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like evaporation

cycling drone, drumming on, rolling with, humming plastic, transforming spreading retrieving collating managing, and the return

pierce escape

condensed activity following on from a fumbling in material agitating and near combusting and changing the chemical properties of sub- stances that we know and those we can’t yet stay with it stay with it

trust it a swell unguarded an exuberance dissipates come feel it quick stay with it together for the sensation circling influence* clinging fascination invisibly crept up on here there everywhere

Something comes to hand that’s passage isn’t traced: trust in the carriage. Moistness, meaning: action. Lines show where the sweat retreated from, and these same crusted lines where the snow retreated from, they do grow and fade but not before our eyes. Summer snow poles out/in line for our gravitation

to pattern. A passage is made, sucking all awareness out, aspiration might crystallize.

hiding in the cool behind the wall traded in and traded in secrets to strike a deal with friends and family alike running the pressure cooker dry metallic echo feeding some sticky emotions that need watering or at least watering down

depleting resources unbalanced equating the figuration allows this leap analogies of ecosystems the myth of the seal to measure the ins and outs

pursed lips, a passage for it* keeping our own containers sealed

*circling influence

You highlight a sentence or mark a paragraph
or underline a phrase. You don’t
always make circles but turn the page into
putty again and then pulp and back. You
make episodes of echoes, tracing shadows
of a roundabout or the sound of a pen
dropping. Remember, to make pizza dough,
first make a pile of your special flour, mix it
with salt and make a well. I remember lightly
dragging fingers around and around
and around, usually clockwise. Whipping up a
storm or a whirlpool. Images of the weather
accrue, a great monster of force gathering,
but never meeting. Scenes of running away.
Being chased. I chase the whole by making
a circular motion. See also: whipping egg
whites until you can turn them upside down.
See also: stirring chocolate dust and hot
milk. Do not be this vigorous with the flour
for the pizza dough. Pizza dough is slower,
it is vulnerable to failure. When the well
is deep enough pour your water, yeast and
sugar mix into it. I remember the necessary
interaction of salts and sugars. There should
also be olive oil. Which is fat. Which is
essential. It’s helpful to attach motion to an idea.
Now, gathering the flour little by little into
the well, combine the flour and the sweet
and yeasty water. Little by little draw voices
back into the whole you created by whipping
your gathered fingers in a clockwise motion.
Now, you have something different. Then,
the conditions are important. Heat, light,
dampness of shroud.

*passage for it

without preamble, a babble speaks for the
first time,
and everyone stops to listen to

a maiden voyage made by tongue, transcribed
into paragraphs on paper,

that then are taught to turn tail and back,
by fingers pressing down on words,

squeezed from the page

a safe dock, or landing place
is not the thing, is not what we do here

many doorways open in a corridor
as words behave, each to their own accord

part & parcel

The piece and the whole, the fragment and
what (I imagine) is the rest of it.

A piece is missing, and by being missing (or
maybe just elsewhere) a complete hole gathers
its margins around—it cannot touch its
own middle, inwardly inviting by pointing
outwards to all that could be there.

When more is missing, more is made. A girl
cuts out the holes in her sleeve. Anti-space
made of edge is getting big and bigger.

And what became of that vagrant other,
wandering away from its mother
(necessity, invention and all that).
A fragment, a shard, in part, is always, in
itself, complete. It doesn’t need measurement
to lend weight to self-assurance. Half assurances,
half-stated* facts, non-committal, just
that—half, half and non.

How does a fragment gain independence?
When you get to feel less of a fragment


You know the rest. Or, what is to become a whole or system of things. Hard to touch and meandering towards wanting to be wanting. A cut necessity. Cut, a necessity in two but not necessarily, just possibly gathered. Possibly a road or an office block and so a set of concrete for conducting. A conductor makes a pithy attempt to deploy a brass section and instead permits a gush of air, well timed.

You know the rest. An implicit other or form to carry weight and measure. A tense springing back to centred power. Would like to meet gas, would like to meet someone who’ll finish my sentences, would like to meet meaning without needing to be explicit. Contains explicit content means—watch if you want but you know the rest. Something could erupt but what, well wait and maybe it won’t really happen. What’s the worst that could happen left up in the air. The price is left up in the air. The prize is still in the air.

more ordinary ways

My apple and knife, but the frame is in a
film, many films of the knife slicing through
the red apple, and so it goes. Animals speak
to animals and the underdog prevails. The
ordinary ways have a dexterity that isn’t
showy, they mirror the feel and the slow
release of information of a children’s story
that has been written to tell us of the joy of
ordinary ways, as in, not seeking attention.

