Fluctuation-Driven Flocking Movement in Three Dimensions and Scale-Free Correlation.

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Fluctuation-Driven Flocking Movement in Three Dimensions and Scale-Free Correlation.

(when starlings flock together, dancing through the sky- we call it a murmuration.)

I have found that a full life is contained in every performance of Trisha Brown’s pieces… An entire existence in a drop. A society in history, in a single motion. A century’s worth of time in one dance.
A murmuration blow by the evening wind.

Here is on emerging within those moments.

_______________________________________________________________

 

Once the architect told me as she traced, about time. The lines she drew into the papers were the tip of points in a room full of mirrors. She told me that when you want to know, 

 

Under the arc, where silently they surround you: 

Go and look for time- straight in the eye. 

 

                        their heads floating in dust and the bright

white stone. 

 

I knew that place. I had watched my refracted body in those mirrors, loose limbs- 

I had laid on the floor and turned in a circle while time looped around me – and until

everything collapsed 

 

into a single plane. She picked up the sheet and looked at it for a long while, I stared into the glass, in the center, as my chest heaved. Sometimes at night. 

 

I stare ahead. Waiting, stretching my ear until I hear it, time ticking down time, trickling down- slowly and softly.  

The cold, the hard wood, the street noises. Humming, screaming tears into me. React. React. react. react. react. only react. always react.

When. will time let me go. When will

time let me be, the evening wind in Newark. 

          The evening wind that moves murmurations

 

pulsating, 

twisting and swirling 

relentlessly

throbbing 

 

but time                                     management 

                   behind my back,

                                                                                 is what moves me forward 

                  to be in movement.                                                                                time is moving/movement?

when will time no longer be the mover that moves me. if movement could be anywhere 

else than in time,                                                                                                                     

                        what is time? 

where is time. 

outside 

She shook her head, lips pursed. Late, to be late, lateness, delay, belated, tardiness, slow, behind, too late.  Gone. Blown. Fluttered. 

Digression. While I follow this feeling, feel I follow. This crease in the wrist. Wait for me, while I follow this crease, down into the earth, flowing through currents… wait for me while I wander here. Blown. Fluttered and delayed 

 by the evening wind that moves murmurations

 

A thin glass and below, heads and limbs walking down the streets, here nothing. Thousands of miles away. Intertext. Look into time as a material, a quality. Is time slow, is time fast, is time palpable, is time read in the sky or on your wrist with a tic and a tac. Time as the reminder: I hadn’t grown in her limbs and she hadn’t shaped my mind. And how I hadn’t stretched on the wooden floor of her New York apartment. Summer breeze, waxed woods, streets noises.  time paused? I longed for it, I arched my back for it, I wrote in a book for it, I stayed up at night for it, I went to her and fell on the floor always looking for it. I cried because I didn’t know where her evening wind comes from, the one that blows my arms in circles, when, it is, time, for Newark. 

The one that moves murmurations.

 

When I saw you I wanted to tell you, I have walked that path. My stare was a cold wind blowing. A wind so dreadful it dries all life, a sweeping gaze that fixes and solidifies. I wanted to collapse history without giving you the time, the time to walk in my steps. I wanted to show you and guide you. I wanted to tell you how it must be done. To take you by the hand and count, 1, 2, 3, 4 and 1, 2, 3, 4 and trace my legs along with yours on 2, on 4 place your hands. I wanted to save you. To put you in a bed of cotton, where you couldn’t throw yourself onto the ground, break your bones, break your smile, break your breath, break the rhythm, break the pace. And leave time shattered, heaving in the architect’s laugh and a room full of mirrors. 

 

At its heart someone is staring right back at me. They are all, bystanders, watchers, dancers. We were in a glass dome. And where was time? But yet again that might be because we were staring at the blazing sun, and I am standing between the two of you. 

