Trem neul


Your life issues out of time much earlier than even the event of your conception.My mamma cut me and put me in the pot; my dada said I was purty and fat.The life seeks out the parents.My three little sisters they picked my small bones and buried them under marble stones.


Come here
Open your eyes
Open your mouth

It is a mixture of spaciousness and intimacy, with a slightly sunken stage at the centre, which is not to be mistaken for the world.Round three sides, rows of chairs await their occupants, for the months and days are the passing guests of a hundred generations, and the years that come and go are also visitors, for which we must make due accommodation.The fourth side is open for the entry of actors.An audience of several hundred already fills the seats ö so many as the chamber can hold.Here is included everything under the sky; next the fine austere stand the gaudy young, and feeble laceration neighbours fleeting strength, for debility is universal.All rise and bow to the king as we enter.He and I sit above, opposite the centre, and a hush falls as retainers approach on their knees, offering programmes for our instruction, chocolates and sweets for our refreshment, and in such a company, there's no such thing as time.

Stretch out your hand
Bend your leg
Sit down
Lie down
Stand up

Parts of the long stage are already animated by a scheme of lines and nodal points, gathered together at one end into a great ravelled knot, and at the other trailing off to a sort of stalk, where activity is manifest in dancing, singing, and music of all kinds, in little points of light.Of these some, unmoved, flash rhythmically, fast or slow; their pastimes, occupations, and daily life woven with tunes and songs, dances and arrangements.


Give me your hand
Turn round
Go back again
Stand there
Go away

Others are unfixed points, streaming in serial trains at various speeds.At one end an orchestra crouches on the floor, its members fidgeting with orbits and trajectories, gongs and bells, cases of sand (since white and rest of sand is voices) and other instruments in preparation for action; and at the other end squats a choir who will recount certain passages of a classical narrative as the dancers unravel their tales in a series of scenes.The rhythmic stationary lights lie at the nodes.

How do you do?
Will you not go 
as a companion for me?
To what place?
To a distant place
When shall you go?
I shall return 
after three days
I will go with you

Are there no horses here?
There are horses 
strong ones 
to travel
Whose is the white horse?
It is my wife's 
Where is he?
Call him
Here he comes

will you not let me have 
your white horse?
This other one 
is the strongest
Where is the saddle?
It is in the house
My son will 
fetch it
You may bring it to me 
in the morning

A vacancy between: here, in due course, the women are seated at the wheel (they live behind their weaving); ploughmen whistle their melancholy plough-tunes to soothe the horses; girls croon their gentle milking-songs, and the cows are quiet under that influence where not a tremor manifests the rare the quickening across these settlements; parents and nurses lull their children with cradle-songs and labourers shorten their work with airs of various kinds, to which their fellows listen with quiet enjoyment.Only for the dew was thick I'd have stretched out there and slept.


Have you had anything 
to eat?
You can carry this
Give it to me then


And, at the last scene of all, that iron which received continually the impact of running water does not rust, but instead is burnished out, obliterates throat on your arm, determining how the friends of the dead give vent to their sorrow in a heart-moving keen or lament, for truly, how can you begin what you're already doing?


Where is the ford 
of this river?
The ford is higher up
Is it shallow?
We had better go 
by boat

Is there a boat here?
The boat
is a little lower down
Let us get something 
to eat
then cross over
Tie up our horses
Fetch me some water
This boat is very small
Put the horses across 
and then fetch me

It is going to rain
Let us stay here 
till the rain is over

It is fair now
Let us go on

What place is this?
It is getting late
We had better stay 
Where is the tether rope 
for my horse?
It has been left 
at home
Here is another

Mother, postman, tailor, harvester: such are both goals whither converge, and junctions whence diverge, the lines of travelling lights.And besides our professional musicians, we have amateur singers, fifers, fiddlers, pipers everywhere. These lines and nodes where the lights are, do not remain, taken together, the same even a single moment, and yet this rich terrain was never examined before my time, though always there were nodes and lines where lights were not.

