(Re)Turning: Pulp, Bodies, Selves

“We might imagine re-turning as a multiplicity of processes, such as the kinds earthworms revel in while helping to make compost or otherwise being busy at work and at play: turning the soil over and over—ingesting and excreting it, tunneling through it, burrowing, all means of aerating the soil, allowing oxygen in, opening it up and breathing new life into it.

-Karen Barad, “Diffracting Diffraction: Cutting Together-Apart”

***

When I read this earthly example of re-turning, I could not stop thinking about what it would be like to be an earthworm. This paper making workshop, which involves turning our hands in wet, mushy pulp, pondered this question: What do worms do? As we re-turned pulp in our hands, we thought about worms, soil, compost, tunnels, air, time, life, death. At the end, we observed our paper, emerging from processes of re-turning our recycled pulp, filled with flowers, cotton, linen, abaca, sensations, and time.

Barad (2014) explains that re-turning is not “reflecting on or going back to a past that was, but re-turning as in turning it over and over again– iteratively intra-acting, re-diffracting, diffracting anew, in the making of new temporalities…” (p. 169, emphasis added). As someone who often finds myself sitting at a vat of pulp, turning and re-turning, I find much value in these words.

Who benefits more? The artist, the water swooshing against the vat? The pulp smashing and slithering through the papermaker’s fingers? Can they really be disentangled from each other, or from the final piece of dried paper? Can they be separated in space or time?