Embrace as Boundary of Connection System (some power of bendable tines in Limited Fork Theory)

I've always thought embrace to be powerful
and even more so today, thanks to Eliana's bringing of integrity to class
and the weaving of integrity (or its absence) into considerations
of boundary formation, boundary maintenance, boundary experience.

so in embrace, in hug, there is also interlocking, a weaving of (figurative or physical) arms;
there is what ann marie adams depicts here:
and at fine art america.


It is a form of weaving, a form of building a responsive bridge, one able to bend, yield, extract something from a partner, yet retain some of its own integrity when the embrace, for it is not permanent, ends —or is, rather, I could say, suspended, so as to allow for resumption of embrace. The connective experience of existence may be configured as series of interrupted embraces. Moments of attachment and tethering intersperced with moments of separation in which there may be resonance of embrace leading to desire, need for more physical embrace, and not just the memory which is free to transform within the boundaries into other shapes, other measure of imaginary intensity.

A weave connection permits more contact; more surface area becomes subject to influence; mixing can be more intense. There is the making of crossroad after crossroad as warp and weft elements crisscross, horizontal bridging alternating with vertical bridging —such tines!

And so much meaning is also woven into such connections; indeed, yarn is also passing through the loom of fingers


and the looms of democracy, commerce, identity, ambition; the looms of embrace of landscape and ourselves:



Into my genetic identity is the embrace of multiple races, one that persists even when entities and forces break the loom of human embrace with temporary (even hundreds of years is temporary because of an overriding configuration of temporariness of stuff in the universe) bouts of prejudice, bigotry, discrimination —I do not become undone; what is woven into me remains locked in embrace that does not conflict, does not confuse me, does not beg me to chose anything other than being woven.



This wasn't why one of my favorite toys as I grew up was Remco's The Little Red Spinning Wheel until now. It is my in basement. Tonight, it comes off of its high shelf and is temporarily, for that is the nature —so far— of all things, reinstated into service.

—I can't believe I haven't bothered to photograph my little red spinning wheel, something I won't be able to say truthfully after tonight—