Peeling is a spiral
or at least spread around on the horizontal
rather than having a parent pattern
options and methods
to come together to work it out
in a way that you might have overlooked as
it’s so common place
and using language that feels close to hand
being plain with yourself

new openings can be found through this
the array of dotted dashed lines meaning
that it doesn’t matter which path they took
they would reach the end or the beginning
of different journeys, at different times, with
different intents

give way

I reach a line I know without knowing. It
tells me to stop and watch. It tells me to
allow motion as it approaches but move if
all is still. It is not, or I am not making space
but holding fast for another to pass.

There is erosion and subsidence in the reach
between masses.

I listen and make a phrase as an opening.
This form is like the spout of a jug or a
palm shifting its axis. This is a reflection,
sometimes with a trailing. Not like a coat tail
which to see as a trail implies a departure,
but a muting of fixity.

Here is holding it together* but being on

I watch a sign swallow my field of vision. I
know without knowing and obedience is a
reflex not an enactment. I sit in contrast. I
am not the experiment where if one car is
moving at 60 miles per hour and another
car is also moving at 60 miles per hour and
the two collide, what energy is expelled? Or
something like that. I wait for the opening.

That is tense, the connection terse and overall

I reflect, I reflect I am not still but move
along and with. See openings as percussion,
and not-openings as the ring out. I gesture
towards a spill and gather the tempo. Measure
the mood. I do not like it when things
get stuck, but allow silence as necessary to
response. A muted space is also an opening
if an opening is something hollow, and in
hollow places we find natural reverberations.

Where a word that is a bit like ‘might just’ or
I guess sounds like a break down.

*holding it together

in a sack, or a bag, a netted thing catching
gathering it
we together gather, then hold it
(nails and gum and other fixings)

watch for it to break apart, against grain and
against the outside of it, grating shreds of

joined by association or tethered by discipline
or perhaps just habit
but not just just—habit holds itself, a glue
against my grating
sharpness made claggy and incoherent

it might also want to break, keen willing
more than chance occurrence
more than a planet sucking down its stuff
—imagine stopping!

there’s the we in together to consider
not just me, with my barely, but

the o in holding*, the hollowness of that
we ringed around it, holding nothing, against
the challenge against
impossible fixedness swells that ‘o’ and a hole
getting bigger becomes a bigger challenge,
but new space opened there gives
what’s seen through it a different colour, like
a good sleep that separates last night from

*the o in holding

It’s not that it’s hidden in plain sight, more
often it is smothered by care. A reflective circuit
is the backdrop where all the members
are asked to share their feelings about levels
of protection. From themselves (they cannot
say, because saying would crack the brittle
and allow some pollination of self doubt),
from each other (they cannot say, because
saying would admit there’s an essential danger
to shelter from). It is full, self destructing and mute.
It is unknown because it is unseen.
Poisoned by the filtered and the filter.
Absolutely can’t let anyone else past this
The water didn’t move; the pond was stagnant.
The pond was roughly circular and the
blooms of confectioner’s green reached
equilibrium. Particles held, dip in temperature,
plateauing of gradient in the records. These
records circulate between those in the know.
The circulation proliferates and pond slime
knows no bounds.

The o in holding makes it. Binds and chains
and linked and what they might call ‘network’.
Home and scanned and fed and what
they might call ‘unforeseen’.


Rebecca Wilcox (Glasgow) works with writing, audio, video and performance, often using voice as a tool. Recent projects include a live performance for Radiophrenia festival, a collaboration for LUX Artists’ Moving Image Festival, and a text responding to Ann Quin’s writing for Glasgow Women’s Library + MAP. She has published with Good Press, Hour Editions, F.R. David and co-organises tenletters, an exploration of expanded forms of publication, housed in a flat.

Jessica Higgins (Glasgow) works across performance, writing, installation and publishing. She has contributed to Supernormal Festival, Outskirts Festival, David Dale Gallery, The Bower and Glasgow International. She is published by Publication Studio London, A6 Books, Embassy Gallery and in addition, shares a collaborative practice with Matthew Walkerdine. She co-runs Good Press, a volunteer-led-unfunded-informal-organisation dedicated to the promotion and production of independent artist publications and projects.

Judith Hagan (London/Glasgow) works through writing, painting, film, to explore the shape, processes and patterns of thinking. She is studying on the writing programme at the Royal College of Art and has recently edited and/or contributed to publications such as NOIT (Flat Time House), Le Grand K, Attention! (RCA) and has exhibited and performed readings as Gossimer Fog and V&A.