Sunday, May 29, 2016

Doubts rain down...

Another day dawns.

Doubts rain down.

Buckle it.

Y'er pissing in the wind matey.

Doubts rain down.

I feel myself slipping.

I feel myself weakening.

Doubts rain down.

I hear the words of others.

Please keep on.
Hold that line.
Hold that line.

Arts of the Possible.

"We may feel bitterly how little our poems can do in the face of seemingly out-of-control technological power and seemingly limitless corporate greed, yet it has always been true that poetry can break isolation, show us to ourselves when we are outlawed or made invisible, remind us of beauty where no beauty seems possible, remind us of kinship where all is represented as separation."

Adrienne Rich.

Caged Bird.

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind
and floats downstream till the 
current ends
and dips his wing in the 
orange suns rays and dares to 
claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his
narrow cage
can seldom see through his 
bars of rage
his wings are clipped and his 
feet are tied so he opens his 
throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a
fearful trill
of things unknown but longed 
for still
and his tune is heard on the
distant hill
for the caged bird sings of

The free bird thinks of another
and the trade winds soft
through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a 
dawn-bright lawn and he
names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the 
grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a 
nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his
feet are tied so he opens his 
throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a
fearful trill
of things unknown but longed
for still
and his tune is heard on the 
distant hill
for the caged bird sings of 

Maya Angelou.

Friday, May 27, 2016


Emergent Reflection on Transcendence in Critical Digital Pedagogy.
A submission to Hybrid Pedagogy.

Act 1.
Starting points…

“IT” was only ever a draft, a doodle.

Given what emerged, only questions felt satisfactory.

He listed them as they appeared:

What space would these words take up?
How might they move?
What would be their destination?
How could they shape reflection?

Meaning was only forever fluid.

I, er You, We are forever fluid.

He wrote  ‘our reflection’ knowingly while thinking of his selves: those selves who carried the text forward and those selves who had fallen silent to enable it.

“IT”, it appeared, insisted on “ITs” voice(s) being heard.

Who would populate this space?”,  he thought.

It was doubt that drove his curiosity.

It was not text as product which intrigued.
It was text as vehicle of discovery.

Might such text be possible without the digital?”

We thought not.

I think knot.” he added, annoyingly.

How might one plan.?”they thought?

It would be “IT” which would count...

That is what this is”, he thought: “We (i, I, and I’s) are silent.”

“Then there was the word.”

He boldly wrote “TRANSCENDENCE” as a challenge and let whatever “IT” was shape the act.

It gave them hope that “IT” wasn’t finished.

There would be no full stop, no period, for now, space would be pitifully punctuated.

Would “IT” be space for others to draw breath?

Act 2.


He had kept it secret.

It was a secret that only a few had seen.

IT (Act 2) gnawed away at him.



IT (Act 2) was not a thing to be framed.

IT lost its potential.

IT was no longer there.

Sarah came and wrote there.

He looked at it.

No that felt wrong.

IT was ruthless.

He tried writing in the space himself.

IT was resistant.

He had sent the “proposal”.

He had waited for a response.

How could anyone depict transcendence?

He sent out a message asking for help to some friends on Twitter.

Terry had understood.

He shared the ineffable.

Those questions haunted him.

What space would these words take up?
How might they move?
What would be their destination?
How could they shape reflection?

Thursday, May 26, 2016

Blank Page.

The "blank page"
takes up a lot of space.

It is resilient.

It lies:

"I am just a blank page."

"I am just a blank page."

"Trust me."

Never trust a blank page.

It has a poker face.

How it bids convincingly!

"No one will know who you are, your name is hidden."

"You will know your 'corrector'.

"Remember not to write in the margins, for that space is reserved for your correctors."

"Your text will be the body of the page."

"Your body, sic, will be 'corrected', 'noted', 'marked', 'sorted', 'added to our statistics'.

It is a web of lies.

"Do not fear injustice as the system is scrupulously fair." 

"Your examination will be anonymous to protect you from any bias...(to protect us from any accusation of bias)."

