In the 7 days of creation, God is said to have made things, and from things came livelihood. This way of thinking configures matter as a collection of fixed entities, begin and end by their visual bodies. This article intervenes in our perception of matter—thus, discourse, boundaries, time, and revealing the deeper role of intimacy in participation in co-constituting the felt experience of entanglement.
What is a matter? What is a body?
Matter is not a fixed entity like how we call a rock, a laptop, a rat. Matter is an ongoing historicity.
A tree, for example, materialises through ongoing exchanges of water, light, and soil, just as a human body continually remakes itself through cell regeneration, hormones, microbial activity and so forth. Artefacts like clay pots or smartphones keep materialising through use, repair, and entanglement with intra-acting forces—nothing is ever fixed.
The Nobel laureate physicist Richard Feynman calls into question the nature of how we perceive boundaries, thus, matter:
In order to draw an object, we have only to draw its outline. How used we are to looking at pictures that have only the outline! What is the outline? The outline is only the edge difference between light and dark or one colour and another. It is not something definite. It is not, believe it or not, that every object has a line around it! There is no such line. It is only in our own psychological makeup that there is a line.(Feynman 1964, 1:36-11)
Matter, in the agential realist sense, refers to phenomena in their ongoing materialisation. Unlike Aristotle, who saw cell and atom as the smallest unit of life, phenomena are the smallest material units—the relational "atoms" that constitute the world. Matter comes to matter through this continuous process of ongoing intra-activity of phenomena.
Matter is not a fixed, passive substance but a substance in its intra-active becoming—not a thing but a doing, a congealing of agency. It is not little bits of nature, nor a blank surface passively awaiting cultural inscription. It is not a fixed referent, location, or a stable source for discourse. Instead, meaning and matter co-constitute one another; it is meaningless to say which is prior to which.
The body, thus, becomes a complex site: "Where does a body begin and end? Where do I end and you begin?" These questions are so fundamental that an observation for them has the capacity to generate limitless insights.
What are boundaries? Where does a hug begin?
Boundaries are not a fixed edge of an entity, like a cell wall or a skin surface. Instead, to observe where boundary begins and ends requires an observation of the effects of intra-actions: How do these material-discursive practices temporarily differentiate "this" from "that"? Answering this is where we find a body, a boundary, an apparatus.
Let’s take a hug as an example. A hug does not have a single, obvious beginning or end. Does it start when two bodies touch, or when the desire to embrace arises? Does it end when arms release, or when its memory fades from the body?
From this perspective, the hug is not only a physical act but a material-discursive practice. The embrace always happens with(in) the cultural meanings of affection, safety, care and so on while at the same time enacting material reconfigurations of bodies, proximities, and rhythms. Boundaries appear and dissolve not at the edge of skin, but within the ongoing intra-action of matter and meaning.
If we really are taking phenomenon instead of substance as the smallest unit of life, then boundaries must be thought of in terms of time-and-space, or duration-and-apparatus.
For Bergson, duration (la durée) is not clock time, but the qualitative flow of lived experience, where past and present interpenetrate. Deleuze takes this further: duration is the becoming of reality itself, where identities are never fixed but continually differentiating. Boundaries are always provisional within this flow.
In my fieldwork, personal life, and community facilitation, I find that pacing and rhythm seems to be the key in intimacy-building. The pacing of flow determines the type and quality of felt affect and the intensity of felt entanglement. This insight points me back, again and again, to taking duration, pacing, rhythm, and time as the core elements in designing intimacy.
What does a hug do to us?
What’s most fascinating to me is that a hug shifts where "I" end and "you" begin: Intimacy redraws boundaries of bodies.
Where you and I begin or end are not given once and for all but emerge from ongoing relations. When two bodies intra-act, the distinction between them is actively redrawn in that moment. The experience of intimacy reconfigures the sense of where "I" end and "you" begin—not erasing differences, but shifting the felt boundary, making it alive, malleable, and more tender due to perceiving entanglement.
Intimacy offers a glimpse of entanglement—an experience I will explore in greater technical depth in a later article for PTP.