E is glad of the erection of the question, for no other reason than its emergence marks the moment of what was no more than a nodule of successive nodes through which E had been moving without formal inclination, though inclined to, onward by motion. So E claims: E holds to Es claim of motion, a claim now uncertain, and thus the matter of a question.
After wondering, if not fondling, abstract and unevenly, about that very informal formality, E serves it headlong, interrogatively. Es enquiry is now formal. Have I begun, E asks? E himself, now motionless, is, by all appearances, unsure yet formal, and somehow even more uncertain than he was previously of his existence. This too E claims, with a sigh, as if by this moan E would provide an attestation of both Es speech and motion, hence proof of E existence, for this is Es emerging question – inchoate and ill-assorted.
Here, all motion ceased: Es feet no longer gliding, fleeting or afoot; Es mind steady, perambulating at length, legs firm, firmly put down beneath him, though unanchored to the present whereabouts of their general vicinity, shifting, here and there, like this…
What was I, before, if now, uncertain, I must give thought to the very question of my beginning? Somewhere prior; but when? This appears to be the nub. Am I now beginning? Can I rightly say that I myself have indeed begun, at least formally, if I have been before, yet do not recall the extent of having been? If so, what of me can be said to have begun being – whatever being entails?; and what part of me has not recognised this formal state of having begun – if formal it is? For previously there was motion, my feet claim evidence of that motion – both of the friction and of the after feeling of movement felt underfoot, from the grounds for movement and the perambulatory activity of the thrust from heel through to rising toe, upward on individual cushions of shifting air. The shifting – of the fiction of friction. Heel to toe. Is memory of movement not memory of motion? Is motion of memory not proof of a formal shift to motion? Or is this merely fiction, gliding? Do I need to goad myself into believing that I began, formally? Is my motion not proof of my having been, whether that be this or yonder side of the keyhole, whether that be in and of places, or within the vicinity of their respective whereabouts, no matter how uncertain that exact geo-spherical-localisation? I, hither thither, have formally been here and there, there & elsewhere, have I not?
Where is Lambert? Have you seen Lambert?
Wondering, thus, a mere body, Es, moving after its own bodily fashion, gliding along on the heels of some or other questioning motion, merely wandering, although E claims that the motion of the question now leads him, E wonders about the formality of beginning, of the beginning, that is to say of Es beginning, which is the formal fiction of having hitherto, at some backward point, perhaps begun. E navigates the extent of the question, and is, of a sudden, bewildered by the existence of the unexplored peninsula at Es feet. Wondering, then, about how E might reformulate his served interrogative – have I begun? – so as to determine who, at some point, one that would demark the formal place of Es beginning, began, and wondering too what it was that E, who may be said to have begun, did – given the sundry and inconclusive proof of motion underfoot that E claims to feel – begin. For whatever it is, now, that then began, somehow it must be traced by the motion afoot of Es body, mapped via and through the undetermined whereabouts toward Es beginning.
E wanders on and through, off and under, across and over, looking for the exit, somewhere about him, in the vicinity, thereabouts. Nothing about him appears to alter its course. As ever, E is alone. E has not altered his bearing. It does not matter. E himself driven by the motion of Es own feet, gliding, or rather Es feet shifting under the question. Forward as before. Now toward the exit: forward or backward; over or under; whether retreating or advancing, either or, for it does not matter. Why not continue the motion in a circular formation about the erection, around the interrogation, winding himself in, tighter and tighter, closer to the alleged mark of impalement? Why not shift in little circles, of three foot and a quaver, tipping in a syllabic rhythm and for an unceasing duration, to the beat of something quite hideously new, something of which the whereabouts, circle after circle, appears quite unseemly, and seems to be, after its own fashion, more and more uncertain. Feet moving, one after another, onward ho, through and over, thereabouts, somewhere in the vicinity of the question, in that undetermined place that grows in scale to the rhythm of its own upward commotion. Insomuch, the formulation of the question, as it came to him, after Es fashion of hearing the silent brass trumpet – have I begun – formally, appeared to be all of a piece of an inconclusive formality.
Once erect, the question, formal or informal, marked a new beginning, one that was neither before nor after, neither loftier nor despicably lower than any other. A mere proposition of enquiry: a question, or so E told himself. The interrogative had never before been launched at him. No notional intersection of any given pathway, which the interrogative may or may not have taken, has previously been claimed. The question’s formal interrogative mass had never moulded any verbal form whatsoever, neither one claiming to be of the beginning, nor of another claiming to be not of the beginning. Never before had the interrogative’s sharp formulation begun to take on this new and emerging formation, and hence, never before had E come to entertain, if that is the word that best moulds the moment, Es own wonder of such things. Thus, via the question, E had, for the first time, given ingress the slip, pushing himself, the wanderer, into a motion toward and through the door and out onto and over into the search for the exit.
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