"Remember to speak in the language which we recognise."

"Remember to read the question carefully."

"Do not cheat."

(Cheating is reserved for examiners.)

No page is ever blank.

No vessel is ever empty.

Born to the world, "my" story is already long.

I already carry with me other people's burdens, other people's hopes, other people's judgements,
other people's ignorance, other people's breath, other people's rhythm, other people's words, other people's love, other people's indifference, other people's rules, other people's failings, other people's victories, other people's doubts, other people's silences.

Born to the world, "your" story is already long.

You already carry with you other people's burdens, other people's hopes, other people's judgements,
other people's ignorance, other people's breath, other people's rhythm, other people's words, other people's love, other people's indifference, other people's rules, other people's failings, other people's victories, other people's doubts, other people's silences.

No vessel is ever empty.

Speak those stories out loud, listen to them well.

Listen to your body in silence.

Breathe deep and lighten our loads.

Blank pages are loaded.

Examine them closely, then rip them up.

Let us work together, for we must write anew.


On correction.

1."The 'Enlightenment, which discovered the liberties, also invented the disciplines."

2."It's my hypothesis that the individual is not a pre-given entity which is seized on by the exercise of power.  The individual, with his identity and characteristics, is the product of a relation of power exercised over bodies, multiplicities, movements, desires, forces."

3."I don't feel that it is necessary to know exactly what I am. The main interest in life and work is to become someone else that you were not in the beginning. If you knew when you began a book what you would say at the end, do you think you would have the courage to write it?

What is true for writing and love relationships is true also for life. The game is worthwhile in so far as we don't know where it will end."

Michel Foucault.

Should we fill their vessels?

"Twitter does not constitute a place for the shared pursuit of truth, rather it constitutes a shop window in which we can each advertise our merchandise."

"In a society which rests not upon a coherent, thoughtful attitude but upon noise and a shared passion for joining in the noise, it may be that silence takes on a new significance."

Torn Halves

On reading.

This writing didn't come from nowhere.

It flows from friends. It flows from drawing...breath...from reading...from dreaming...from...research.

I feel like a blind man bashing my head against the walls to find a door or perhaps a window.

No amount of writing within their ruled lines will change us.

On reading Adrienne Rich, I felt less alone last night.

Working on #lesmauxdesmots has sparked off a wild reading web.

I am thankful for this exquisite corpse.

It has life.

Current reading:

Foucault. M., Surveiller et Punir.

Bateson. M., Steps to an Ecology of the Mind.

Henzogenrath.  An American Body Politic.

Ong. W.J., Orality and Literacy.

Bell Hooks  Teaching to Transgress.

Rich. A. Arts of the Possible.

Brotton. J. A History of the World in Ten Maps.


Thank you Chris friend.

Thank you to Laura Ritchie for opening more windows.

It was you Laura who gave me impulse to write this.

She posted an image which I half saw.

I went to sleep and it was that image which I saw for the first time.

Thank you Terry, Kevin, MaryAnn, Torn, Sarah, Dave, Ron, Tania et al for opening windows.

I feel that I am able to breathe more freely in your company.

This work can not be finished.

I don't know where it will lead.

We must indeed close our eyes to more clearly see.

Take a deep breath.

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

A dom of one's own.

"Visibility is a trap."

That's it!
I have my reputation now.

I am mad(e).

This is their reputation economy.
They keep an eye on me for me.

Bitten, embedded, embittered.

I am a willing bit part player.

I have my likes, my friends.

Titled, labelled, branded.

I have my branding.


Touches of sense...

Tâches de sens...

Freely tagged at my expense.

I have my tags.




They have me data-linked.

I will not go far.

Free.Dom is their warm gun.

I will buy my free.dom.

It will be a Domain of my own.

I will rent and register my matricule.


Serf to a server baron.

It will be a rented plot.


Praise the lords of the demesne.

Mine lords will be benevolent.

Their reputation and their goods will be embellished by my mere presence my mere remains.

I shall be a serf to their server.

My remains will be safe.

No cookies for me.


Praise the lord!


I am gone.

