If there is a perfection of the hidden self then self hidden is perfect and that it is hidden must be part of this perfection. For self to be self which is to come to its perfection self must yet be turned out into the world. Wide Wanderer they call self, Wide-Traveller. It is said that the self will re-shod your horse. Leave it by the smithy overnight no payment just an appropriate gift.
Self to self giving. Self to self given over the wandering, turning self out from the hidden to the open road travelled to seek the activity of the perfect, tattered paths of the simply sought. The perfection of the hidden self which is hidden therefore perfect cannot yet attain perfection anywhere but in the open.
The wreckage of destabilised tribes. Stones in the dell. These stubborn dreams still trip us up.
Coincidentally beyond coincidence by the sheer fact of multiplicity.
One for sorrow,
Two for mirth,
Three for a funeral
And four for birth
Magpies line up in the hope of meaningful significance, their message yet ever extended into meaninglessness. Four and forty birth birds mirthed of the earth. In the tree the sorrow, up the sky we scale. When the sky was hollow we all began to howl: Now was not this a pretty fowl to sing us through the day?
Only when the magpie population attains the critical mass of becoming lumpen - a large entity onto which significant projection may be secured - then will the flock be transformed from the accidental and to the meaningful.
It will be single.
It will be singular noticed. A cursing sponge to sop up all our unease.
This is the point at which a determined eradication programme begins.
From a ceaseless wandering until an ornament of demise being prepared to go with the shrug of freedom, being prepared to take the scrying and fill in the detail. The curlicues and corners of culture am I reflected there, in this environment made so much the human. So much I am I am also reflected there but barely, slightly distorted. And in the throws of distortion I also push in my image. Pushed in, despite, creating the line and loop this ceaseless wandering. Mental conditions for freedom under-gird the material. Conditions for the material conditions of culture may be continued in and out of division in and out of prison on and on. To act freely is not taking freedom from another, therefore freedom is always an exploration of relatedness, a ceaseless wandering relationship with the ornament of demise.
I stand in this built environment which is designed and ordained so much to reflect the owners who imagine they always own therefore I am excluded except for my ownership, for which there is none, therefore it is in the excluded I am. This made-so-much-the-human is a temporary fake a human imposition on an inhuman profusion of nature always grander of nature always pressing of nature which will inevitably reclaim and is rigorously excluded, now, of this I am in the curves and curlicues of of the pressing in the fluids and in pollen and there dispersed. Vividly here, I also vanish
A cloak and a box for the hungers the degree and the shadow of the disallowed as means by which to define the body.
There is no single hunger other than life. Or there is but a single hunger called life, endlessly nuanced unto the raging obesity of the civil.
Original stuff, not yet differentiated stuff, this shapeless clay of being: Being in need. The mud born of deep sea vents, super-heated chemosynthesis, the discharge washed ashore as a tidal friction of the possible. The body as medium by which to format the great hidden greeds. A clay mesh of combed and re-combed base information. This ongoing savour can be read and re-read forming different aspects and different bodies and difference is the inheritable means of re-reading inheritance. We both take in and express the nuance, we twist and touch the marks, live in hunger, live in the manner of our reading. Abreaction brings expression of the hidden to consciousness. A ragged shoreline of living and re-living; waves of relief and leaving, a saggy pool of thought in its own purgation. Walk along this beach. If the line is continued for long enough, then the expression may be integrated. Integrated lines are woven into bridges. Some lines dissolve. We hide our trail beneath splash marks, we float out to sea on an inflatable.These dissolved lines make for a monstrous immediacy; these are the sea-devils. The sickness of panic.
These forms, not welcomed, refuse to form, and the unformed must be urgently repulsed. They are pushed back beneath the cloak. The sea is a cloak. The cloak must stored in a box. The box is built of shadows, sunk in the sea, buried in the earth. We wear the earth as our body.