I am not the first to walk through these mountains nor the last. Walking provides a surface, a passage, a presence, in which I make my way without method, without equilibrium, imbuing intuition with each step, which propels me forward. Perhaps my own pace or following someone/thing else`s—some days lazy, and some days rushed. Some days the focus is on one object, one conversation, and other days exploring the multitude, the many, immersing in the flood—it is not scientific nor is it supposed to be. The walkings, wanderings, wallowings, are an attempt to know the mountains and myself. To navigate the myriad of identities, entities, communities, and ideas of the surround, I am now in and often perceive myself out of. To know myself and others as subjects or objects, as beings with fluid boundaries that intermix, intra-act, constitute a multitude, yet each have an own place, an own being, an own becoming. The alps are object-tified through the stories, images and pictures which accompany them—they are already assumed. Same is true for us; we believe we are our stories, wrapped in pictures, hooked, caught in time, shackled to specific ways and moments—we become objects of affection or abjection, abandonment or entrapment. We wild. We domesticate. We stray, stumble, falter, and create our own truths. We forget to walk on, pass through, flow into, and pay attention.

We become vehicles of transport rather than wayfarers meandering the multiplicity of the surround gathering knowing. Point a and point b resists fluid movement in exchange for efficiency, trapping us in narratives of the past, present, and future and hang us static in knowledge. Let us make our way, implant our own print in a surface rising to greet us, tectonic plates and molten lava emerging. Let us be immersed in noise—in action, in everything in which, there is nothing more than this and everywhere is anywhere—different, similar, unknown—Alles, was Sehen ist, ist perspektivisches Sehen —perhaps we all have our own mountains and are our mountains. Give me moments where I catch myself in the act of being of or in or with. The act of walking over pavement, snow, and dirt, through buildings, past kiosks, through fields, on logs and over buttercups. Each step adding new information, imprinting this world we live in. These moments obliterate past conditioning of choosing nature over ourselves. We become amoebas, one false foot in front of the other, appropriating, making territory, moving through the surround, being of it and becoming it.

 

 

there is nothing, more than this …
car is packed, the motor on
the centaur is literally broken
fallen leaves in the night

disassociated body
head lines designate
one from the other

full gas
the streets are mine
the skies are mine
all treasure
treading highway wind
the ascent between valleys begins
bark, brown mud
more than this …

snow falls, the surface rises
whiteflecks stick to the windshield
crags and seracs
polka dots on alabaster
insignificant islands

lets call this group grapes
and this group rocks
nothing special

i could feel
at the time
self not
self
a leap into
paradox
not one and not two

the moss cushion
pink on pink
boundary line / battle line
head and heart
there was no way of knowing
curving back within
casting out

fallen leaves-in the night
the very opposite of loneliness
who can say where they’re blowing
chiccaine on the inside
i cannot grab onto between
plunged into no-thing

as free as the wind
stone and ice fields rise blue
twilight
adjust to midnight
the gloom and glow
prone to be tarn by two
headlights

enemy lines / pirates booty
problems of desire
art rather than spart

knowing by foot
why the sea on the tide
spreading out in rock
solidified in mind
driven by lack
forgotten and fluid
no-thing-ness
has no way of turning
curving back in
no obligation to exist
to touch
stretch out

more than this
there is nothing
there are no mountains
more than this
tell me one thing
there are no rivers
i, king of emptiness
moving jewels
i, the stone woman
births a child
liberated water
there are mountains
there are rivers
more than this
there is nothing

it was fun for a while
reaching for the next hold
there was no way of knowing
wilderness is the other
like a dream in the night
no prize
no one
no disco

carried to bed
who can say where we’re going
no care in the world
dreaming
the treeline falls away

another bomb from the quarry
choose:
be present or invisible
walk
know
pace
step
retract
retrace

rising up to meet me
liberating ground
casting out
curving in
spilling
why the sea on the tide
has no way of turning
delving into the earth
becoming anything
more than this
you know there is nothing
more than this

dig to discover
dawn in aspen
hoarfrost extending
tell me one thing
side mirrors—glittered and frosted

busting seams and sifting in
active plates winning out
walking backwards
you too
break the chains
shake the tree who makes the wind
snuff it out
let it go
heal the split
more than this
you know there is nothing
more than this

irony allows one
to say two things at once
be both

nothing
more than this
stand back and watch
more than this
stand close and witness
nothing