The light changes, and with it the room, and its infinite everyday spaces. Books layering the table; the angle of the chair; long, level walls and the high ceiling; silhouettes; reflections; another room, a fathomless chiaroscuro place, deflected and submerged in the cold, smooth floor. The air moves in a trance; existence is chamber music; memories are fluid, and fine-grained, and multitudinous, suspended in the disintegrating light; dragonfly narratives pulse and swivel through the torpor — strong-winged, loose-limbed. Senses of the word ‘sense’ flicker and swarm, as does the mind’s restlessness; the restless stir, the grey noise, the contained darkness of the cloister. And always and already, the topology of the omniverse shifts along its omniscient horizons.
One day, as the day rewound, in that acoustic space, the pitch of time before the dark unwound — too swept away to hold my focus, I let the sky come unglued, still clear and blue at the furthest edges, the corners, the other side.
The sky unblues, unreels, unglues; its watercolour luminosity ebbs, wastes away. Colours smudge, blear, bruise and darken. Outlines unclearing. Time disengages, curves into the horizon; all around the cicadas’ insistence, bleak and shrill, blurs the days’ acoustic spaces. The entire multiverse a resinous, residual place; frozen sheer, vapor-like; locked between flailing in and falling through; blocked and walled by solid slabs and sheets of substance — unmined, unbroken, undefined.
At my feet, the world, and everything that contained it; under these null and defunct skies, this blinding blankness, in this absence, this void, this vacant orbit, what will hold together, what will echo and illuminate, what will signify?
In the half-light; the stillness of photographs, images through a lens — on insect wings and slivers of glass. Which is the dancer? What is the dance? Along stone fragments, across paper scraps; shards and shattered and fractional; divided, multiplied, the sides, odds and ends. Unfolding, enfolding, the layered surfaces swivel; there coheres neither annihilation, nor deliverance; nothing but the dimensionals pulsing, between the semiotic self and the homonymic eye.
To search for belonging, for the liminal, lamina, splice; to never reach the beginning, and through it all, to find no end in which to reconcile.
Ultraviolet, infrared, the filaments; polar radiances, marginal resonances; plasmic the matter-form and the life-essence; stem cells; celluloid; unreal, real; the parallels — torquing. The seams are labyrinthine, the strange loops equivocally sculpted, the structures unlit. Through the tangle of brain and intestine, between corpus and compass, tone and annotation, is the phantasm, a hallucination, of every sense meticulously transcribed, particularised, infinite scripts in each line.