digital garden

I do not desire at the moment to write about more questions, or to formally question purity or aesthetic expression or any of those other things I manage to continually return to. It feels too heavy and too cold. What of the expressive use of language? Can I not scribble with words as I do with my pencil, gather and naively stitch as I do with layers of fluid cloth?

I desire to immerse myself in language, to act with an instinctual sense of form and flow – just as a hand does that knows curves through practise. I do not desire to conquer words and own them and wear them as my flesh-trophy – I want nothing more than to fill them and make them heavy and dense with life and watch them dance as I do. In fact – what I desire is for my language to mimic the interaction between the garment and the flesh. If the flesh is the primary inversive representation of the private self, and all the mutations and distortions of that flesh then infuse the garment with that same information of the fluid identity, why can language not flow alongside the self in much the same way? Why can my words not be channelled by my perceptions and translations and mutations, to become and flow into an inverted and disfigured form of my own reality symbiosis? Maybe it is not the existence of the realities that is refracted in aesthetic expression, but rather the energy of their interaction. The transient nature of this energy dictates the transience of the “objects” or manifestations – including language.

It is a beautiful thing to perceive writing as transient. Perhaps it is true that written language is merely a bastard of the spoken word? I hope not – I enjoy the din of silence and the still tumult of reading. Words can be replicated and preserved, unlike an object that is treasure for what is it, rather than what it reflects. But surely this cannot be true? I do not look at art to see an object – I am surrounded by all matter that is as old as time. So is the object in art inconsequential? And what is it about writing that is temporal?

And why can I not escape from these thoughts and words? (because escape is not part of the dance, does not build, regresses etc...) I have made a system of answers! I don’t want answers. I want my questions to hate me and taunt me. I want to live sick with desperation for a resolution that I know will inevitably contradict the question, and I want that knowledge to punish me. It scares me that I cannot catch my own false answers within reflexive reasoning out, and scares me even more that I desire to.