the signing of the sign which is name over and over in blind until the felt sense of that sign goes.

Lacking the eye. Writing breathing

Lacking the eye. Writing breathing beating.

Lacking the eye. There is everything. In this. There is nothing. Writing what can’t be said.

Lacking the eye. If there is anything, if there is anyway to make at all, it lies within a singular breath. In the spot it will appear.

Lacking the eye. The recently blind, blinded in one, orientate to the centre and all new one eyeds ache their necks till tendons stretch and the neck with ease holds the skull with the one eye - central -.

the unheld… dement the implement remove one hand to make it two from the heart

“…with two hands in the one glove she was outcast, 4.00 tea’s were impossible,

she was on the outer…”

To dement the implement. The portholes of the limb merge as linear sprocket-holes of time, the arm is only one and the body twists so its centre is the shoulder of the one arm and this will never do as it folds to cover the heart and pushes.

To dement the implement. There are two arms. Two arms are forthwith taken as the tool that has no centre of its own. One arm will write its way. One arm will write its own. Two arms will write something between.

It is awkward. To write the back of a head, the inside of his mouth, the hair in your lap, the sky from the sea, the sigh, wonder, light with two hands… in  two throats.

To dement the implement. There is a moving down from the topdown.

To dement the implement. There is a moving in and from the in the out.

To dement. There is then an upside, there is no side. There are two separates inverted... the implement. There is a moving in and from the in then…

Once I was shown a secret. I was told it begins with placing of two fingers together, the thumb and the tip of the forefinger. Let the thumb feel the finger tip, I was told and I did. Let the thumb be felt in turn by the finger... Now I was told here is the secret. Both can feel be felt at the same time and in between is something some-other thing else only the subtle can feel.

Once I saw a secret. Walking with an old man and his grandson by a dry creek the little one picked up a stick and trailing behind us marked the ground with it as he walked and as we walked on in front of him. After some time the old man turned and turned on him and roused on him. Did he know what he was doing... no... Did he know he was marking the earth, her belly in that way...

the unrecognised… blind seeing… removing the   recognised

“…the pool was not the thing of course, it was really the relationship she had with it that caused her to bring it up at first… to bring it up at all really. It bothered her. And it always had. Right from the beginning. It had always felt like a tenant, to her, a tenant in her own back yard…”

The unrecognised. The field is open form. A forum with no edge. It is not the container for the form but form of form itself. It is wider than. More truncular. More.

The unrecognised. We reside. We are engulfed

The unrecognised. Blind dancing. If one move's at a pace that's rhythm is apart from the habit one has formed of oneself there are great gulps of open waiting. That occur. That occur.

The unrecognised. Blind wonder. If one lifts from one's brow all understanding there are suddenly the gaps between fulsome. Between the nothings.

The unrecognised. Blind self. If one suspends the pull back with its impatience, and self hate and doubt and horror… there it is, waiting. It is there. One thing.

The unrecognised. Blind seeing. Is always big your breath away.

The unrecognised. Blind seeing. It is a sensing of something, some very thing that is a perfumed matted meal. That you can cannot eat. It rises from the aroma of some very untamed thing.

The unrecognised. Blind seeing. It has a rising of itself that requires acute attention, acknowledgment and a cancelling of everything but itself. It has a pull. A lift inside. Not to become. But to keep shifting open. Opening. A relationship will present. It will be foul fortune, and never enough. But there it is.

The unrecognised. Blind seeing. Keeps shifting. Everything wet is spilling in moves till dry there is only an alphabet of tears to begin from. Pronounce is not the thing, reasonable… common… It is not a fixed but a liquid word that steps towards light, or back to blood. It is ash from the interior, inside the body, it is paynes grey, gun metal grey, it is honey grey, it is the colour of the corpse. It is shimmy, it is silvered. It is the paddock and the sky at night and at dawn and in the moon.

 The unrecognised. Blind seeing. It is always other, in some way warm or bright or of one but not one quite It is scurry with lemon, sunny ship. It is puddled pink, contage of skin flicks abated. It is rude red slathered in gulps, it is white, apart, it is a field a puddle an evermore, wet until it finds dryness and fixes.

The unrecognised. In tendrils of spun meaning brush drip two trails that torch paper once at every step, in the two there is always a split step and one is hidden, invisible. There is nothing. There is enough.

 Footnote at the centre: recurrences obviously

“… she would call it by its ‘proper’ name... if only she could find it. It was there somewhere… just for the moment though there seemed to be too many propers…"

You will say… body, touch, skin, pouring, lifting, strain, inside, the outside, separate, the blinding, binding, removing. Body. Tiny, grey, taking in sucking, the mouth. Rhythm and rhyme. Flattened, silhouette. One, one, One, two. Flow and push and that there is so much…

Relating, not relating. To self, no self. Nothing no thing will be said. There.

  recurrences not stated twice

  the mother, no mother.

sinking and the current.

