Posthuman philosophical movements reach into what was once unthinkable, yet now increasingly conceptualises lived reality. Within this terrain, the living human body could shift toward the margins. The de-centred human -progressively less...
morePosthuman philosophical movements reach into what was once unthinkable, yet now increasingly conceptualises lived reality. Within this terrain, the living human body could shift toward the margins. The de-centred human -progressively less in control of planetary, political, economic, technological and ecological conditions -emerges through discourses of embodiment that foreground materialities of differential connectivity and entanglement. "Marks on bodies" (Foucault, Deleuze, Butler) a condition of the imperialist, now neo-colonial epoch, evidences an altered ontological template from which new forms of conceptualisation may arise. Positioned as an independent movement performance researcher and critical psychologist embedded in the unfolding vernacular of the posthuman, this writing translates posthuman concepts through embodied praxis. Operating off-grid and off-institutional, para-academic and rhizomatic, the research engages writing and arts-based practices, including Crepuscular Genre -early morning modalities of attuned listening and witnessing -and performances. This autoethnographic praxis foregrounds non-linear, transgressive, immersive and emergent methodologies as necessary conditions for accessing futures of generative, relational existence. Alongside movement practices, artistic investigations extend into process-based engagements with earth-bound substances. One of these enacts as divinatory movement on canvas with an agricultural medium. These practices generate visual and sensory registers that both exceed and remain grounded in the human body, contributing to a somatic mapping of posthuman states. Reflexivity is sustained throughout as both method and ethic, ensuring that creative outputs function as sites of inquiry rather than conclusive representation alone. From the very beginning, music, more particularly song, filled our lives with joyful noise. But on our journeys my father was quietly besieged by my enthusiastic "piano" performances along the top ridge of our old 1960 car seat, its upholstery sewn into neat strips that became my imaginary notes. With the boundless energy of a child, I would lunge from one side of the car interior to the other, play-singing my makeshift keyboard with gusto. Those lively backseat concerts must have been something to behold, because when I turned seven, my father kindly bought me a real piano. Although my parents wisely arranged formal piano training from an early age -no doubt hoping to balance their investment with proper skill -and despite matriculating with Music as one of my six subjects and holding past qualifications, I was never drawn to playing classical music or any recognisable tunes. What others hear as beautiful harmony, attunement, and satisfying resolution has always stirred a quiet dissonance in me. Those clear, often "pretentious" and comforting endingsthe effortless "A ha!" moments of finality and pleasing agreement -have often felt like an unacceptable compromise, even a subtle betrayal I need to guard against. For me, life does not arrive at such straightforward resolutions. Back to my childhood. I actually received dance training for longer than piano training. Those classes began at age 4, when my mother, this time, was besieged by my incessant desire to dance and out of desperation she found a local teacher. Over decades, the piano became an integral part of my dance performances. It accompanied my voice, movement, and an uncharacteristic form of embodied narrative that carried a distinct style -one that has never settled comfortably into any genre.