Neither folded not disintegrated, my body is flat on the ground, and the figure looms over me. 11.5.15

I re-enter the interior space having departed and notice that the floor is still damp with mop streaks that flow in ergonomically emergent figure of eight shapes, becoming-figures that reconstitute themselves as replicated shapes. The floor has a bluish hue, or is that the moonlight cascading in through the floor-to-ceiling windows that constitute the inside/outside boundary… I pass through the central hall in half-light making for a particular corner of the interior, where I have been lured or else a zone of my own desire, passing across invisible lines of this desire that bisect the damp swirls my body produced, supplemented by prosthetic cleansing arm: infinity marks, passages from there and back again, residual ouroboric gestures.

At the moment of recognition uncanny and disturbing to my linear sense, which dictates the space-time passage divested of by the dream and yet, insistently, by the peripheral conscious mind, I register, in the play of apprehension and loss, my desire is to temporise this scene: to hold-off its psychic consummation, to defer the inevitable in a split second marked by its being captured.

At this very moment, the scene taut and intensified, from out of the corner of my eye I witness a figure brandishing a rotten, curved length of tree branch and in the next second, my eyes darting in synchronicity with my body, I witness a figure, more proximate to me, standing rigid and smiling with a whip, which curls back in the midst of a violent crack, makes contact with my rigid, terrorised body, and I am immediately displaced. I am horizontally comported; I have neither folded not disintegrated, my body is flat on the ground, and the figure looms over me.

What happens in this scene of violation is not a physical collapse. There is no pain and there is no physical trauma that I know of: I know nothing of what is happening beyond the rush of fear that is all the more intense for its immediacy and lack of context.

I realise I have been lured to the building for the express purpose of receiving this beating as boot soles rain down on my face and upper-body in rapid succession, infinitesimal moments of respite charged with scopic dread, for my upwardly fixed eyes are wide open and the entire frame of my visual perception is taken up by the undercarriage of a man. Dressed entirely in black, boots black, his substantially proportioned lower-body muscular structure is poised in attack-mode; suffused with leaden energy, his whole body is engaged, his vital organs plume with an annihilative desire that is limitless.

I think, why does he go on pulverizing me? I must be already dead, at which juncture I resist the attack by way of inching across the articulation barrier that holds me captive. My throat doesn’t open, I push against it, breaching its peristaltic clench; my throat is profuse with a liquidated fist. I grunt my way out; the fist in both a interior plug and an exterior restraint, I tremble on the edge of suffocation: its bodily manifestation is a pulsation, I adopt the syncopated jerking of the restrained, as if tied down inside and over my collapsed mind/body.