multiplicity

Some days she was a beehive. Others she was a swarm of locusts. Today she felt a bit like a meteor, flung from some distant planet. Folds and folds, craters that tell the story of a journey from an unknown place. Whatever she was, it was some kind of mutant. Something multiplicitious. That was her favorite word, multiplicity, but no one is really sure what she means. Is a pile any more or less a multiplicity than a melody? She’s trying to tell them about the buzzing. The many. The wolf man. One becomes two becomes three. But multiplicity isn’t just the rupture, it’s what comes after, it’s the sense of being everywhere and nowhere at once. What was it about Georges Bataille? In that case, what was it about Paulo Uccello? Pointless questions. Endless critique, endless circling around the point. But that was exactly it, the buzzing. Something which can’t find its place, some nameless thing with power of the veto over her interior. She tried ecstasy, she tried grounding, she tried running away, she tried going back. Nothing works. No one knows what they need. So what now? What are we to do with our innumerable bodies. Multiplicity as psychedelia, as freedom by proliferation of dimensions, a freedom which can only infinitely elaborate it’s own nonrelation. Standstill, origin, stillstellungen, she has a million words for calm. But this is what is really meant by calm: everything we need persists, and all that must be known can be named.

There was another magnetic storm this weekend. It was overcast. I couldn’t even bring myself to pretend I could see it this time. But I know that it’s still there. I know there is always still time.