Coherence is a Gaping Jaw
Living Splits
From where do you enter?
The advice everywhere this season says linger. Share on neutral ground, speak in resolution. Rip from knowledge, discard chaos. It sounds somewhat right but I also wonder if this is guidance from a place that has no life. Ceasing twitching to call stillness peace. Far from honest, I think. More like taxidermy. Dead head protruding from a wall, spooky calm, perceiving nothing.
I have also heard another version that contradicts toward wholeness. Something like, wrestle with the trouble, but keep one hand on the railing. Meaning you can accept destabilization as long as it serves an eventual stable conclusion. Still a story about pristine reconciliation.
This is not that. I propose a split living gap. A jaw that does not shut now or ever, making the completeness it would stitch a lie wellness has made billions off of.
To swallow or not?
I am hearing many different kinds of vocal stims right now. I heard y’all screaming for the Knicks from hundreds of miles away while I sat in the low hum of the forest. I watched the manufactured roars rise from my phone screen, a window of belonging built at full volume out of people who could not have named a single player those frames back.
If I were not a current reading cavalier, I would say I am being a hypocrite or that I am cold. That I need to rage a rhythm that does not feel like mine. But I feel lucky in my thinking that coherence is to swallow enigma whole. Like a chunky cube of cheese. When those insides are raw from making the outside feel like a friend, a translucent skin, maybe the cheddar was not yours to taste.
To be in the gap is not to fail at perceiving. It is the perceiving. A completely clean current is a suspicious one. Be wary. A throat holding its own sharp sight and singular cadence all at once, without making either side step the dance, is doing the most honest reading available. This is what perceiving through the throat actually means. You let it split you. Perception where it cracks is where you read, throat acting like a jungle’s fault line, reporting movement.
Most of what passes for reading the world right now is speedy resolve. A thing happens and within the hour there is a cohort of correct positions and hot takes. The feed streams, but cannot swallow. It rewards throats that scream on cue and punishes the fleshy caves that refrain because collective emotional charge translates to dollars while intentionally silent throats quietly build worlds machines are unable to read.
So what does a practice shown in three currents splitting a body look like, you ask?
Current Reading of Group Grooming
Imagine a body standing at the edge of culture reading it instead of insisting on the center. From a long view, you see the construction of a thing. The race to belong. To be at the heart of a scene. The way competition can assemble fandom in the blink of an eye, a stadium at volume live-streamed genocides never got.
Reading is lonely. It sits low, under the sternum, constantly taking the shape of the instrument and not the audience. It is not about being too cool to hang. It is about distance as the cost of clarified sight. I think if given the chance, I would pay the price again but the stretch of not knowing is where the future rehearses.
Ass shaking in asset stacking
I can shake some ass like it is all I got. In fact find me on the dance floor this weekend turning a look, throwing my weight around to techno that opens the floor of the world. Ketamine hour and the long Black machine of the night as a way out.
At some point though, half my life is gone and clubbing is not a full-time job. If I lived for myself the first half, I choose to live for us the second, which for me is trading some of that booty bumpin’ and cool kid stuntin’ for something that lasts beyond my lifetime.
I cannot reconcile these realities nor do I think that is the point. Find the balance they say. Make room for more as if circumference is edgeless. As if all of this will cohere into one well-adjusted adult. Coming from a fractured background, my gut knows the pleasure that frees and the structure that hands are two different appetites that require the tongue for themselves, at the same time.
My jaw does not puree these realities for a more comfortable chew. It gapes, stream overflow past the lips, floating the tension.
Being in writing
How do we measure consciousness? How do we determine what is and is not consciousness? Not that we do a thing but that we are a thing? Like how energy finds form enticing? It will be like, is that form empty, living on a decide/dissociate axis. You decide which energy your form takes or you dissociate for any energy to take your form. It is complex, but it is not complicated.
Your gut knows what it wants, but it has to resist muzzling, unless you are into that. Rehearsals of the future are happening between screams and silences. Beliefs want to resolve. Bodies can’t. It revs hunger and feeding as a tandem-bike. Read anything’s future in its splits before its chosen stance or full circle.
Does staying with the conundrum naturally get you to the other side? What if the contradictions contradict as a digestive feature? I keep my mouth open because I want to actually see.
This version is more you. The earth does not wait for predictable weather patterns. It firms the silo, keeps the gap wide, and lets the weather run its cycles, from thrashing rain to lasting sun, energy cruising form.
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