Bodies are Lines

Starts in the middle, never really ends. Starts and stops, ins and outs, but going nowhere. Always in            –          between, the beginning; where we meet, and the end; where we consulate. Time is not between, or around: holding or slipping. Space closes, the frame narrows, and is all: opening up,




compendium of moving parts – splitting apart.


No start.

But if we were to start, I think i’d start with your shoes, then pants, shirt, jewels? The sum of it all, your parts. Couldn’t start without the parts.

Instead, for a moment, a world apart, where *when* only one band curling around, wrangling the wrist, keeps time. It pulls me in, makes me want all it has to promise. A whole: a body.

1 2 3 4 parts. starting and ending here, but full. no more to be gained, sealed at the top so nothing will be lost.

It pushes me back, denies. The whole is a hole, an outline, an abstract. Cannot be full but never needed to be. Bodies are lines and they don’t need to meet or consulate. Lines can touch, swing, slide; ride. Lines are a rollercoaster, moving in circles, ups and downs. No need to get anywhere.

Circling round a hole, carving it out at each turn, emptying, emptying. Get in line, for the pure pleasure of the ride: side to side, off the ground, around and around. No sound.

An attraction. Her to him, him to her, him to him, me to him, me to them, me through you to them. Surface to surface, line to line, image to form.

Starts in the middle, never really ends.

Did you feel it? The in-between?