travelling: I

along a line in which the living present seems divided
by that sense of 'what just happened?', as if suddenly
aware of being juxtaposed against something unknowable
and discerning something about oneself, or someone else,
in that precise moment that lies contained within the
form of a secret, yet no longer consumed by any
compulsion to unravel its specific content, instead
only filled with a vague taste for its indiscernability
and saturated by the very postures of bodyandmind that
unexpectedly overtake those imperceptible
'where-did I put my keys?' glitches that re-cognize
thought in an instant, not by the invasion of memory nor
any interuption of intense reflection, but by something
more closely aligned with a desire to forget everything
extraneous, unconsciously filled with a present moment
that (re)places one in direct relation to what one can
never know, acknowledging the undeniable time of it as
something passing one by forever, while also accepting
the notion that wars (big or little) no longer matter
and finally almost getting ready to consider jumping on
a passing train, even if acutely aware that one's
territories are outofgrasp but only because one is in
the process of redrawing them

travelling along these lines is like painting a triptych
of the same face, three lines of thought adding up to one;
three versions of the same portrait intertwined with a seamless
glitch of timeless time that triples the frame of it,
like looking through a prism (or would that be a kaleidescope?)



what happened (its expression)
+
(the form of) its secret
+
the postures of bodyandmind (its content)
_______________________________________________

adds up to Fitzgerald asking himself,
Whatever could have happened for things to come to this?



A flash of perception.

"You enter a room and perceive something as already
there, as just having happened, even though it has
not yet been done. Or you know that what is in the
process of happening is happening for the last time,
it is already over with. You hear an "I love you"
that you know is the last one. Perceptual semiotics."
(D&G, ATP)

D & G's claim that we are made of lines.

"We are not only referring to lines of writing.
Lines of writing conjugate with other lines, life lines,
lines of luck or misfortune, lines productive of the
variation of the line of writing itself, lines that are
between the lines of writing...living lines, flesh lines about which it
brings a special revelation...nothing but pure lines right
down to the nuances, and nothing but the pure
and conscious power of the word." (D&G, ATP)

first life line:

lines that interplay, that draw continguous territories,
rigid lines of segmentarity
suddenly marked by quanta in subtle flow,
the moment of their birth
("you count words, weigh things: our segments fit together"),
those still-discernable segments juxtaposed against each other
as if to imply a future
but not necessarily a becoming

second life line:

lines of supple segmentation that deterritorialize quanta,
that rest side by side in the present
but are defined by the form of something already done,
ungraspable matter, already-molecularized even as it plays itself out,
that sense of travelling at extraordinary speeds
that move one beyond the threshold of one's perception,
not faster or slower, better or worse,
but just different from the first and still not clear

third life line:

a line of flight, the sense of moving-while-standing-still
(which is an explosion of the first two lines)
because one no longer has anything to hide
but is also no longer apprehensible,
like breaking through a wall to climb out through its black holes,
absolute deterritorialization of boundaries
while suddenly knowing too much
such that one can no longer interpret the anythingness of it:
no longer seeing shadows but only glare,
potentially stopped by something formless,
by the pure abstract line of understanding

"a clandestine passenger on a motionless voyage.
To become like everybody else, but this, precisely,
is a becoming only for one who knows how to be
nobody, to no longer be any body. To paint oneself
gray on gray." (D&G, ATP)

three lines interweaving:
rigid segmentarity,
molecular segmentarity
and the flow of an abstract line

writing this
then looking up
at falling snow,
the endless patterns
drifting-down
and rising into repetitions
that float
along a current coat of white,
its limitlessbeingandmindfulnothingness
wearing me

"If they don't know what your're doing,
baby it must be art." (U2)