Begin with a question concerning what a proper question should consist of. Begin with a consideration for the other that is generous and loose – soft pliable eyes, passive stance in the body, gentle inquisitive inflections of the voice. Begin with an instantiation of trust – the first to give without asking in return (potlatch vs gifting), an offering of great importance and potential intimacy that can be burned upon an alter that both parties are equally involved in erecting so that both may equally enjoy in the ecstatic pleasures witnessed in the deterioration of material ideas. Begin with a declaration of etiquette suggesting an equality in potential although not in capacity(?). Lay a ground work upon which both can stand but both must be active in maintaining with the risk of mutual destruction: declare the necessity of mutual dependence while maintaining autonomy, offer up descriptions of the arena while calling attention to the subtleties of the floor tiles, examine the minutiae of ones own hand with inquisitive rigor – to use one’s own body as a relief of every body – without succeeding that this hand could ever be every hand, and even further, that this hand is a sensory tool for interacting with the palpable external all-pervasive-all but can only trace the smallest circles back into it’s own palm.


Make a leap in the dark! Jump in! Surf the wave of the present with total disregard to repercussions in order to discover what one is capable of saying. Orient the questions to the other while drawing as much material up from the internal well as the bucket can hold. Let loose all inhibitions to revel in the search for an inner voice, a personal voice that resonates from the deep-within permeating thoroughly throughout, the voice of self-creation that molds all aspects of the ethereal and corporeal body, the signature sound of the psyche shivering in it’s mortal coil tied taut to heart strings quivering through the umbilicals of physiology and extending out through the luminescent projectiles of subjective ontology. Define the voice, refine the voice. Take up the pieces and press them back into the hot clay with confident strides, always taking care to breath in drips of moist reflection into the reflex shins of the mineral mind, wetting the words while whetting the whimsy. Continue asking questions, to offer a course while determining to veer over and through the imagine circumferences at the periphery of consideration: decide to steer and relinquish to be steered in a single gesture, not in turns but together-as-other, a new hand reaching through the scrim of differentiated cogitos into diaphanous ocean currents like one-of-two-of-many toes of Heraclitus.


Make a play of the theater. Make light of the spot lamps hidden in the eves. Call attention to the conductor with her own baton. Reach out to ring the bell and open the eyes to initiate the meditation. Pull back the curtains to let the light in but also the air with it’s crisp scents and deadly pollutions and the insects with their pollination instincts and poisonous long shanks and all the other stuffs of the world which would otherwise remain invisible unless we take a stand in calling attention to the nuanced delineations of their surfaces. Go off the path, out into the wilderness, past the pines and promethean pileups to the farthest cavern in order to fall in to the void, past the Platonic proletariat with their phantasmagoric sideshows, beyond the salty stalactites of fossilized dialectics and stalagmites of calcified consonants, over the tongues of temptation and into the throat of the terra firma, to pop out of the navel of the sleeping giant back at the head of the trail and realize that the trajectory we were plotting was only the self-same finger caressing the epidermal creases drawing out the epistemological maps spreading out the fate upon the palm, the same palm which is now a map and now a navel and now a cave and now not my palm but yours as it could be any other.


Put the thing on the table and call it a spade. Now call it a cup and fill it with all the containers that cupness can coddle. Now put down another thing and call it a cup or a “cup” or a “cup also” or “another cup” or perhaps by another name that might better delineate the circumference of the container circumscribing it’s own contents while circling out to capture the combinatorics of the contraptions which one might concede to place within it. There is a utility to the language which must be maintained: the cup is a cup in general but also this cup specifically, it is this cup here but not necessarily not that cup there, it is a cup on a table and not a cup-table although perhaps from another perspective it could be. Our words must hold themselves and carry us along with them. They must stack together if we are to construct a shelter worthy of it’s name, but they must defy their own naming so as not to be confused with the architectonics of the metonymic edifice. We must remember to remember always to maintain an awareness of verbal conduct without being swept out to sea by the rising swells of semiotic tides; we are visionaries in hot pursuit of a seeing eye splaying out all rods and cones as further focal points, not mathematicians calculating the algorithms of a singular truth. Draw it from many sides, describe the myriad features of the material, hum the sound contorting syllogisms from the testies through the throat through the theta. Sit and observe the stream whisking underneath it’s own slippery silvered shimmers mirroring the clouds whirling overhead, each the same substance containing itself with only a difference in degree:: the lake has sacrificed it’s airwards mobility to be formed by it’s container while gaining the reflective potentials of illusory depth while the clouds occupy the seat of godly observers as they dance throughout the noosphere only to suffer the perpetual creation and destruction of a body without delineations.


The conference is a meeting of minds, but not like in taste or maneuvers. In this play we are not actors nor directors nor grips nor gaffers but more akin to protozoan jousters participating in a celebratory war game of aesthetics and territories. The conference table can be any place, or rather is not confined to a particular locus but follows the dialectic monk in a halcyon must of seething potential. Here we sit and here we speak so here is the table and here is my cup which I now give to you to fill and call by whatever name you see fit. Here we stand and here we hear so here is the conference and here is my proposal which I offer to you with an expectation of revolving reciprocation and pulchritudinous profundity. Here is an object surrounded by fuzzy fluff which is so delicate to the touch and so pleasurable to handle but I tell you (!!!) this floating fur frenzies up a friction that will charge the holder of the woolen orb and this kinetic energy will shock us both if delicately handled for too long so let us remember to remember (!!!) to tear away the sensuous morsels and hone in on the smooth reflective weight hiding at the core. Here and now as we pass the floating linty mass back and forth between our grips we can describe the contents with oh-so-many multi-syllabic songs but the only way to know it to unlearn the polemics the un/known, to peer past the fibers of the dusty condensation and not just glimpse or gaze but look – actively look! – at the silken mirror orb held within. This shimmering pool reveals us both, two sets of eyes that can see themselves looking and see each other seeing each other looking and see the contents of the room within the cosmological eye looking back while also seeing the edge which defines the delineations of the pulsing pupil from the container within which we’ve place it, that is to say, we can see the thing in the place where we have placed it which is the same place we have placed ourselves even as we see it occupying a place always-already-other-than that where we are. The possibilities of inhabiting this foldable stackable watery depth contains the feasibility of embodying the ethereal other: a doubling of the self, a division of the parameters composing the tripartite model of the universe sprouting from the navel into singular white-hot spots of clarity. Not a purity but a purposiveness reveling in the poetics of it’s own purposelessness while determining to push pins further into the portal of possibility, of the unknown and unknowable as the most dynamic non-knowledge, as a truth which permeates the fallaciousness of any such declaration, and a material also! A mercurial non-Newtonian flow condensed into a scale which is admittedly unruly but manageable enough to negotiation through the acrobatics of our conversational aikido conducted here, now, on this table, in this cup, with this voice, for this purpose and no other save that which sews the thread back through the eye of the quivering needle