[ WHITE ]
The one and the other unconcealed (symbolically) in its crypt nowhere.
(Literally,) we unveil nothing.
Nothing that in the final account does not leave her intact.
A forgotten silence these words sing like a whisper.
Each word is chosen, then placed in such a way that the voice is unable to gain access to it.
Rather like a nocturne that seems to consist of a double movement:
the second movement is the symbolic act of making something become “nothing” in the endlessly failed attempt to represent the first movement: the literal act of nothing having become something.
But, here, where the nocturne already exists, or is capable of being created, there is no first movement – or rather, the first movement is the silence and stillness before the second movement that is capable only of repeating endless variations that fail to mimic the first movement because, if it were to succeed, it would be indistinguishable from the first movement and, therefore, unobservable.
The only option for the second movement is to speak the silence of the first movement, which is to say, to try to convey the first movement without being it.
To “speak” silence is to speak in such a way that sets itself apart from usual speech. Such speaking can never achieve the apparent nothingness and isolation of actual silence. It can only ever be something that sets itself apart from other somethings thus approximating the nothingness of silence.
That is, it’s only symbols all the way down for us – until there are no longer any symbols, no longer any us – a silence that will be the genuine return to the home of stillness that is the first movement, one more iteration in the eternal cycle.
ouvre tes yeux pour parler “adieu”
[ RED / BLUE ]
The Virgin Birth
ouvre tes yeux pour parle les deux
The one, the all-nothing that is not nothing, the nothing that is everything concealed, unconceals itself.
And it is as though someone or something has vanished . . .
But the one who has disappeared remains.
Remains hidden (concealed) by what is only symbolically unconcealed.
The hidden one concealed by unconcealed aspects.
Here, parts aware of the other parts and that feel the presence of the hidden one forever there, incapable of being aware of the parts.
[ RED / YELLOW / GREEN / BLUE ] – (all overlapping in the center: grey? black?)
Eternal War
For one, there is nothing forever concealed.
For all, there is only war.
Only always endless war.
Until there is again one – at which point there is peace nowhere.
[ BLACK w/ NIX text ]
Language speaks, forges a path.
There is no path that leads back to the origin.
The word “origin” does not dwell at the origin, it dwells in the midst of language.
The paths of language exist in a space with no access to the origin, only the word which lies to us, the word which lies on a path further away from the origin than you are to me.
[ grey ]
These Seas Surround Us
If I tell here the story of that great mother of life, the darkness – of what became of what was torn away when the whole universe was formed – we must imagine it can only be pieced together without form – a testimony with no fact to see – a history in the absence of inescapable truth – shadowy beginnings without explanations (as it is with beginnings) – one story of many written upon the face of the ancient void.
The event of which I write must have occurred years ago, long before there were reasons for believing. The central story: you stand on a beach at night and remember the cool, pale moon with its congealed, hardened surface watching earth’s tempestuous and violent events, man and materials sorted out in a supporting pattern.
The new birth: freshly torn from that primeval non-life that somehow acquired the ability to reproduce itself.
Acquired?
It seems more probable that after endless trials and failures over the eons of time – an endless inexorable process of free oscillation that has never stopped leaching out a mysterious and wonderful stream of life – swirling clouds of darkness and gloom – whirling tides of unhindered speed and momentum – we eventually arrive at the great scar on the surface of the globe here on this day.
[ picture of tree w/ TREE text ]
The Rape of the World
As soon as it speaks, language promises.
It promises to deliver the world to us.
But it cannot fail to break its promise.
Thus is secured the hidden one’s unreachable dwelling place – and thus is conveyed to us a promise kept: always at a remove, the only redeeming feature of this world is its genuine and inescapable sadness – the sadness that the only possible way to convey the world is by replacing it piece by piece.
[ solid color with OBEY text ]
capitalism swallowing everything including anticapitalism – the futility of creating art when it is primarily considered a commodity – only of value to the extent that it may be bought or sold – hence, the impetus to make art that is incapable of being a commodity (is this possible?)
[ blue/white/green??? ]
Das ihnen das alles nichts mehr nützt
The sea buckthorn on the beach
And everything hurt so much
That my sorrow erupted loudly into the blue of the sky
That the rabbits looked shyly out of their burrow
Everything blue and white and green and
The color film in my soul hurt so much
You forgot the sea buckthorn on the beach
The footprint stamped in the sand
The rabbits looked shyly out from their sorrow
And everything erupted so loudly into the blue and white and green
You forgot the buckthorn in the sky
The color sorrow in my soul
The rabbits shyly in the sand on the beach
The hidden seathorn back at the burrow
That erupted so loudly on the film
And later no longer true
Now nobody believes us
How nice it was here
The film, the footprint, the blue of the sky, the burrow, the rabbits,
the beach, the sea buckthorn, the sorrow,
the blue and white and green
How nice it was here
You forgot
And everything hurts so much
(with deepest apologies to Nina Hagan and Michael Heubach)
{ } VK Arkiv 