Are your ears 
merely ornamental?
Continual harping 
on a matter 
makes even a weak 
Why has that gun 
gone off?
Probably they are 
What will be the issue 
of this?
What will they do 
in this matter?
Had we been early
we should have 
by this time
Had you told me
I should have been 


Choose, for instance, the hour of deep sleep.Then only in some spare secret places do nodes flash and trains of light-points traverse the embedded sleepers, indicating local activity still in progress, though ultimately scarcely audible from the mouth.Within one such enclave we follow a group of lights some thousands strong pursuing a recurrent manoeuvre as if of some incantational dance like those I loved from childhood.


It is a good thing 
that you have tied up 
my goat
It was a good thing 
they finished 
that work 
before the rain 
They first made holes
and then cut 
the poles 
to the right 
and then put them 
in the ground
It is a good thing
that you are there
to oversee them

I learned all the tunes - or, I should say, they clung to my memory - almost without any effort of my own, like the words and phrases of my native language, so that I could whistle or sing, or deliver them through sand with the utmost facility.Now, see them superintend the beating of the heart and the state of the arteries so that through sleep the circulation of the blood runs as it ought.The great knotted headpiece of the whole sleeping system lies for the most part dark, and quite especially so the roof-span where rope sits high like a petrified organism, a muscle devoid of activity.Move it, change its position and arrangement, touch it, and you can learn its secrets and the many of its meanings.Create forms with it.Divide space with it.

I will first read a verse
and then you repeat 
my words 
in order
that you may learn it 
and that you may not 
forget it
It is a good thing
that you have learned 
how to read 
and write

It was a good thing
that they found 
for me
a carpenter

This abscess is burst
and a very good thing 

Occasionally lighted points flash or move there, but soon subside.Such lighted points and moving trains of lights are mainly far in the outskirts; they wink slowly and travel slowly.At intervals even a gush of sparks wells up and sends a train down the cord, though failing to arouse it, so that people say a person has "aged", as if before he had "aged" he had not already aged, as if he were innocent of age before.Where, however, the stalk joins the headpiece, there goes forward in a limited field a remarkable display: rope is the condensation of the problem of thread, which is composed of many fibres whose number nobody tries to establish.There's no such thing as time, just a dense constellation of some thousands of nodal points bursting out every few seconds into a short phase of rhythmical flashing, yet we may speak of the biology of time: at first a few lights, then more, increasing in rate and number with a deliberate crescendo to a climax, declining then and dying away.After due pause the efflorescence is repeated.With each such rhythmic outburst goes a discharge of trains of travelling lights along the stalk and out of it altogether into several branches.What activity is this? The managing of breath the while we sleep.


I have just 
The food is just 
I have just 
been reading
The parrot which I have just 
is lost


Exploring structure, we take some quick thing, open it, review the component parts, their interactions.So, unavoidably, we stop time.Examining structure you miss the most interesting aspect of life: time.Not the minutiae of the clock, but time as modification of the body.Cell division, for example, is time, since cells don't "un-divide".There's no going back.When you build an animal, it sprouts.Growing like a plant it makes arm, forearm, hand.Cells which divide last are hand and those which divide first make up arm.So by counting divisions cells "know" which part they must build, and time weaves form.Individuality arises through ageing, experience, the accumulation of time.We build ourselves through the world and each through other, and this proceeds to death as the brain alters with experience.Take someone who has never played the violin and teach. It takes a while, but if you look in the sensory cortex at the "hands of the brain" they grow very fast.Scan, and you can see after just one month the "hands of the brain" are already much larger as the music grows.That's individuation, experience.If I hadn't done violin my "hand" would've stayed the same.


They have just
finished building 
my house
The curtain has just
fallen down
He has only just
got up

They have just
sold out all the
of that book
put it down


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