Motivation: Tales of the Koanan #8
Sergoffa was doing her first virsoc. It was in and of her and some where else. Small hard entities shifted over parent hubs lodged in a long soft bed. Hails of hardnesses, grating each other. Among them in multitudes light supple travellers projected of flit and flip. She knew these in a nice manner. They were like the methods in her, all response. The environment knew itself in wallow of stone and light flesh, but through it ran odd incongruities, white and dark, in textures that seemed alien.
It had been conveyed to her that she must probe the apparent for its motivation. What is my motivation, she asked and felt a sink in a central part. For fear of the sinking she probed towards her virsoc. Only newly sparked, she had little in her store of comparisons and received impressions like an open-eyed canvas.
The difference between hard and soft was the first thing. They mingled densely without seeming to notice what they lacked in connection. The word Family came and lodged as a question. It spread through the medium a series of red lines that flashed blindingly and eased to light traces.
The medium was fluid, she thought, then revised. Fluid and breathable. Light in it fusions and capillaries, then lost altogether down among the parent hubs and the soft bed. Constant movement like purpose. Motivation she probed and felt Extend. The extent of it. Its flow. Its long beginning and end. Holding this, she receded.
When she came to awareness she was still interhabited, but the density of the virsoc’s medium had changed. It was lighter and less turgid. The motile units were less so. They touched down on the hard hubs that were now flattened slabs. They steered round tall hard structures that seemed precarious. They stopped at the structures and touched them. They entered them by some soft means and moved around in them as if there were another medium inside.
Light was everywhere but not uniform. At times like rebels it occurred in geometries, bounced off obstructions and became blazes of yellow, sparks of red, glaring orange swords, a series of short shocks endurable as such, welcome as such. The overhead canopy was visible and seemed too close, appearing flat sometimes and sometimes curved. The closer it appeared the more the entities moved in shared streams. They confounded each other. Sensibilities of the soft doubted themselves. Trajectories of the hard diverted and retraced. They reached accommodation in straightened lines.
Motivation, Sergoffa thought, switching various parts of herself on and off to suck in what could be known. The virsoc’s medium switched to its before and back again. Swelled and thinned, watered and drained. Progressions of each other. In a round motion.
Which gave her more ease, she asked: fluid and half dark; dry and everlit? She tried to sense all of herself. It was impossible to know. She found herself hard and soft in different locations, wet and dry, motile and still, agitated and passive. Light in water. Light in air. Air in motion. Water in motion. Water invading. Air invading with its protest of durable objects.
Motivation impossible to know in mediums held by voiceless light constantly shifting, units constantly shifting beneath a silent canopy, thin incomprehensible boundaries. Motivation makes a red light in all her parts. Her still only thinking parts.
Favourite Poem this month:"Blackwater" by Lavinia Greenlaw. Minsk. Faber and Faber, 2003.