Giornata

Dark
Because you cannot name it
You don't see it with your eyes
You metabolize it with your spleen

It's too much
Or too little
You don't know
It's incalculable

It pushes you up
Or down
You don't know
It's immeasurable

What you do know is that you can wrap your
finger on it
Circling with the skin of your thumb,
your index -middle -ring - pinky - finger.

Now your hands are full of potentiality
They vibrate and create sounds
Resonances that only your body can translate.

This is how fingerprints were created.

*

"That's is what you want to do, get lost." That's what he told me yesterday. And he was right (I'm listening to this song right now - ABOVE BELOW - isn't it funny how sometimes everything feels like a big puzzle that fits together effortlessly, and one piece fits into the other like it knows what it's supposed to do?). But I don't think the word "lost" is the right one. Promethea help me out here, please? "and some days are as suddenly cruel as caliph's whim. But that is because it is all lived out so close to humanity's savage heart. In this region everything is so sensitive that a grain of pepper could blow up the earth. One little silence and it's death. One spoonful of light spilled from the eyes: a new life."

- Yes, I'll say yes. I will yes.

Picture this: a small dot in the air, as if someone had just drawn it. It hovers in the same place for a long, long time, picking up information from space, especially light and sound reflected as frequencies, but one day it explodes (big bang?) (entropy?) and all the information it was carrying is splashed into everything and everyone. It's chaotic. It's inflamed. It's on fire. It has no structure. It has no method. It's all at once. It's schizophrenic. So I'm going to let this text be what it wants to be - schizo - and I hope it breaks through instead of breaking me down.

*

Too small to fit all (by all I mean the cosmic forces of the future)? Solution: like a jiboia (boa constrictor) eating ¾ of its body weight: rest and digest.

*

Can you multitask consciousness?

*

Ovarian Breathing it is an ancient Taoist technique. It is a process of energy conversion leading to the formation of a subtle body with capacity to develop reasoning, feeling and will, of its own, it's called "the secret of immortality" for women. I haven't tried it yet, but I will. Reading the instructions, a process with many steps and variations, the last step of the practice - Spiraling the Energy around your Naval Center - caught my attention. The instructions are very precise: use your mind, eyes and other senses to mentally move the energy in and out, spiraling it around your navel 36 times. Start by spiraling counterclockwise outward. Then reverse the direction of the spiral and circle it clockwise 24 times.

*

You only have to look at the Medusa straight on to see her. And she's not deadly. She's beautiful and she's laughing.

*

Sometimes chaos is an immense black hole, and we strive to fix a fragile point as a center (draw a circle and repeat the same line on top of the first line, the line gets thicker and thicker, you are creating a boundary, a skin, a frontier, protection). Sometimes we organized a calm and stable form: the black hole becomes a home (we create a territory - structures, methods - we conceptualize). Sometimes we graft an escape in this form (home), out to the black hole (we meet the forces of the future, we entangled with the world).

These are the three aspects that the ritornello is constituted. (they are not phases, they are emphases). One of these moments is always inhabited, but they interpenetrate each other. The refrain is a point in a black hole, it is the creation of a center in chaos, building a territory where you feel at home; and finally, it is launching, abandoning, improvising.

It is the rhythm that marks the territory, it is the means of expression, it is the harmonious quality of the fluxes. It is not a question of measurements, but rhythms; impose rhythms, give cadences, organize. The refrain is a territorial agency, it is a whole set of expressions and counterpoints that are drawn in a rhythm. But it is also the movement of the passage itself, that's why rhythm and not measure, it's the very leaving its terrain, creating trails. The territory is not separated from the lines that cross it, so it is always open to chaos. It's like building your house on the edge of the abyss.

*

Do you know this song?

Good evening.
This is your Captain.
We are about to attempt a crash landing.
Please extinguish all cigarettes.
Place your tray tables in their upright, locked position.
Your Captain says: Put your head on your knees. Your Captain says: Put your head on your hands. Captain says: Put your hands on your head.
Put your hands on your hips.
Heh heh.
This is your Captain-and we are going down.
We are all going down, together.
And I said: Uh oh.
This is gonna be some day.
Standby.
This is the time
Put your hands over your eyes.
Jump out of the plane.
There is no pilot.
You are not alone.
Standby.
This is the time.

*

I had this note on my wall for a week or so:

POETS
ILLUSION
DISORDER
NEGLIGENCE
LEOPARDI ZIBALDONE

I google the name of the poet to remember what I read from him. In my search, I found a profusion of his writings but I stopped at this one because of the date, March 4th, my birthday, but 170 years before I was born. (I was born the year the cold war ended):

Too much of anything gets you nowhere. Even logicians warn that someone who tries to prove too much ends up proving nothing at all. We see excess everywhere in life. Excessive or profuse sensation turns to numbness. It produces indolence, inaction, a culture of sluggishness among individuals and whole populations. A poet overcome by enthusiasm, passion, etc., isn’t a poet—I mean he isn’t able to make poetry. Confronted with nature, his mind is swamped imagining the infinite, ideas swarm in his head and he’s unable to separate, select, or grasp any of them; he’s completely incapacitated, in other words; he can’t harvest the fruit of his sensations—he can’t conceptualize and formulate, can’t apply himself and write, can’t theorize or practice. The infinite expresses itself only when it goes unfelt, or rather after it’s felt. When the great poets were writing things that rouse in us an astonishing sense of the infinite, their spirit wasn’t at all occupied by sensations of the infinite; when depicting the infinite, they weren’t feeling it. The reason we don’t feel the worst possible physical pain is because it either knocks us senseless or kills us. (…)

But then I read another note: “She is a giver” and “Her libido is Cosmic” and “She alone dares and wishes to know from within” and “She – the outcast” and “I’d ambiguously uttered – the wonder of being several. Derives pleasure from this gift of alterability” and “She is the erogeneity of the heterogeneous” and I start to grasp the feeling - it comes first in my stomach, it’s warm and follow my spine. I remember the image I saw in this book “Healing Love through the Tao – Cultivating Female Sexual Energy”. It shows the Microcosmic Orbit around our body. It’s a beautiful drawing in black and white. I like the composition of geometric forms beyond the meaning. Specially the breast – very pointy between two balls of energy.

