The area is roped off with idiot tape but I slip through.
'Here we all are, a cast of coins, thrown here for diving.’ Though she thinks she is alone, she says this out loud to the sea, to the river, to the glass of water, to the font of blessed water, to the wishing well...
These places of immanence. These sweet licks of light.
'Let's meet where we overlap - on this shore, on this threshold, at this site of transformation. Here things shift - blur and come into sharp relief, conceal and expose, tell all and say nothing, drown and save - at once.
This place could be inside or out, I'm no longer certain. Uncertainty picks at the locks.
I am not as fluid as I'd like. My thoughts at times are too rigid. There is something knowing under the surface, something familiar, something beyond thought.
Let this water surface be our nominal skin then - our liminal landscape. Let water-self and woman-self converse, interact, commune. She wants to enter here, now.
A kind of music then? Yes, a kind of dance.
"I long for your fluidity..." she says. "I must listen well to learn your liquid voice." She says listening - aware now she is being heard. (Luce Irigaray)