Aeolus

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Then she rolled woolfen dice to conjure hurricanes and whirlwinds of dark magick, groaning deep from within phoggy potentials. Numbered voices began to spook their spoken actions across immeasurable distances. God may not play at dice, the science man believed, but who asked him anyways? After all, it is breath that summons plural—both demons and goddesses.

Hers, you say? Heresy!!

FIRST ORBIT

Susan: “Mothering is the rootedness of all othering. Not mother-blame, but other-blame made paramount in the crossfade. The escape-route for tangled hair is a nice metaphor for the torn fabric founding all relational attempts to hold. Matrixial city channels movement like a countryside woman desires her breath. Escaping momentarily to rest this tangled hair. Applying even brush strokes: a technique to smooth any surface.”

Jinny: “Recursive machinic wheezing, these lungs of mine fill with mucous, entropy and the thick dust of another world. Fanning the flames of heat-death. I am dying, and I find myself longing: longing for the cool air of the ocean, those foggy mornings traversing up and down the coast, the subtle fuzz beginning to lighten as the tides brightly shimmer.”

Louis: “She was always whispering, it seemed, always nattering just below the purview of detection. Proximity begs for a whisper, does it not? The others in her coterie would glance around, sometimes furtively and sometimes with quite naked intent, sometimes even in my direction. Regardless, I was scarcely the one to feel her warm breath nibbling at my ear.”

Rhoda: “She follows my movement! All the wheres—her stalking will one day encompass the whole of my Being I’m certain. Where is she going now? Did she depart or extend? Those relationals have no regard for the advances of seclusion. Always seeking and they miss her reaching. In stillness, this aeolian infiltrates my solitude.”

Neville: “Feeling you, rasping unspeakable this abject desire. Commanding attunement beyond our ghostly mirror, to loving you….. And you. And you. And you: a finitude for this eternal objectification.”

Bernard: “Swimming through the sky, rippling waves with every stroke, every gesture scattering invisible particles to microscopic eddies and flows. The heart swells with this imagination. When swimming in air there is no need to gasp for breath at regular intervals, or perhaps one is always gasping, always filled with the lightness of it all, a smothering closeness even more insidious for its singular and particular lack of apparency.”

SECOND ORBIT

Susan: “Our bodies are superposed for an instant, posed and presupposed there. How do we whisper when there is no air between us? ..... {then a tear in the fabric} ..... Blame me, if you will, for this tangled hair entangling us—tangles breathing feral in the deep countryside. The matrixial rootedness of Mothering spins strangely in both directions.”

Jinny: “And why to wander? In such darkness, movement barely counts at all. Longings surmount miseries, there’s none so subtle as the tides. Waves rolling back and back over again, grasping grains, shifting, momentary and her fleeting. Repeat. Heat throws our lungs from the desire to breathe and one breeze can follow a million miles.”

Rhoda: “I fix the filter on my nose before sun falls. Should I knot? Particulates seek passage through this nanoscopic nest adorning my recognition. In one sense her relationals want to run right up my nostrils..... and I cringe at the feeling. Extension is always possible, even if departure proves a less certain quantity.”

Neville: “Narcissus, my lover, I am your beautiful hunter. Screaming such rhythms to carry you down, drown that natal river become pond. Enliven the touch, attune speculations, and you is us in the taking.”

FOURTH ORBIT

Neville: “I drop these nine pebbles upward to your countenance, shot almost imperceptibly from my planetary sling. Will they ever pierce the surface of our vision? Drip, drip, flip...... these splishes are the only sonnets to be witnessed, though we long for a more fullish hiss and rush.”

Louis: “Whispers shatter silence. Commit me? You desire this? Say it louder—SCREAM! I’ve lost my wristwatch in the bustle. Always stating something of importance, dwelling moments too long. Revealed! Tactility emanates, eliminates their competition….. I scarcely noticed her breath.”

Rhoda: “If truth were to be told, it is this: I am suffocating. The cosmic swirls of every tide blowing from that impoverishment we call Time have settled into a screaming and spasmic knot at the very heart of my Being—it pulses, intently. Wracked pluvial with these pleurisitic paroxysms, I smash my face bloody on the concrete wall and yet still I extend my departure.”

Jinny: “One breath holds. Holds one breath. Holds breath one. One holds breath. Waving sands tumble machinations past, destroying earth so compact, so fine, as to slide the present futural. The sun coats my step, a trepid passing hurled anew.”

THIRD ORBIT

Rhoda: “Why are you flipping out? Are you stoned? (Watch her, I think she has a case of the vapours.)”

Jinny: “You inspire me long past my expiration. Concrete time erodes before us, like so many grains of sand leaking from an hourglass, or perhaps like a pulsar blinking intently from forever away. This sun or that, let us walk in step with knotted and machinic hearts.”

Bernard: “Nine pebbles, truth be told, slammed the reef. Imaginative utterance is never complete….. slow suffocation, flips surface, sailing the transparency of story.”

Louis: “Pierce our gazing onward, outward, upward. Drip these speculations in deafened ear, to shatter. Whispers commit. Sanding speculations draw shores. A common dwelling.”

Susan: “One holds one, for all time it seems, a cosmic swirling and folding into and between us, pulsing. Then a bloody screaming and your face presents itself from the waves. O, it is such a fine departure!..... In the ecstatic wake of these spasms you stutter 'MOTHER!'—and this is the truth of a World.”

Neville: “Hurling air is holding breath, sun steps falling imperceptibly. Truth is a spasm; caught in the vertical and vortical rush of ‘imagine’—beyond this or thus, on the shores of our sounding-home.”

About the Author: 
The Department of Biological Flow is an experimental dialogue of research-creation between Sean Smith and Barbara Fornssler. The name is an homage to George Lucas’ 1971 film, THX 1138.