It was found between the mother and the no mother there is an enormous gap, there is a sinking apart and a current up. There is in the gap a savour of emptiness which is rim full of just about it all. Nothing needs to be said, honesties gibberish and prudes - the puddle is still, two mix together. And to dabble and wallow in mud or shallow water is to busy oneself in a productively untidy way and no mother will never not condone it.

3. advancing from

“…the tiniest spiders, she had heard, launch themselves from high places... and make way all the while launching out across the gap, across space, across oceans and travel. They build in spittle their raft as they proceed… ever forward. She was echoing their filament she thought, now as the bubbles in the sink moved ever onward… and out… out and down the drain. One would travel there... she felt, one’s wish would go and out. On over and out.”

To cross from one ocean to another… Columbus. Going forward is always away from somewhere. Somewhere is the pivot to travel into the wind

instead of it at ones back. So launched.

4. word steps arrived at…as

“… love sure. She felt. Yes. The only thing to sing is that. There are moments over when it swells and swells and goes nowhere fast and holds open all the fences and the gates swing so wide that the sky is all shine and smiles and soothed softness and sweetness and smooth silver smirks. In the colour of the puddles all is all aglow, all slippery swallowed, smitten with wonder. Moving in itself. It is all filled up with itself. Words and paper… all full of… itself. And when the I is filled up, in quiet sense when all other’s have left me, then all filled to fulling up there is then the full self, in the love. And the two do make quite something. Quite something is arrived at suddenly and repeatedly. That is love made... ”

5. a gaze / a writing is not a glace

There are however two ways writing moves of its own. A move to blood. And a move to light. There is a move between the two. There is both. Two are the moves for the self and each made lovingly.

“… she raised the knife from the board. The onion had turned a deep moist red. She lifted her hand slowly towards her face. Pain was not so much present as a thick, a throb of numbing, the room arched full with it. Everything looking on. At the tip of her finger was a large white bone.”

“… she went to the bathroom, shut the door, turned on the light and opened her mouth. She pulled the cotton wadding from her jaw, spiting a black clot into the sink. Opened again, and searched at the back in the dark, in the hole… there, there was bone there… and she could see it glowing.”

“… she lifted the covers. She'd been waiting for this. And there… sure enough... was the seam sewn shut ... her seam. She opened her shower bag took out the quick unpick that she knew would offer more for less, as it were, and began the second procedure on herself… that day. She knew the first was done under bright lights and the invisible would not be visible. Besides they would not have had the faintest idea what to look for - but now in the dark, (they were opening) - she would have a chance - (there was a peeling back) - to see for herself, (if she could stand it)… the light inside of her... (self). Inside her very red self she now realised…”

If the move is made to blood to the body to flesh there is a dissection enacted. The form becomes separate. Is separated from itself. It is delineated at a clasping of metaphors as the flayed. The further move to light is a fathoming to its widest parameters through and through that decimated to a conduit that connects. Light will pour through all matter, all schemas, all liniments. All strategies.

In removing the subject and staunching the minds propensity… the opening of fathoms begins a flow of situations. There are following pools of flatness, there are repetitions, there are rhythms, there are parameters forming, there are stiffness’s both real and imagined. There are glowings that spin, fluids that bleach, gaps that relate. There are segments of attention that gather moments together. There are great emptiness’s and silence and whispers and chill. In looking you are lost. And. Then…It is then you have arrived.

 “… and then she remembered the orderly told her a very strange story on the way to the theatre. A woman was taken to a pit that contained a lion… ‘now the lion was very old, ferocious and large, his yellow hair hung over his neck, he growled he roared… in all ways the lion appeared quite unconquerable,’ the orderly had said.  ‘So that the woman was almost afraid of her own fear and would gladly have turned back if her promise to herself, and also the circumstances, allowed her to give up. No instead… she approached the lion in his den and began to caress him. But the lion looked at her so fiercely with his piercing eyes that the woman could hardly restrain her tears. Just then she remembered that she had learned all during her life… that very many people had undertaken to overcome the beast and very few could accomplish it. She was unwilling to be disgraced, though, or to turn away, and she recalled several grips that she had learned. So she gave up the caresses and seized the lion so dexterously, artfully and subtly that before he was well aware of it the woman had forced the blood out of the lion’s body, even out of his heart. It was a beautiful red. She thought. She dissected the lion further and found… a fact which caused her much wonder…’ and this is the point, he said, ‘that his bones were white as snow and there was much more bone than there was blood…’ At first she couldn't make out why the orderly had told her this story… and what the woman had found... but then she realised.... and then, well… then she knew.”