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a time for fear
 
Friday, August 15, 2003  
I want the passion
which puts your feet on the ceiling
this fist
to smash forward

Osip Mandelstam

There is a bullet hole in a pane of glass: it's so neat that the glass has barely fractured. A small black hole rimmed by an outer ring of compact shattered glass, like a pupil surrounded by an iris, or a geological map of a volcano. It changes as you look at it; it could be many different things. The further away it gets from what it is, the more beautiful it looks. Washington DC, October, 2002: body slumps onto a car seat, back window splattered with brain, bone and blood > There is a woman with her back to you and she has a fine figure: tall, slim, and strong. She stands well, arms dropped to her sides, an iron pot clutched in her right hand, her head draped in a large silk scarf blown by a slight dry breeze. In front of her, her house, its front blown off, clothes and furniture crushed between smashed concrete and tile. The thing is, you can't see her face. But I like her posture: it suggests defiance. Jenin, May, 2002 > There is a man standing triumphant behind a flock of fine French flags. It's Le Pen, fists clenched, smile wide. France, April, 2002 > There is a man carrying a faint body out of an opera house. There is a soldier and a stunned crowd. Footage is grainy. Moscow, October, 2002 > There is a demonstration, a coffin, a bomb, a sign. I have the pictures, all I have is pictures. There is an intense pitch which becomes nothing but the inability to retreat. There are many random processes, more than there are coherent procedures. There is wasted time, there is a lot of wasted time. I waste time: my eyes scan the magazine rack and are greedy for the pictures and the words, greedy for the past and the future. I consume, I gorge, on fact and face and fate. I am dazzled, and hungry. Enough! I leave because I am brave, wade through a stale breeze, back onto the street. The world is full of things >

The weight of a small bird is sufficient to move the earth
Leonardo da Vinci

There is this sort of wry smile or this look of contempt or there is this determination and this quiet strengh or this fragile but fierce power. There are these strong, clear, beautiful eyes, full of tears. There is the measure and the mass of all pain inflicted and felt. There is disengagement and the need to disappear. There is a chain of events that begins with a simple misunderstanding and leads to conflict and disintegration. There is courage in blindness and weakness in hindsight. There is intuition and knowledge, the gift of one, the curse of the other. There is always something you couldn't say, or something you meant to say, or something you shouldn't have said. There are always things you do not expect from others: surprises, but disappointments too. There are standards, risks, elevations and deprivations. There is honesty, resistance, and a combination of the two that takes you forward. There is the impatience of sensation and expression, the violent impatience that breaks syntax and perception. There is ill-discipline and joy. There is the constant heat broken by the clear cold. There is conflict and resolution and the words that cross between. There are the lost points of a compass. There is the abandonment of navigation. There is the undiscovered island. There is the teeming archipelago. There is the lost tribe. There is desert sand free of footprints and tire tracks. There is the fog of battle. There are the fir trees of North Carolina: fog forest and trees. There is the ocean that devours, crushes the breath from your lungs, spits out bones and dreams. There is the ocean that captures the colours of climate, conquest and creation. There are the extremes of boredom and heartbreak. There is the extreme drama and delight of beauty: a face, a joke, a kiss, a good sky. There is a trip down the Nile, evening on a beach, an unexpected meeting. There is something untouched inside always. There is something to redeem if you dare.

Lost at sea. Yes it's a nice idea for a while, but fucking unnerving...Seeyou later. 12, 1 ish, your time.

This is the opposite of waste. But don't horde, don't hide. This is not the opposite of anything, this is the appetite for everything. This is the affirmation I promised all along. An oil tanker cut in two, a black tide, a gannet sinking in an oil-slick. Weather and waves break up oil. Silver seals dance all through springtime. Guillemots fly. The falcon ascends. If this is a time for fear then don't be afraid. This is: and rather than or. Strengh rather than power. This is how I would like to end and yet it is merely the point from which I will continue. The mass of bodies crossing a bridge during a city blackout provokes fear and apprehension when it should inspire elation, festivity, hope. This meltdown and this collapse suggests the possibility and probability of new connections and escape routes. The tender, temperate complexities of dream and reality. A boat to Stockholm, a hotel room in Hamburg, frying fish on Swansea sand, lost in Venetian backstreets. Don't lose these threads. Don't lose sight of this: the search for alliance, affinity, an imagination to curve with, compliment and extend your own. We're cowards about love: a disaster, or a spent currency, or too absolute. But we overload it: it's easy. When we speed, we cruise, city voyagers in a Hackney carriage, it doesn't demand extraction or capitulation. Eternal summer gilds us. When this ends, we are still alive, you and I. When we arrive this will end. We become part of the soil, the air, the rain, the sunlight. Or we drift, spread and bud like seeds. Right now, we're nowhere near, but we will get there. In the meantime, the world is full of things. Let's go exploring.

In one way or another, the animal is more a fleer than a fighter, but its flights are also conquests, creations.
Deleuze and Guattari


12:43 AM

 
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