*

CONCAVITY – CONVEXITY

*

A ‘desiring machine’ opposes the notion of unity or oneness: the elements or discontinuities that compose it do not belong to either an original totality that has been lost or one which finalizes or completes it, a telos … Desire does not create permanent multiplicities; it experiments, producing ever-new alignments, linkages, and connections, making things.

Woman un-thinks the unifying, regulating history that homogenizes and channels forces, herding contradictions into a single battlefield.

If we treat x as a desiring machine, an assemblage in constant interaction with other assemblages and with the elements that constitute it, then it is clear that the x work does not emerge from a single original meaning, nor does it progress towards one. Rather, it maintains a continual sense of becoming, of desire forever deferred, of functioning as a dynamic play of multiple meanings of equal status.

Admit this first: to want the two, as well as both, the ensemble of the one and the other, not fixed in sequences of struggle and expulsion or some other form of death but infinitely dynamized by an incessant process of exchange from one subject to another. A process of different subjects knowing one another and beginning one another anew only from the living boundaries of the other: a multiple and inexhaustible course with millions of encounters and transformations of the same into the other and the in-between.

*

Movements for euphoria and lamentation:

Score for a solo performer:

Walking and falling
Thinking and falling
Writing and falling
Desiring and falling
Loving and falling
Speaking and falling
Dancing and falling
Becoming and falling
Looking and falling
Deciding and falling
Accepting and falling

Score for two performers. Performer A starts with the 15th score and goes backward, performer B starts with the 1st and finishes at the 15th. Repeat 10 times.

1. Raise arms.
2. Open Chest
3. Paint a rainbow
4. Separate Clouds
5. Roll Arms
6 Row a boat
7. Balance a ball
8. Gaze at the moon
9. Turn the waist and push palm
10. Cloud hands
11. Scoop the sea
12. Push the waves
13. Dove spreads wings
14. Punch
15. Fly like a wild goose

*

According to Gilbert Simondom, the body is a relative fact, a phase of being.

*

Blessed is the one who cares.
Blessed is the one who dreams.

*

MODES OF DOING:

A: How do you practice yourself?
B: I am trying to check my habits of seeing, to counter them for the sake of greater freshness. I’m trying to be unfamiliar with what I’m doing.

*

The last hexagram of the I Ching - Book of Mutations is the 64: Transition (Before Conclusion). This hexagram represents a time of change: a transition from chaos to order; this change is not yet complete. Conditions are very difficult. The task is big and full of responsibility.
This hexagram has a parallel to spring: a time of transition from the stagnation of winter to the fertility of summer. It suggests that the ever-spinning wheel of life never reaches a final conclusion. Just as hidden sadness resides in the heart of true euphoria, and just as seeds of amazing achievement can sprout from a cauldron of adversity, no end is ever really complete without a new beginning stirring inside it. We may divide life into categories to understand and manage it, but the experience itself is seamless. The Tao’s 64 - timeless wheel of change is ready to spin onward, ever-evolving, ever staying the same.

*

Rivers came out of her eyes and it washed the secret and dusty corners of her oldest and youngest self so she could be just in the present. Time goes fast or slows depending on which window she looks into. She feels her grandmother that she never met behind her. And then it stops. Now the wind blows like spring days. It goes from south to west. It moves all the leaves from the floor in perfect choreography. Brown leaves still from winter times. The stubborn ones that couldn’t accept their faith. In harmony they circle in slow motion, spiraling 18 times clockwise and 9 times counterclockwise. And then it stops. There is silence and a warm sunny light illuminates the trees. They are talking telepathically about roots and ants. They contemplate their growth of the month. They count the nitrogen from the soil. Not in numbers, counting for them is more like a memory of different tones and vibrancies of a song.

*

at hjarta skal opna seg,
at dører skal opna seg,
at berget skal opna seg,
at kjeldor skal springa –

*

I didn’t’ want to use the word lost and that is because being lost implies a search for direction and that is not the case. The need is to overflow. To let clear waters infiltrate the small fractures of this paper-mirror. That is one of my communions with chaos. In liquid form, my multiplicity moves by the orchestration of time. Am I talking about flow? Yes, as our master Lee said: “you pour water in a cup, it becomes the cup. When you pour water into a bottle, it becomes the bottle. When you pour water in a teapot, it becomes the teapot. Water can drip and it can crash. Become like water my friend.”

This event happened in Lisbon and many authors helped me write it: Hèlene Cixous, Richard Wilhelm, Félix Guattari, Olav H.Hauge, Mantak Chia, Laurie Anderson, Leopardi Zibaldone, Gilbert Simondom, Elizabeth Grosz, Bruce Lee, John Cage, Gilles Deleuze.