Please don't object.

We are not what we grasp.

I am not for digging.

I am done with this.

Monday, May 23, 2016

Being human.

"I believe in recognizing every human being as a human being - neither white, black, brown, or red; and when you are dealing with humanity as a family there's no question of integration or intermarriage. It's just one human being marrying another human being or one human being living around and with another human being."

Malcolm X

Button pushing...

We felt ever so empowered over the vegan dinner table.

Hour upon hour spent talking of the system, its injustices and what to do about it.

We were a little ship of freedom afloat the oceans of oppression.

We didn't just talk.

We acted.

We sang.

"We shall overcome."

"We shall overcome."

What is that?

That is how they spoke of my friends.

Their vile jeering, their mobster poses disgusted me.

These are my friends they were spitting at.

Women, particularly women were fair game.

I went to confront them.

"Who the fuck are you speaking to you fucking queer?" he sneered.

I went to kiss him.

He recoiled in horror.

What is that?

Things have moved on since the 80's.

Things are out of the closet.

There are bucks to be made.

There are votes to be won.

It's a free world, people do what they want...


Where there is want there is cash.

You want a new face?

You have cash, we will build you a new face.

You want an army?

You have cash, you can buy a football team.

You want an army?

Get elected, preach hatred, sell drugs.

You have cash, you can buy an army.

You want to fuck the system?

Go and tweet about it.

"You say what you like."

"We'll just push a few buttons."

"We'll put you on the list for surveillance."

"We'll put you on the list for elimination."

Button pushing.

I lifted up the phone in the flat, there was a strange latency.

"What's wrong with the phone?" I asked.

"They've bugged the phone." was the answer.

The women were often down at Greenham Common for weeks.

A peace camp.

They bugged the phone.

Vegans are subversive.

Hold the line.

We went to demonstrate against their cruise missiles.

I was standing in the middle of a road outside a fence.

I was breaking nothing, saying nothing, I was standing in the road.

"Oy, either you move or I'm arresting you for obstruction."

"I am just standing in the road, how can I be obstructing anything?"

"Either you move or I'm arresting you for obstruction."

I moved.

The lines were clearer now.

Button pushing.

I was working on an application this morning.

I spent two hours working.

I went to push the key to publish

My account was suspended.

How had I broken the rules of the application?

There was no explanation.

My account was suspended.

What happens when they suspend this account?

What happens when they suspend all our accounts?

I didn't pay a parking fine.

I didn't receive the parking fine.

It was sent to an old address.

My salary was suspended.

What happens when they suspend all our accounts?

This is freedom.

This is free.dom.

This is free.dom.

Hold the line.

"We shall overcome one day..."

Melting into air.

"All fixed, fast-frozen relations, with their train of ancient and venerable prejudices and opinions are swept away, all new-formed ones become antiquated before they can ossify. All that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and men at last are forced to face...the real conditions of their lives and their relations with their fellow men."

Karl Marx

What am I?

You don't know me.

How will you define me?

How long do you have to go beyond the surface?

Seconds to scan me, to eliminate me from your attention/concerns/interests/perimeter.











Social networks?

Credit Rating?

How will you categorise me?

How will you decide whether to continue the conversation beyond your check-list?

How much is it worth taking the time to enter into dialogue, to discover nuance behind the binary?

How will we meet?

Where will we meet?

Where will it take us?

Who am I?

Who are you?

Who are we together?

Sunday, May 22, 2016

Body without organs...

I am not @sensor63.

@sensor63 is.

@sensor63 is disembodied.

@sensor63 is a node on an electronic map.

@sensor63 is an avatar lacking in human failing.

Oh gawd, what have I gone and said now.
(pretentious git)

Lines of flight.

What the fuck was my butt doing sticking to the ceiling? (He notes that @sensor63 would use the word "butt" but I wouldn't)

From where I was floating, I had a pretty dramatic view of where I had been lying.

I was not at all prepared for what I saw.

The body below, "my" body, was apparently lifeless.

"My" life, if that were the appropriate term was elsewhere.

