-----------------------
1. The scrying stones
A fortune teller (one hand, two voices)
decrees what is to come, our hero sets out.
The universe of symbols collapses under
its own weight,
“The writing's on the wall”
we start again, first principles (the
same as always, only wearing a different mask)... we will follow the
roaming eye, the hovering judgement, our ambiguous narrator (hero?)
- Smell it (you can almost)
Take a lung full... it will remind you
of something you already knew...
We learn to be real, horizontal... The
beige... The floral... The mundane alter upon which dreams are
channelled... Metamorphose dreams... bend reality to them... the lady
who reeks of lavender and cigarettes at night secretly dreams of
flying naked upon a shoal of mermen... the conscious/unconscious
signals/flags we fly... life blinks on... off.... on.... off... A
soft monument, a tomb “Thy womb let loose, to chase us to our
graves”... Athena Parthenos, “Virgin Athena” gave birth to the
city of Athens, the immaculate conception of philosophy's
foundations, of mythos and the narrative ark (all our histories
ordained by immaculate conception, the big bang... she didn't see it
coming)... Miraculous! They de robed her to pay Lachare's army... If
we can only learn to transcend the particular conditions of life...
We may learn that life is an aesthetic experience, to be shaped in
it's own image... Or better... To be re-cast in gold...
- Anonymous forms, anonymous devotions
The glimpsed moment
The eye of the hero, the eye of the
protagonist (he roams)
... hovering in the instant of the film
still... Loosening the grip on the narrative ark... gathering the
remnants, the debris washed up amongst the scurf of the day...
anonymous fragments, through which may be garnered the map of the
cosmos...
Propelled by an invisible force (“not
I but the wind that blows through me”) “hands unseen”... a
journey into the void... [the light obliterates]... cut flowers...
cut... hinged... wet, little, quenchless, mouths... a liminal
moment... a liminal state... the frayed thread of significance...
- Moth (Apotheosis)
Dénouement... Day...noo...moh....
A ritual gesture, ancestral image...
Where once we worshipped the sun... The pagan love affair is now
projected (via Freud and Edison), it (he) has transmuted, to
electrickery, the divine spark...
“The answer is in the question”
Totem.
Pivot.
Black sun.... It perforates like a full
stop in the middle of a sentence... And yet... every morning the
light switch performs a miracle.
- Mortal Gods
Transfiguring the eternal...
She (Pandora) carried a box across the
river Styx...
Now they (adopted natives) carry
cameras into the night... traverse the space between love, ecstasy,
madness and all that is unknowable... All the while a streetlight (a
beacon) conveys the slow-motion semaphore of human life to the night
sky... ...on, off... on, off... A diurnal distress signal? A love
letter? A swan song?...
- Po Wah - Powah - Power
The first stirrings of the divine in
the mists of a Northern town... You can hear the creak of Ian
Curtis's thigh bone in the fog...
The thinking eye... The seeing
thought...
The authenticity of an (un)observed
life – of the visual fragments, inheritance, lexis we are granted
by our surroundings... By the hands of our mothers and by our own
capacity to imagine...
- Athena
Too much! Too much! Not enough! Not
enough!
“Humans are nodes of matter on the
wild and voracious sea of the gods...”
Athena, goddess of
heroic endeavour, just warfare and civilization... A chaste and
virginal goddess who gave (miraculous) birth to modern philosophy...
“But... where do the gods exist?” In the strangely
unlimited forms of human expression... In the scream and the laugh...
Excess is divine (is where the influence of the gods resides!)... The
divine overwhelms life... In the full, tremulous grandeur of what it
is to be mortal...
“What part are you playing?”
“My own”
if inevitable, (kebab on the way home)... Tragedy was set in motion
even before the play began... The gods were always beyond human...
Wild, untameable, unpredictable...
- (Set Change)
I (mis)heard “The
light of the sun” as “The light of the son” and this
made me wonder about the paternal... The eternal Father(s), back
stage... “He is the son of a mad wolf” what is it to be
anything other than?... The hands of our fathers which operate
invisibly, stage directions, plot lines, props... Are they all
Minotaurs (our fathers; Heads of bulls, bodies of men?)...
Here they are, the
removal men, the men who move the world when we are looking in other
directions... Poised as if for a drama “What drama?” the
period drama of now, of tragically playing ourselves...
Memory is a leaky
vessel... and life... life is a many sided thing... How we get a grip
on it I can't imagine...
- Impeccable Patternicity
Behind the fabric
of the everyday, men in high-vis jackets are tinkering with the
wiring... mastering the art of invisibility... so that time appears
like a seamless thing, art like a timeless entity... an industry
based on invisibility... no date, no time, no presence... art must be
an immaculate accident... The prominent genius, the creator god, his
image must be maintained (superhuman)... The magic of the moment (a
flawless entity), we must uphold the suspension of disbelief... a
disbelief we are all complicit in, a smooth communion with the other
must be performed (the most perfect lie)...
Watching you,
watching me, watching you...
Count the
silences....
Take two deep (very
deep) breaths and pack up the beautiful debris (noone will see this
but you, but this is perfect)... Maintain the props of the
everyday...
- The hero's return
(absurd) a dream
without end... until it is over...
RTN/ESC
The same. Entry
into the non-space... the spaces of memory are insurmountable...
Mother.
Ascend.
Between our
ancestors and now, inhabit those spaces (lightly) and leave no trace.
We are acted upon by the force of the narrative and a necessary
ending (an ever passing moment)... The unlimited moment, swings ever
upwards
End (?)
No comments:
Post a Comment