 

In April time, murmurations moved like a sunset, like hips rocking from side to side and feet dragging.  A sun that is stuck somewhere. The moment when a cloud drift by the midday heat. I won’t know, at what time the sun set that day. But I know when it set. I watched as they came and went, as they stood there in the same mark, not knowing that it had all started and ended a million times before them. I watched as trumpets rose to the sky and hips twitched. And the same old wind blew from their limbs to mine. It was like dominos, collapsing into each other until there was no more perspective and everything stood together, flat and exhausted by the endless repetition. I had never been there. 

 

It was so different to anything I know, but everything for which I had longed. Everything was light and heavy -altogether heaving. 

But we continued to watch ahead. Where museums are glass domes for time to come and die, pushed up against a wall. Relentlessly urged by that same motion in the painter’s hand, move by the same evening wind? the one that moves murmurations. Between soaking in all fleshly things and hitting against the end of history. The paint still seeps through the cloth, moving further, further gorging the clean white. 

But that time we did not see. 

 

Because we repeat day after day. We rehearse second after second, the grand choreography of which we were told, you can be the creator.

The architect lead me through the Dome

and Time out in the cold, blew on our faces as a huge sweeping force 

so dreadful it dried up all life,   

froze and ossified, summed up. 

leaving two little children and the names we give them.. 

Chasing the evening wind away and

 dispersing murmurations. 

Everything is collapsed. When I talk about you, when I talk about her, when I talk about him. Every step has been covered, and what will come has already been decided. I listened for time as it made its way, in its own time, in its own way. 

 

But past labels she brought me, 

 

        and showed me the hidden life of all things that succumb/ 

not to time. 

molting

decaying 

shedding

living

emerging

 pulsating, 

twisting and swirling 

relentlessly

throbbing

 

     I saw the ink that silently continues

        to make its way, flowing 

   into the wood, fusing, shimmering, in and

         out,  spreading and curling.

             never ending always 

moving even when                                                     time lied.

 

 

 

The evening wind that is not slow but

heavy. The one that drags its feet and rolls on its side, inhaling at dusk.

Was rising from my soles.   When the trumpets rose.

Was rising in the Dome.   When our hips swayed  . 

 

Waiting for the time without realizing that all the while                   millions of birds

drenched    through     my    skin    through    my   blood   through   every    breath    of    air

 

 

    our time is hard and regular, it is dry and efficient. 

 and the name rolled in my tongue over and over.    

                                                         You live in time said Kant.        

                                               I spit right back at him. 

                                                                   Time is the basic quality of existence and how

        we exist in time is fundamental to

        understanding further existential reflections     

                                               I spit right back at him.

 

I left my old frame and emerged into a dome filled with mirrors    -where nothing comes to an end except time

pushed up against the window.

 

Free falling where there is no gravity, in the Dome where time comes to die and marble eyes revolve in circles, in thin air. That intangible moment of light stillness and intensity all at the same time.  It is the hours when the sun prepares to set. We left our valuables in the changing rooms.  I won’t know at what time the light turned that day. But I know when. It fell when the girl finally slipped her eyes shut beneath the wave. When hips twitched and feet dragged on marble. When the man held his hand out. When I lay on my side. When the mother threw her scarf back over her shoulder and when the lustful teenager turned the corn on the cob, sold it for a penny. When I was pushed up against the edge, where history ends and below, heads and limbs were walking down the streets, here nothing.  At last, thousands of miles away with the murmuration- I am blown in the evening wind. 

 

what  is timeless?

where time is not. 

Within

Time, when everything collapses into a single plane. The death of perspective comes with every desperation, and it all ends the same way. Pushed up against the wall. Blood drops trickling down with paint, smothered across the canvas. 

 

And yet here, where time and I came to die, it is where I met the architect and her evening wind.                                                      At last I am moved by the evening wind that moves

murmurations. 

Where all the while, pigments continued to move through the fibers. Slowly crawling, where History is blind and men are forgetters. Infinitely seeping, expanding, twisting, growing, coiling and intertwining, becoming.  

 

Hourglass time runs smoothly over and over again. It is that time of the day again, the horizon is sleeping with the sun today,                                                                        or is it dawn?

Everything could be white. You’re hovering in the dome of light where history is being made and time presses its limbs upon the glass, 

-let me in, it whispers.

 

Wait.

replied the murmuration