To be accurate, I, my life, me, we were trying to reason how it was that I was out of my/the body down there.

I felt a little queasy, to be honest.

I felt that I was going to be violently sick. Perhaps it was airsickness?

I would have thrown up on the bed, but then it occurred to me that without my body vomit would be futile.

Nope, I wouldn't be able to vomit my guts from a lifeless corpse.

For that is what I feared.

I, my, body had left me in the lurch.

I was, to put it crudely...dead.

I was overtaken with sudden panic.

"Shit, I am dead."

"I don't want to be dead."

"I don't want to be on the fucking ceiling."

"I don't want to be able to fucking fly."

Flying in my case, was non/undirectional, I was fucking stuck.

Jealousing Kafka.

At least fucking Kafka could crawl across the ceiling.

Une vidéo publiée par @sensor63 le

I felt alone (without my body), disorientated, and frankly desperate.

I don't remember now how it happened.

The man who fell to earth.

I fell to earth.

I heaved a sigh of relief.

If I were alive, well, the impulsion that had given me "wings" didn't let me before.

I was clearly other, the other that I had always been vaguely aware of.

It was the other who beat me up inside to sign my own alienation.

It repressed, was I depressed, subjected, confined, undead.

Living with the fear of others...

I was evidently extremely alive.

They looked at me with startled eyes.

They listened intently.

I could do nothing to control IT.

There were moments of paranoia, charisma felt a prison.

I longed for silence, for semblance of faceless functioning.

Turn to fucking page 5 exercise 6...that was beyond me.

I would have loved to be able to do that.

I couldn't do it.

I couldn't fucking do it.

I would have done it joyfully if I could.

Let me be a obedient catatonic robot.

I didn't have any fucking answers.

Science stumped.

The psychoanalyst visibly slumped in his office rocker, stumped.

"Make it stop." I said.

That body slumped made me pause for thought.

"He hasn't got a fucking clue." I thought.

I shall just have to deal with this nonsense myself.

"A lot of fucking good these bloody clever shrinks are", I thought.

I was fortunate.

Others, more sure of their science, might have killed me, locking me up with their fucking chemical "kindness".

I accepted a temporary knock out and accepted to deal with the fall out of falling to earth other.

In praise of walls

This was all beyond me.

His was a willing wall.

He, or rather the wall saved me.

I had that wall.

I could now deal with the fucking ceiling.

Write it out he suggested.

So I did.
So I do.

Writing IT out.

I wrote ream after ream of text, raging against the frenzy of it all.

I didn't want to write this crap.

"I" (it) wrote this crap.

This wasn't me.

This wasn't me at all.

"Make it fucking stop."

It was ironic really.

The publisher's rejection helped.

"Thank God for that", I thought.

The market was a welcome wall.

"I'm afraid the market is very conservative," he (the market) wrote.

"Thank Christ," I thought.

"Peace at last."

That seemed to calm IT somewhat.

I could move on without the bloody machine being always present.

I turned my energy to more tangible boundaries.

Mountains make for wonderful, unforgiving, walls.

I didn't want to die for a summit.

It is ironic really.

I had always been so frustrated at my inability to maintain scribbling.

It was there waiting for cracks in the structure to make its assault.

It is still there today.

I know IT is there.

IT, I live easily with now.

I have learnt to live with IT.

I am familiar with IT.

I make no attempt to understand.

There is no point.

I am other.


I have no wish or ability to pretend that I never floated my butt on the ceiling.

It wasn't a dream.
It wasn't a hallucination.
It is my reality.
It is here now in black and white.
I have said it now.

I know that what they were saying in their confusion and fear was normally ill-placed.

They will know the unfamiliar soon enough.

On the borderline.

I wasn't sick, a case to be diagnosed...borderline we are certainly.

If only more were to admit their fucking "borderlineness!"

If only more were to admit the myth of rational control.

The controllers are fucking insane.

We have an insane waltzing system.

Is this the last waltz darling?


IT is not easy to define, to put into boxes, to name.

Where I would rail against the lines of the boxes that were presented to me, now I explore their frames.

