The lines etched on the surface (French words come into my mind, I await).
The lines etched on the surface reveal a concentration of my attention on space.
When the white page is present, we ignore its significance.
We need context for the void.
What strikes me is how the dark lines here illuminate the light not the other way round.
Stuff. Thing. Breath. Touch. Smell. Feeling.
The cursor which you can't see on this page is counting the seconds.
The time for these words to....
I hadn't really noticed it before. I knew it. I felt it. I loved it.
I just hadn't noticed it enough to write explicitly about the process that brings out
("my?" " no, not mine" "there is no ego left here." "ok you're right.... I am a child, a bit")
....patterns on a surface.
It all started with Keith Hamon (him again) reminding me of time that I have spent making connections with space.
He is investigating prepositions.
I have a number of different processes of writing.
Now this is more clearly myself taking this article of faith onwards.
There is a conscious decision, I am aware of now trying to express (I am even editing here) what happens when I let IT out.
IT is at times instant, at other times, distant, at other times non-existant.
I have been embodying IT by living IT. I feel that I should attempt to explain IT.
("Good luck, mate!" That is definitely me there, I recognise myself in these added commentaries!)
The click which made the connection came from Keith responding to elements in a previous post tagged Spacetimecontinuum... and disagreeing that "Words are poor vectors of communication."
I was intrigued by his vociferous reaction.
All the more that on rereading what I had written, or should I say what had written ITself, I noticed written in bold "Words are poor vectors of connection".
The trouble I am having now is to describe this process of loss of ego.
It has been making ITs presence clear in its incessant repetition of absence in these pages. Nevertheless I have never been really able to explain it, or indeed wanted to.
There are times when one jealously keeps one's secrets for fear that on naming them they will evaporate. The spell will be broken.
I am taking the risk...for you.
Then I clicked and IT clicked: "enso" a word that had never revealed its existence to me until now jumped to the fore.
an ensō (円相 , "circle"?) is a circle that is hand-drawn in one or two uninhibited brushstrokes to express a moment when the mind is free to let the body create.
For me then "enso" expresses what happens when we connect, or IT connects and stuff is sparked. I have the strong impression that the lack of judgement present in a large connected course or at least the diversity of judgement present might enable diffuse circles of empathy.
Spaces of empathy, caring (community Dave Cormier?) enable us to be confronted by a whole series of FELT patterns and fragments of patterns which reflect not the ego or the individual but US (or THEM).
Our limits are constantly being redrawn. Who are we now?
Where are we now?
For reasons unknown David Bowie appears to illustrate what? Search and you will find?
As these patterns fire and connect, light shines through, making new kaleidoscopic patterns. Such patterns act like flowers attracting attention.
None of this can be attributed to an individual or a group of individuals because what contours the pattern is the networked interactions. A NETWORK, does it network?
We are drawing light by drawing on light.
What I am and what I am not.
What we are and what we are not.
To be or not to be.
I (one) and 0 (zero) O (all).
Where was that reference? I look back. IT wants to appear.
There we are, TIME. How do we express it? When we have so little else?
He goes back to the browsing history.
Wind is what I remember. Yes the story of the flag.
Not the Wind, Not the Flag
Two monks were arguing about a flag. One said: `The flag is moving.'The other said: `The wind is moving.'
The sixth patriach happened to be passing by. He told them: `Not the wind, not the flag; mind is moving.'
No idea how that will connect now. We will see.
We are the wind, we are not a flag.
Wind, is that all there is?
What blows us?
Notes to self.
"Blimey (deep breath) what the hell does that mean?"
"Shit, now we are tumbleweed. Not much of a write up."