Dipping draping dazzling dunking deep into tearing ripping teasing tracing and lingering on mopping breaking stopping shaking supporting head and sometimes shoulders too. There are deep crevices of black engrained in the negative stop gaps, the healthy finger trapped. So that on days when being used, it acts as the glue swiping this way and that, perhaps inertia can distract all that is real about this feeling.
To extend the concept of the ideosphere we must listen in. Transcendental in every sense, the homunculus of desire; or little person precognitive behaviour. There is so much theory that goes in one ear and out the other and knowing simply knowing, the engrained sort of knowing, the sort that lingers for weeks, or even months at a time so that when you come to caress a block or stoop buttocks to floor, plunge hands into that flesh, it’s just obvious. The body knows. The grip of your stomach or the tension under your t-shirt when hands are placed around the parts of that space that are guides. Early morning movement turning on every cylinder to fire up an understanding that today, yes today my friend, has to be an ok day. Palms grind into the ground, torqueing the arms so that shoulders are solid and the legs: they are shooting out behind and doing all the things they do. But it’s really the palms that have our full attention and the fingers.
‘We really must see the answer in the guise of bodily movement.’
Folding churning dappling momentous chaotic and slightly neurotic mapping of an outline an edge. Trying seeking tracing linking blinking blurting hurting each and every tender plunder of touch, fleshy part stacks on top of slippery fur lined mouths and then without even knowing a dunk and a dip. There is something that lets rip in this controlled and dulled hemisphere, waiting to be seen or even caressed as dear.
Wanting to withdraw their presence is so distant now. Suspending the game, the finger awaits further instruction. Here in this moment controlled by a deeper emotion. Ignoring once and for all intuition, play must continue. All things return back to this moment when surrendering is impossible and the act of comprehension intangible. To feel, to really feel what it must be like to be in this body; pinch, punch, fold, fall and fill up with earnest indiscretion. There are hours it seems when the mind feels in complete control and then it just isn’t. And then there is a lesson for that, we can converse for hours on schooling and education but nothing changes, nothing really changes deep down inside. Using the hands to learn a new, neutral life. Because these hands build, they sculpt, they get dirty and wasted and lost and broken and bent and abused to their hearts content. But they don’t ever change. Or do they? Picking up that glass and knocking it back and getting high off inconsequential crap. What happens when we shatter knowledge of ourselves?
Wet numb lucid or dumb idiocy inhales and then the feeling bails, these fingers on this hand long to feel useful, normal or even mindful. Instead they roll and they extol hours of inconsequential lols towards what? Some sort of lunacy inside the hands as they dart across screen, seeking out all that have seen. An image placed on Instagram or a comment made by those other people’s fingers. That me is not me, this me is. So there out in the ether I become valid. Touch me, here. I am valid. Here.
Let’s not bleach language in the trappings of lust; the fingers, thumb, palm and wrist are larger than the truth. Here in the vivid daylight I know that my hand can be turned to anything; chameleonic embrace of a newness that though unbearable at times can only be grounded by gaze that returns. I’m not who I thought I was. And so within this loss I become someone I want to be. But what happens to the old me? I look inside, linguistic atopia resides. Time used to be mine and now, it belongs to everyone else. Blunt longing.
Smack thwack crack that internal monologue.
The queer landscape; blasted by makeup and Prozac. I want to get high drinking G off your back and fondling all that exists in that aroused playground of hell-bound twats. And every day I think: I must write that down, must let my fingers poke and prod that around, must stop rolling those cigarettes that tar my lungs. Instead, do something productive. A writer knows, right? A writer abandons will power, lazes over days by proclaiming indolence towards a sentence. Or, in the heat of the moment, a paragraph will form. Frustrations disentangle and out of the web a nasty surprise for the mind. This madness has been calling me. Here in the blur of all that impossibility the hands find themselves pattering over this black space. What is to be said via these tools? How much control do they have?
That in this moment there is nothing but emotion to delve into, to entertain that. A text, a message, a bad move that could determine how this all begins and ends. A left, a right, an indignant surprise, intimacy at the turn of a page. Lost now forever in a dopamine drenched haze of potential deviation. The body churns towards release.
‘All things return to the one, but where does the one return?’
And this light, this brand new daylight that dazzles in true splendour reminds us of previous indiscretions so that when the birds raw or the alarm blasts through subconscious presence of brightened effervescence I write to you my love, my only reader. I write to you because in this tumble of words that drain from my fingers is an answer. In the mechanics of this action is a reason. In this blur of something is a nothing. The body knows.