Where I would beat my head against their fucking dumb system, I am more forgiving.

Life and death frame our humanity.

What is the essence of "life" is immuable, inhuman, unthinking, uncaring, unknowable.

Love gives us a porous, membran(c)e of hope and humanity.

If I rail against this fleshy cage, I accept it for now.

What is @sensor63 if not a machine?

I remain bound to thought, to making sense.

I forgive @sensor63, I live with it.

I am no longer stuck to a ceiling.

I walk airly and revel in ITs nonsense.

There is sense in nonsense.

There is no sense without IT.


I take a few steps back and read what has been mapped mechanically.

I think, I wonder.

I am the one that wonders.

I is Simon.

Friday, May 20, 2016


"Before it can ever be the repose for the senses, landscape is the work of the mind. Its scenery is built up as much from strata of memory as from layers of rock." Simon Schama Landscape and Memory. 

I have been roaming. Je suis flâneur. I am one of the "chattering classes".

It is nothing to boast about. I am historically privileged.

That's how it is. It's in my genes. I have been programmed to act like this. My parents had nannies.

I may not be able to do much useful manual work but I am brilliantly adapted to doing nothing.

I roam apparently freely, artfully even, beyond the lines of what  others might suggest I should.

I am what some may label an 'activist'...

"If you do, like I do, blog and tweet messily, you are probably an activist." 

says Naomi Barnes bravely in Hybrid Pedagogy.

Goodness, I do feel like a kindred spirit. I am an "Activist"!!

No, Naomi, I am a privileged flâneur.

I walk without luggage but goodness am I weighed down with "enlightening" cultural baggage.

I virtually never wander alone even if I am alone.  

I am steeped in Empire stories of "discovery."

There are the pictures of an ancestor in the 18th century Americas. 

There is the ancestor's book on the shelf from 19th century Sarawak.

There is the regimental sword from the Highland regiment.

There are the sepia printed photos from a Nagasaki mission post.

I am just doing what is normal for my types...nothing terribly useful to great portent. 

(He poses the unfamiliar word there with an fairly ignorant flourish - an amateur [in its privileged sense] needs as many letters as he can get to fill the scroll.)

That's right, I am writing to great portent. 
(pretentious git).

I go out with friends, family dead or alive, the dog, and their words, acts, perspectives, music, memories, places.

This page may be in landscape format but to tell you the truth it is really exemplary of my peoplescape.

That's right, it's a clever pun: Landscape is People - People is Escape sic: Peoplescape.

This is a paltry escape, I warrant you. 

I don't believe that the way to vanquish alienation is "work" Mr Marx, it's play...amateur play.

I am, as you know, (he places that importantly) set on a odyssey of exploration.

It goes by the name of "lesmauxdesmots". 
(God I do enjoy my French - It adds a certain Je ne sais quoi).

I have set sail with a crew of people who are quite, or more or less unaware of this venture whose destination is quite uncharted. 

It's a line of navigation that one might call rhizomatic.

I and multiple assemblages are writing myths at this moment.

Those others are both fellow (if unwilling, or unknowing) shipmates and myth-makers.

I do like a bit of myth particularly in May.

Years back when I was working in the parcel depot, we would deal with our alienation with beer, darts, the Mirror and Saturday football. 

Now its rhizomatic learning with Deleuze and Guattari and the aforementioned crew.

It is pretty similar really, larking around, these are jolly japes.

We pass the time until it's time to clock orf (chortle).

Roaring, roaming autodidact.

I am an ideal: an idle (amateur), ideal (amateur) self-motivated learner (activist), up to not much good, to borrow Audrey's borrowing of Tressie McMillan Cottom:

“ideal, self-motivated learner," "embedded in the future but dis-embedded from place.” Dis-embedded from place, disembodied – an erasure that just as easily serves as a re-inscription of a “universality” of the white, middle class male." (me)

I do feel Much less ignorant on reading Audrey Watters blog all morning (I don't know about you?)

There were a number of chapters er posts.. that I lapped up.

Indie, as in tomb raider...

