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After 39 years, we have only recently worked out a good system. You don't yell ``What!?'' It's important not to do that. Because if you do, the person will only say it again, and you'll be right back where you started. You hold your breath, think about what the person might have said, continue your activity, and then stop. Only then do you call, ``I think you said something,'' and you try not to make it sound holier-than-thou when you say it.
``Soft'' is a poor benighted word these days, all stretched out of shape by new uses. As I started to call this essay ``Soft Sounds,'' I wondered if I could. ``Soft money'' is the stuff awarded in response to a grant proposal; it will run out just when you have finished research and your assistants need to go off to other better paying jobs before the final write-up is done. ``Software,'' as opposed to ``hardware,'' is an idea someone has worked months on to get produced so computers will have something to say. And as for ``soft porn,'' the oxymoron has a sticky feeling to it that makes me angry.
Years ago, when our children were little, silence, if a child was in the other room, could be disaster. That was different. It was one of life's great truths: If there were no noise, something rascally was going on. But with my husband and me, it's a matter of presence and breath and the threads that tie us together in space.
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Even when feeling sluggish on a hot summer day like this, there is no denying the erotic pull of this absorption: at the onset of the happening-something, one's body instantly kicks into gear. The listless gaze becomes focused, the pulse quickens, and the sensorium is ignited. The heart and breath adjust to the accelerated rhythms of the external. Yet the atmosphere plays a heavy role: the humid, sizzling air of this particular summer afternoon continues to lend a sticky, sultry feeling. One is aroused yet slightly irritated, infused with a bristly sensuality. Passions flare up, veering between amity and antagonism. In moments like this, anything can happen.
I move toward the happening-something. I join the assembling crowd, glistening with sweat and expectation, synchronized with its pace and beat. Shouting is audible, but not much is visible. I feel sparks in the air. I sense something wild, unleashed -- an eruption of hostile and joyous energies. Is it a scuffle, I wonder? At the onset of this thought, I feel a rush of excitement. What is it about the potential of a fight that always whets one's appetite? Or even better -- a BRAWL? But perhaps it is nothing much, and I am merely succumbing to anticipation -- that wild force, source of anxiety and thrill, that stretches torward the space of the moment, infusing it with the promise of untold adventure. Concepts can rush into this space, but they can just as well be emptied from it: one can read into it, courting words, or one can read through it, cultivating intensities.
Perhaps I am succumbing to anticipation in order to conjure its devilish accomplice: temptation. How delicious are its torments! It is a compelling anguish, this anguish of temptation: that generative mechanism through which familiar routines are destabilized by the unfamiliar, and enticements can overcome prohibitions, or at least jostle with them, however briefly. One wants to know what is happening, but one also wants to suspend the demands of knowledge and instead savor the unknown -- or at least, a kind of knowingness that can incorporate the irrational. I may want to visually possess this unknown something, filling a lack, but I could just as well want to be absorbed into it, channeling abundance. Something extraordinary is brewing, something that is poised to spill over, exceed the bounds, and perhaps catch me in its wake -- an invigorating gathering-something through which I anticipate a release, a discharge, dangerous and soothing.
I cannot discern anything. A spectator points in the direction of the happening-something, but I cannot see what he is pointing at. The event does not resolve to this or that. I can only sense a blur -- a little maelstrom, a little cluster of chaos. A slight rhythmic divergence. A moving arm -- was that a punch? (Another jolt of excitement!) How interesting to compare the gestures: on the one hand, there is the closed fist of the fighter; on the other hand, there is the pointing finger of the spectator. A fast-forward thrust; a hesitant gesture. A direct contact with a body (THUMP!); a directional indicator of its placement (THAT!). If the open hand, in gesturing, deals with meaning -- a vocabulary of direction and velocity -- then the closed one, in punching, cuts through it, eradicating distance and time. They often work in conjunction, in law as in crime.
The happening-something congeals at the fulcrum of our attention. However it is not a bounded entity over there for it includes the assembled crowd here. Or rather, the crowd includes it: there is a symbiotic relation, one bound up within the other. The happening-event is a dynamic formation that can span formal distinctions like inside and outside, actor and audience. There is indeed a focus (the fight?), yet the energies of the event reverberate outwardly in all directions. Undulating, it traverses the arena of action, loosening social ties and unraveling protocols.
Because of this suspension of mediation, the event exerts an absorptive power. One reaches out through non-linguistic forms of body contact and exchange, as if opening the body, extending it. One frowns, peers, expresses concern, worry, or frustration, covers the widening mouth, clasps the hands. Adrenaline flows, the body heats up, lubricates itself, swells. What is this but a carnal dimension of anticipation -- an anticipation of some form of contact between one's body and something else, and, correspondingly, the body's physiological READINESS for such a potential encounter? Through readiness, the body opens out in expectation, but at the same time, through readiness, one creates a space or place for oneself -- a stabilized "I." Bound up with this is the modulation of flow and speeds -- a form of rhythmic adjustment, quickening or slowing the body in relation to someone or something else.
Perhaps it is a submissive experience of a certain scale, intensity, and rhythm that I seek, in order to lose myself and find myself again, extended, elsewhere -- the anticipated fight (or brawl!) providing one interface, one modulation of the maelstrom. So it is at this moment, as I stand, in varying degrees, both within this space of this essay and the space of the street, on this humid summer day, restless and sticky amongst the assembled -- the glistening, undulating mass, quivering with sweat and expectation, which yearns to experience the happening-something. Feeling its power course through us, we submit to it, and it submits to us. The desire, like wind, sweeps us up.
But wait -- could the ambiguous thrusting of arms, jutting outward from the center of the happening-thing, belong to dancers rather than fighters? Rather than a fight, with its particular brew of hostile and joyous energies, might the happening-something instead be a frolic? The gestures of the dancer can at times resemble the pointing finger of the spectator and the closed fist of the fighter -- the indication and the punch; the hesitant gesture and the fast forward thrust; the interval and its evacuation -- as both are subsumed within larger, rhythmic whirls of signification and intensity. Immersed in the dance, one is overcome by the rhythm, hips swaying, arms lashing, hands wild with gestural flux. Hair and breasts abounce, one joins the pulsating, writhing mass, synchronous and dissonant, at times riding the beat, at times turning it, breaking it. Appendages sprout from, swing through, and motor the convulsing crowd like cranks and valves. Gestures signify through rhythm and reference, but they also contour flows, celebrating meaninglessness, as if poking through the bubble of language.
I think I know the score. I sense the conditions of the game that I think I'm playing, and I stage myself accordingly. I try to apprehend the conditions according to which the gathering plays -- its constitution and its disposition -- and I adjust myself, modulate myself, in accordance with that. A potential role emerges. What role do I play? When I adopt a role I take a position and move convincingly in an intensive or expressive way. I endeavor to "pass" as something or someone, whether for myself or for an other. My role is subjective and objective, material and expressive; it involves both positioning and passing. To adopt a role is to sense what is at stake: to trust the assembling-event's constitution and the integrity of my potential role in it. 041b061a72