Knowledge and boundary are part of a living, fire-breathing moiré of intra-active fractal polarities. Knowledge an extension of field, field an extension of selves, membranes expanding to contract, boundary and no boundary loop with transitory subsistence like silence of river and sound of their bed. Eros holds and hides place in between who we are and what we do, however this is possible, fostering capacities for abundance, fullness, and multiplicity as co-terminus rather than one or other. Such erotic gut biota ignite ability as emphatic awareness of also extending toward our selves, in what Mary Ruefle has ingeniously called negative negative capability, or in other words, positive capability, ecstasy and enstasy, a kind of photon suckling.
Nurturing amateur perspectives focusses on imagination and soul inherent in heart’s fields as perceiving holographically (when heart is in a coherent state they can receive the entire image of a plant, says Pam Montgomery), a living weave in between physicality of root and intellectual natures of brow who disentangles, making and remaking categorical predilections, creating with compositions as permutations of galvanic and psychoid instincts.
Visible and invisible, hearts are bodies as well as organs, bodies are fields who are fieldless, pulsing in uterine relationality. As Susun Weed says, heart is red, rough, and truthful. A pattern requires ‘no’ as often as it does ‘yes’. In this thrumming mud there are a thousands of cells co-existing as fieldless fields (who in unto themselves is not a theory nor a closed system, not a demarcated subject, but life, process, verb), an ethics of weaving with infintesimal rays.
I have a habit of watching love waves appear and disappear with gossamer threads of webs.
One way I imagine fieldless fields (a way of picturing action at a distance as gravitational attraction, enfolding scales both apart and together, corresponding, affecting and affected) is as fumes and thin chords.
We ask cochlea, depthless labyrinth, to emerge from ear, we listen to them, listen from them, as them, go to them, go into our ears outside of ourselves, lose ourselves ‘there’, for a moment, fit our bodies into canal and phase through membrane, becoming endolymph.
Fieldless fields (a misnomer, as if there were a way we could simply point at such fields in sensorial space-time) are additive, wherein everyone is potentially and equally perceived as twinned ‘explanations’. Red glow of sunset, solar fortuna, green lion, photosynthetic excreta, phoenix of alchemical rubedo, molecules, bandwiths, electric waves, solar flares.
Fieldless fields guide perspectives around imperceptible pullulations of hologrammatic thresholds. Their inherent energy appears in chimeric glints, mythical implications of inter and outer work wherein memory is inherently memory of all life, self-similar chaos-threads of Thalassa, biological unconscious. Energy has been and will be all beings at all times, energy are being, archetypal backgrounds enfolding discourse of language who comments on themselves as mirrors who mirror mirrors.
Holism is as vital and mythical as homeostasis, to ask a question is to be asked a question. Fieldless fields appear and disappear like unfragmented patterns of subtle energies with whom we live, an holistic participatory knowledge system where coming to knowing is coming to loving.
Whether I like it or not, I often picture such life as dismembered mandalas responding to inner situations as incipient cryptograms, one’s whole being at work in part. As Mei Mei Berssenbrugge says, look inside you when you’re struggling, every cell in your body emits light.
Berssenbrugge carves out space for a ‘truth’ who is invisible (cymatic transience, not so much linear evolution, but circumambulation of selves with which every cell is also a living symbol) in relation to empirical structures of definition, knowledge, and rationality, nurturing belief that body is infused with deep intelligence of Akashic life, whose sole wish is to sustain.
Whilst writing a book called Azimuth, the ecology of an ear (in which individual relates to inexplicably synchronic and diachronic natures), I became, and in many ways still am, transfixed by Bell Hooks’ care for what it could mean for love (many holes that are Erotes) if we all began from the same definition before departing, extending selves for the purposes of one’s own or another’s spiritual growth.
Whilst we feel deeply drawn to someone, Hook says, we cathect with them, we invest feeling or emotion in them. We fill them, in other words, with the stuff of our shadow, hoping to feel lighter. Our edges bulb a little, and cave, we can easily mistake one for the other, cathecting for loving, bulbing for caving. We insist we love our shadow in our beloved so that we are afforded a brief reprieve from their chimeric weight, place in between suffused with descriptions and opposites of care, consistency, recognition, and so on.
Burrowing, twisting auras in dirt work of old green night, counterparts of love, guts, and fear, false inevitabilities, motifs, patterns, emblems seeming to predict and so set an outcome, intermediary place becomes space, and patterns, initially crafted for reassurance, slowly reveal their psychic past, their hastily obscured voices amplify a reality in modulation and prediction of perception as we peer into them, trying to see through them, coincidence met subsequently with cynicism, and heart cracks, subdividing pattern into abstraction and interstitial time.
I started reading about Hooks’ experiences with love and cathexis during visits to my stepfather, who had recently received a terminal diagnosis. I was trying to speak in front of myself, thinking of something Rosmarie Waldrop said, that if we don’t signal our love, reason will eat our heart out before they can admit their form of mere intention, and we won’t know who has departed.
It’s during such times that we are left wondering what a rite of passage might feel like, or even if we would notice… what we might say, and not say, how we might in-act, when hours become elders and death becomes a guide (our lives depending on their unanswered questions), how, to lose a loved one can be part of a sacred passage into a new stage of awareness. If there is anyone who speaks of emptiness, it’s vibration.
To act as nest, keeping such thoughts and feelings close, I thought of Bardo Thodol (liberation through hearing during intermediate state), and how as someone dies, you listen out for them, for thirty days, keeping them close, thinking about them, holding them to help ease their transition by listening to cosmos speak.
An amateur inclination is not solely defined by love, just as hyper professionalism is not solely defined by cathexis, but I’ve noticed that whilst writing, if I do not, or cannot, choose to love, if I lose feeling for organism, if I urge wave to be particle (a kind of frequency synonymous with deification of separation), said particle reverses their spin so that they might empty themselves out by shedding until I can’t tell if they are consuming or creating distinctions. Nevertheless this process still creates a wave, a release, appearing as if invisible under such emptiness, drifting and bewildered, grounded in between as place of spiral excess as supra-abundance of additive reality, the kind of dying that goes on in finding new life.
The notion that a space must be maintained or desire ends is a certain kind of opinion kindred with Marcel Proust, whose observation of desire equates possession of another person with erasure of the otherness of their mind, while at the same time positing otherness as what makes another person desirable.
Love and cathexis, love and desire, extension and reach, emptying and filling, the upward downward path. As sinusoidal explanations and their absence, how long can we extend ourselves before we start to reach? Before we tell ourselves we know ‘what’ we want and that we’re going to ‘get’ them? What do we do, after so much extension? Transmuting into reach, how much of us remains, and where were we? Inward facing outward facing, vibrating at green and pink.