I am Indie aren't you? I do love my label...

We are all Indie...(well those who understand their Indies from their Indies)

It says "edupunk" on my Twitter profile but frankly writing it on Blogger is just as well.

I do love Joe Strummer that fellow public school boy "revolutionary".

Yes, I'm with Joe, I'm edupunk, I'm Indie...

"Indie means we don’t need millions of dollars, but it does mean we need community. We need a space to be unpredictable, for knowledge to be emergent not algorithmically fed to us. We need intellectual curiosity and serendipity –"

Oh yes, I have all the time in the afternoon for intellectual curiosity and that gorgeous word 'serendipity' - only a pity that the guys in the parcel depot wouldn't get to know that word.

Being blind drunk allows for serendipity too...if only they knew.

When I roam, I don't see desolation of bombed cities around me.

I see a caring peoplescape with hope.

I suppose that's a freedom..of sorts.

We need all the freedom we can get.

Thursday, May 19, 2016

Mapping impotence. Point 6

Almost got the contours now of these spaces.

I started assembling blog posts into flipboard.

They are not in the appropriate order yet.

I don't know how they will be ordered.

I just know that they are not in the right order.

Who on earth is going to read all of this?

No matter.

I am leaving a trail.

If others want to follow it.

Others are already part of this peoplescape.

I can't think of another word.

I am mapping peoplescapes. Land is a people scape.

View my Flipboard Magazine.

Mapping impotence. Point 5.

I suppose that the graphic stuff needs to aligned somewhere.

I can be here.

I am trying to familiarise myself with this territory.

Steller is a favourite mapping place.

I need to keep going over trails to see things with a bit more light.

I am groping around in the dark.

It appears that mole-like I know where this is heading.

I am not a mole.

What new landscapes will I see?

Mapping impotence. Point 4.

Then there is the sound.

There is masses of sound.

I have decided that I shall assemble it in as it seems fit.

I have decided that it is rather like the word/image/stuff collage that appears to be emerging in these blog pages.

I have no idea what forms these collages will take.

I need to put markers down on the map.

I do have a map if that is the word.

What was it I said to Laura this morning?

What was it she said to me?

Somebody, who was it?

I think Angela was talking about catching up with #lesmauxdesmots.

What the hell does catching up mean?

I am not catching up with all the life which is being woven.

We are impotent.

Mapping impotence. Point 3


That's Storify done for a while.

I must go back and get it up to date.


I don't know.

It's like that.


Then there is Pinterest.

Well, it's worse than #rhizo14 and #rhizo16 didn't even start.

It's worse but I know my way around it.

It's becoming familiar.

I do have a fairly clear vision of where this landscape stretches and what sort of features it will entail.

I have no idea what forms it will take. I had no plans to write these posts today for example.

They just seemed necessary. WTF....

Mapping Impotence. Point 2

That's it, I keep having to trace my, er our, your steps.

Let's give it another try.

I went and Storified the hashtag.

This is an absolutely enormous part of the cartography.

It includes an enormous range of elements.

It's giving me a backlog of work to do I can tell you.

It gives one an idea of the monster that is #lesmauxdesmots.

Only a couple of days back Mary Ann suggested that there were a lifetime of words in one blog post and then I was just "Scratching around"

So what is driving this?

I feel like I'm immersed in my son's mind building his village/town/city in Minecraft.

I zoom out, I zoom in, and share bits and pieces with other builders who are busy developing trees, bird song, poetry, philosophical comment, pedagogical criticism.

Thank goodness that rhizo16 was cancelled.

Except even it had not been cancelled it would still be the blasted #lesmauxdesmots.

So I shall shut up and embed that Storify.

I am not quite sure which template will be useful.

WTF I shall try this one.

Mapping impotence. Point 1.

That's it this time I shall do it properly.

This #lesmauxdesmots is getting out of control.

Get back in between the lines.

This is MY story.

And yet it is clear that it isn't.

It isn't mine, it isn't yours, it isn't even theirs.

It's possessed...of a life of its own.

It's a bloody weed.

The quicker you try to cut it back the quicker it grows.

