Map of body, slow-shifiting caustics and acids corroding soft-tissue wells. Muscle sheath, cleavage-fissure working in to cores running alongside bones, the relaxed eddies created by spaces in between sinews just before they intersect and plan—pools, cruelly, where collagen and poor spent plasms might otherwise find relief, recovering. In the lee of the joint. Not resolved for work like the resilient inner and outer pad layers between my vertebrata. Not resolved for birth, like the enriched ready-to-boil plasma of stem cell marrow. [Taken unawares, dewey-saucer-eyed-cuddling- infant-throng-jelly-bubble matrix first irrigated with a tease of delight, then pulled void. ] Not resolved, but waiting, interregnum. The space that lies in the sheltered lee quietly rebounding just short of the pinching joint of two converging vectors, hollows where I might have paused to rest had I been a skeleton-soldier. In those places lie dark pools.
Where I had hoped to go with this comment was to projective emotion, reprogramming animal-limbic feeling-fountains with construction and optimism, the quickening of spring leavening the death embedded in my present emotions. That lee housed the material that would carry the charge. Reprogrammable matrix, lemming-infants unhesitatingly acting. The habit of thinking positively, not as a leaden mask but as a buffered encapsular sheath for the surging core. More directly, an interpretation-gate: 'this means, you see, that we can make something of this and that this thing is possible and that the path that leads through there and there will not cause extinction, but- ' salved opening. With emotion-compass, seeking solution. With growth-medium where the pattern can hold. With instruction-set: she’s not so bad, you’re ok, we can.
Forlorn orgone? I think Reich thought that clouds could receive this charge. And that flesh could receive it: filtered, buffered, invigorated.
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Homogenous silence, marked by blurs and flecks. The dimension so vast as to measure time: an aeon of girth. Elephant-skin wrinkles, emerging from the smooth ruffled surface of the massive depth. At the edge, soaking in a million pits, the mass opening, and revealing pitted subcutane, and then felted porous liquid tendrils. At the edge, catastrophes; frozen tumbling fragments, continuous collapsing. A minor sea collects in a shallow, accordioned shards of the sheet above intermixing anew. Then failing: the phase yields into river. Cascade: infinitesimally slow torrent, rime of shards above the fresh water discharging to the ocean.
This is a landmass in reverse: not the fundament eroded by the shore, but a proto-ocean above as an upper land, turning like a sun into the open water outside. The land here seems residue, effluent incident of the melt. Ocean salt receives the freshwater: bright fissues of current, overlapping arcs of wrinkled pressures from the tide slowly pulsing toward the land in countercurrent to the melting. Then the sea begins homogenous: miasma of swells, fissured by the transverse wind and second transverse of rebounding coastal current. Cumulus drifts hover above, clustering into a stratum that stands offshore, making a counter-coast, long dissolved fingers casting shadow on the rippled water.
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Like finger-print wrinkles, clumping in repeated rolls, barrel-vault wrinkle oriented in single meandering spread that shifts every few diameters, then reasserts itself. Cutting across, a twill-chevron of cross-wrinkles then searing across the whole, a ridge that grows in height, reverse fissures, becoming more turbulent as it merges, then collapsing upward into cumulus-bursts with entrail-quilted spicules and hydra-vortices shedding beside and behind. This thermal plumage is tiny, not the thunderhead I already know but instead tufts, follicles. Where is the next? Just ahead, one valley’s length and then another. And another- skipping-stones’ lengths decelerating.
Interrupted by upper layer haze, thickening into the next skin. Similar wrinkles, but sharper and with tighter folds- like tulle, or gauze, compared to the canvas lower. Tufts here only singular, but marked by great outward swaths of rebound and counter-current that furrows the surface, nipple and navel arrays but then the reverse- ahead, a pitted skin with sinks and gentle whirlpool creases converging around, upholstered. Pigskin, orange peel alternating.
A circular rainbow accompanies my view. Centre: warm gold-pink, then blushing into rose, and cooling to violet and fading to pure blue indistinguishable from the surrounding bright sky above. Yet I see it as a shadow, marking the cloud-field outward to green emerald, moving into yellow-hue, and then into pink-orange in the centre. Again to red, and to violet, and outward into sky-blue. Yet again, elusively- the faint-glow of green tinting the orb, moving toward yellow. When I see it, the arc asserts, streaming around. I turn around the whole and survey, answered by hints of hue-yellow, red-orange, violet outward in its condensing zone- outward again, octave-wise, measured from the cadence, and breath-whisper signal of hue in one zone, there at upper left, rippling outward with its accompanying inner tinges and echoed at sixty degrees to the right; four, five, six rings.
I sweep over the field of clouds, furrowed in local and regional and national octaves, ocean swells enfolding molecular ripples and soviet clusters, sheared and torn into cross-current strained shatters whose gores hang in threads, shifting ahead into frozen crystal-breaks whose cracking pattern marches for half the horizon and then softens into elastic rolls again, white meringue alternating with vanilla-icing buttering. While drifting down my own membranes darkened fragments of microorganisms float. My glasses fog slightly as the vessel turns into the light, carving the field with relief and searing through with prism-shards, radian. Seeing the meniscus, blinded in pink and white, turning inward. What am I seeing, and what am I projecting? Where do I look and what is found? Pre-historic history tracks await in limbic brains, fissured to receive my gaze. Or cutting and lurching then to the front, in proud social congitium: freezing the knowledge, holding the view firm. I have it. It is mine. I’ll tell you presently.
Somewhat like this, I looked into the woods, standing on snow-crusted tracks that lead a mile in from Hespeler Road beside the washed-out bridge abutments. Alder saplings rise all around made a dense thicket, saturating the middle ground. Dotted in between are pines and cedar bushes, planted by the Sorensen family a decade ago. In the snow just in front of my own I saw rabbit and deer tracks clustered into a dense path, crossing and winding through the alder deep into the thicket on my right. I turned and looked, following the staccato clumps of rabbit paw racing, and deer hoof at measured pace.Folding out deeper, I saw the path lengthen and run past one alder clump, then another and another, overlapping tangles layering. Like tripping arpeggios, flittering in dashing ribbons threading down and in. It is that lengthening, darting further and further in a staccato rush, that I now wonder: is it my skill in seeing the diminishing tracks, darting and reaching deeper? I see; I am disposed to see. I see within a tightly focused set of dashing stripes within a densely embroidered field: this mask includes, and excludes. The springy trill of magnetic meniscus-clumps lensing my named field: track. Track. Track-track-track-track. Marionette, of my own ingrained rigging. By way of confirmation, the photograph of that scene shows only a clotted morass, path buried after only the immediate foreground. No reaching; silence.
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