notes on desire, or 'there are no leaders on this dance floor, even for a ransom'

"Due to the eternal transmutation of forms, which are made of the elements, no single element ever gains predominance for long."

– Heraclitus

Al Jarry, or was it Doctor Faustrol who proposed a different way of thinking, suggests a law of rising vacuums to replace our falling bodies to describe all gravity, and that's not just the least or even half of it – you don't have to fall for it when a vacuum reaches up, it grabs you.

"All what?" you ask, I say "Whatever!", all was 'memory', all language, a song and dance – some call it theatre – all based on metaphor in fiction or in fact it does not matter, or molecular vibrations infecting 19th century Butler, or the principle of conservation of energy or stuff explained by Bergson in his conversations: just another state, not nations but a sort of memory all the same aestheticists insist it's just an impressive expression so what's the difference twixt a swallow and a metabolic penetration? and the elemental theory of ancient Grecians on the eyes themselves producing light which reaches out to kindred spirits like the sun or incandescent light bulbs and the grease-painted reflections all around you; and when two 'rays' meet the mutual vibing sets up – consciousness complete – a synergy of vibes which even Freud and Darwin so related, we back off, retreat or disengage when oversaturated; or that some aspect within the ear or lower, always barely trembling (or set and ready to go), finds a resonating wave and climbs onboard and rides it; infants who make every sound until those others in its rooms reiterate to such extent forgoes those oth'r articulations altogether; we can derive a make-shift basis for understandings of aesthetics as well as pleasure in experience (except when pain is just too much or have to rest before we lunch), and put forth definitions of desire just like this:

a cosmic vibe is looking for a dancing partner.

That is to say in all there's receptivity and spreading out or thin, a wiggle, not two halves of an exchange, an artificial and quite unneeded maiming cutting making only other fighting words and much confusion or dismemberment, not to mention faith and burning at the stake just to preserve a slice of life excluding all the others; not that all things "contain" receptors and emitters, that's just a way of talking (see Ibn al-Haytham/Hacen/Alhazen, medieval optician and inventor of the camera and expert on the lens) as superficial articulations, but perhaps tangentially so when there comes a bouncing ball or other perturbation we prepare to catch or tap it back, so they say desire's reactionary, muggy cruel and so should be suspended, but sometimes it's not anxiety, it's an embracive, no abrasion ever was intended.

If we consider the modern theory of the cell born as a stem, these so-called receptors do not come with a specialty, a special ality (morality's more special than any alter or an ego, and it says so), a leaf or innate dance or rhythm's sin, but learn their songs as old expressions (you might say a leaf is only wood's persistent way to catch some sun and spread it) seated only by and large and after their position (or coming 'round to it) in the environmental milieu or melange-like interweb's communication, they would learn from it, spider-like to associate a dance with songs or flies, like hum a few bars and I'll recall the lyric (and it's also vice to versa, sometimes virtuous but then they're often seen not versatile but coming with a greatly crass, cross purpose, lie because they've got no density behind their fat disguises); but it's not the cell which receives and dances well that generates our consciousness (that is, beyond its own – "we" cannot know this) but the resonating everything "connected", in the modern sense neuronical, hormonal (endocriminal) or mineral ducts and "channels", like Lamarke's originary blood creating its own tubules as they're creating it and then the seam's remembered (it's been rehearsed but only once the corpse flew out the window); or like endocrine corpuscles re-appropriating veins to turn them red to yellow (but really it's just sharing space – they're rooming) just like oceans making their own tubes of waves all folding over, which sets the entire town to dance, this community we call a "discrete organism", a "self" who only feels at home when on the beach, a home in saturation with everything in Heraclitan flux – not just because it's salty, there's also some crustaceans.

Distributivity simultaneously precedes and follows receptivity, generating poetry as a feast, not fastened, and there must be some bonfires, so gravity is never even constant, it's a variable distance between bodies and whose potent devastation's only countered by a motion, as Mr. Adams so well he noted, "Flying is the art and science of falling to the earth, and missing" and that is clearly a transmission, sometimes we want to land but everything else that's in the world of words can prove just all too much distraction; to chase 'one's' desire too resolutely is an invitation to be knocked clean out of orbit, we can only practice altered states of consciousness or to become devout, it's just another word for saying "shut in" – in a paper house, a burning match is only looking for a dance, to agitate infection, seducing paper with its spectral plays, it's just a fan dance to amaze, but proof of love at first sight or a touch, you might say the pantomime of eco mimicry; or bang of schizmophrenogenic scatter, loud like shotgun blasts unheard to any ear – so which came first, the sound or its engraved impression? – since up-close is all that matters as far enough away it all just fades or bounces (unless it's really really big) like every wave on every beach in flux or agitation only reaching for the moon, the eternal return in myth language and the sun's enduring orbit round a spot of gravity or fake and temporary center (in ellipses, there's never less than two but only when on paper as nothing else could ever stand so still or for that matter), which the other planets ellipse like an epileptic dancer round – it only looks smooth 'cause we're on it, it's a wobble, never any circle but a spiral, therefore every known return's as well an all eternal freaky but familiar transmutation, so is everyone a monster in this nation?

And so I look around with eyes, ever looking for surprise and when it comes my way I cannot notice 'cause it might resist or laugh or cause my brain to drip along the wall and me without a head to how's my eyeballs now that you have seen them? but should I shrink away 'cause I'm no matter I'll just wave and gravitate toward my own image in a mirror of water – it just seems safe 'cause you might think that I just want to harm you; at least you can be sure of this, that you're not just a background or some vomit in a toilet bowel or piss, but otherwise a vase that's holding roses so you know that anyone who's not afraid is only holding noses or is led by them or poses and don't know that there's a senic route around 'cause it is quite beyond them thinking difference makes a difference but we all know that some other differences don't mean shit at all, that is unless you've got a taste for it, it says it likes you after everything is said and done, the last it seems is sometimes number one and sometimes it is just imagination.