There you have it. I was settting out to map and what do I find from maps?

Maps are power. I am becoming only too aware of my impotence.

You want a demonstation?

OK.  I'm warning you it won't fit on one blog page.

Point 1.

An Exquisite Corpse

Tapping Sources. Mapping Sounds.

Poetic latitude.

He notes that he has jumped up three lines on the map...

He couldn't do that otherwise.

He is aware of rewinding his thoughts.

Where is the order in this?

He keeps wanting to escape the page.

What space would these words take up?
How might they move?
What would be their destination?

He keeps wanting to transcend the physical space.

Hazel Groves.

There is a grassy bank above him. 

He hesitates an instant. 

What is the name for the densely grown trees up there? 

He knows it. 

He knows it. 

It escapes him. 

The word escapes him.

He makes space, why does he do so?

He cuts up the lines to give them air.

What are those trees? 
What are those trees?

The word comes back to him. 

They are hazel. 

It is a hazel grove.

Hazel growth, hazel grove.

The place is not quite as it seems to you.

The place is not literal.

The place is inhabited.

It contains signs that only he can read.

Mapping sources

There is a bag of hazel nuts that his daughter is collecting. 

Not there, not there.

She is at home.



She is years younger in another home.

He regrets the hazel hedge in that other home.

He regrets its vibrant growth.

He regrets its vibrant growth.

Try as he may, he is captured an instant by the hazel grove.

He is its prisoner.

He returns to the page.

It will not open. 

It will not open.

There is anger in his gestures as he types the letters. 

How can you hear that sound? 

He stops an instant, ignores the writing implements and takes a sound recorder.

That's it. 

You will hear my pace now. 

The peace of my fingers typing on the board.

Far away from the hazel grove. 
Far away from the hazel grove.

The sound is foregrounded.

The sou...he stops. 

The os....he stops.

The sound of the fingers (he typed finders and corrected it) will be yours. 

How will you know to make sense of the rhythm.
(how many bloody times does he get that word's spelling wrong?)

How did I get here?

He wonders....

I was setting out to make a map.

I had the pencils ready.

They appear unimportant now.

There is so much to show.

There is so much to tell you.

There is ....

He hesitates and wonders.

"Is it finished now?"

"Is it finished now?"

Will that be the map?

How will you find me?

How will you follow me?

You shall not.

You shall not.

I am .....(he hesitates)

I am .....(he hesitates)

With you in this silence, this silence, these finger beats, fingers beating a hard surface.

It is a lie.

It is a lie.

It is a lie.

We are standing together.

You are behind me.

Une vidéo publiée par @sensor63 le

Looking at the hazel grove.

It exists now.

In our map.

It is over now.

He stops the recording.

He hesitates, pencil resting on the surface.

He looks at the implements in the metal bucket.

He hesitates.

Tapping Sounds.

“Sight isolates, sound incorporates. Whereas sight situates the observer outside what he views, at a distance, sound pours into the hearer. Vision dissects, as Merleau-Ponty has observed (1961). Vision comes to a human being from one direction at a time: to look at a room or a landscape, I must move my eyes around from one part to another. When I hear, however, I gather sound simultaneously from every directions at once; I am at the center of my auditory world, which envelopes me, establishing me at a kind of core of sensation and existence... You can immerse yourself in hearing, in sound. There is no way to immerse yourself similarly in sight.
By contrast with vision, the dissecting sense, sound is thus a unifying sense. A typical visual ideal is clarity and distinctness, a taking apart. The auditory ideal, by contrast, is harmony, a putting together.
Interiority and harmony are characteristics of human consciousness. The consciousness of each human person is totally interiorized, known to the person from the inside and inaccessible to any other person directly from the inside. Everyone who says 'I' means something different by it from what every other person means. What is 'I' to me is only 'you' to you...
In a primary oral culture, where the word has its existence only in sound... the phenomenology of sound enters deeply into human beings' feel for existence, as processed by the spoken word. For the way in which the word is experienced is always momentous in psychic life.”

― Walter J. OngOrality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word