Writing

Gentle Giant 
 
I’m a giant – my movements make a huge impact. They’re clumsy; it’s easy to splash and blur the detail. 
 
As a giant, I always try to be gentle. I don’t want damage the things around me. So I remain as small as I can. I retreat, contract and fold down as close as possible to the keys. I inspect them, carefully noticing their beauty and attractive nature. I want to caress them but not invade their space too much.
 
I realise that in order to flow around them with grace, I must shift my “centre” to a space that hovers above the keys. To float and occupy the space 20 cm above. It’s a flexible space with very forgiving parameters. I feel I can be more confident here, able to move with freedom without the fear of breaking or damaging something. I can breathe and expand; I can smile and spread my arms outwards. It’s beautiful and the keys smile back at me. They see that my presence is warm and they welcome me. This is where I can be. 
Fragments from my chest 
 
Light, and open boundaries 
Soft, and diffused edges 
Widened, with graceful fingers
 
My collarbones take me forward
Pulled, but pushed from gentle forces
I propel with assured footsteps 
Mountainous, but silent placement
 
Thank you for this opening
Expanding me beyond my realm
Here I’ll occupy, when I can. 
– Kate Ledger
(Two pieces of writing taken from “From Feldenkrais to Improvised Movement and Writing” led by Charlie Blowers, director of Moving Pieces Collective 20/02/21)

For as long as I can remember, I have experience extended dissociative episodes. Sometimes I feel like I’m outside of my body, controlling a puppet. Sometimes the world around me seems unreal, or hyperreal. Sometimes I am completely in my own fantasy world, so much I can’t even see or hear what’s going on around me. I used to think this meant that my essence and my body were completely separate, that my ‘ghost’ was outside of my ‘shell’. But in recent years, and especially with this project, I have changed my view.

I ask what my relationship to my instruments is, what my relationship with a piano via Kate is, what my relationship to pen and paper via Angie is. They aren’t strictly part of my biology, but they are tactile and virtual implants, cybernetic enhancements; prostheses for the purpose of making noise; not quite as extreme as biohacking, but very real cybernetics. I dissociate from my biological body, but I feel intact with my musical machines. Surely then they are part of my body, because they are sensory extensions of myself.

I don’t think my ‘shell’ ends at my skin. My physical body extends to everything I can sense, whether someone else would call it real or not. Who has the right to tell me what is real for me? And since what I sense, what I immediately know is my essence, my soul, my ghost, these are part of my body – actually the same as my body! My dissociation is not a removal from my body, but my body and mind extending themselves, either further into this reality, or maybe some other universe! Maybe this is insanity, or psychosis, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.

In Ghost in the Shell, Motoko Kusanagi asks herself if she really exists; her brain and her body are completely cybernetic. What if her memories, her ghost, were also synthetic? Does that make her not real? She never finds an answer. I’m an Absurdist. I cannot bring myself to say that I am real (which is not to say that I actively believe I don’t exist!). But whether or not I’m real, I can only do. Doing makes me. I make music. And I’m fine with that.

– j.n.m. redelinghuys (Feb. 2021)