Monday, 4 December, 1995
Passed through a gate. Through but not out. Still inside a place with closed gates, a larger place, familiar (the way fear is familiar) and larger, a place of a thousand and one gates known indiscriminately, traceable to a humanist secondary education without passion, without haste, with its hybridizing qualities; something of a standard explanation, heartening news, the daily bombardment. Circle of bombs forcing a growing union, desire which impels and convention which restrains. Censure thought and admire the Idea.
Standing alone outside the gate in the midst of a small crowd on a country road, looking up at a light blue sky. Blue sky and pathetic objects. The single aeroplane. Scattered suitcases. Dirty socks in brown leather shoes. Hitchcock had it precisely correct: the hand in pocket, the faraway threatening tilt of the tiny wings. The tilt of recognition. Of intent. Hayfields mown and empty all around. As if after a religious service, doors opened, standing, simply listening; "congregated." Apprehended in the event of liberation, paralysed and anxious, frequently halting to see where to tread safely. Unused to safety. And now the falling visitor and no roof above. Suspended in an atmosphere of individual desires. Agriculture fallen away, leaving singular bodies of varying densities. Hanging in mid-air like a verdict: the propagation of some and the destruction of others. Expression at any price.
This encumbrance of presence preventing dissolution, beneath the flat post-event-trauma sky, the "blue" sky. Aeroplane gone forever but will always remain. In that signified blue sky. Beginning to fill up with the songs of volunteers in a rough line, dull harmonics like the hallway outside an operating room. Ragged marionettes in a "theatre of operations." Hi Ho. Hi Ho.
Marching on and on, until thirst expelled into the void after thought, hunger, voice and the rest. Dumb, absent, isolated. On into nothing: everything is free.
"White clouds" + "Blue sky" + "Green grass" =
= pleasures that are dead
= an ancient pleasure-seeking
= a painful sting
The best of intentions. Like joining up on the right side. "Army of Liberation." Hi Ho. Sprawling onto the fields to let the giant snake snake by on the road. The undulating column of bronze, moving in the opposite direction, rifles lowered, sunken mouths. Silver chains hung from necks, jangling. A ragged child with no pants stumbles, slows up a thousand bearded men with guns. Indifferent to the general confidence. A thousand soldiers meet a thousand . . . children and women (to use words) on a country road, and: not a single display of emotion. Only the silence of inward detonation.
Another way of putting it: our public places are filled with blood.
Passed through a gate. Through but not out. Still inside a place with closed gates, a larger place, familiar (the way fear is familiar) and larger, a place of a thousand and one gates known indiscriminately, traceable to a humanist secondary education without passion, without haste, with its hybridizing qualities; something of a standard explanation, heartening news, the daily bombardment. Circle of bombs forcing a growing union, desire which impels and convention which restrains. Censure thought and admire the Idea.
Standing alone outside the gate in the midst of a small crowd on a country road, looking up at a light blue sky. Blue sky and pathetic objects. The single aeroplane. Scattered suitcases. Dirty socks in brown leather shoes. Hitchcock had it precisely correct: the hand in pocket, the faraway threatening tilt of the tiny wings. The tilt of recognition. Of intent. Hayfields mown and empty all around. As if after a religious service, doors opened, standing, simply listening; "congregated." Apprehended in the event of liberation, paralysed and anxious, frequently halting to see where to tread safely. Unused to safety. And now the falling visitor and no roof above. Suspended in an atmosphere of individual desires. Agriculture fallen away, leaving singular bodies of varying densities. Hanging in mid-air like a verdict: the propagation of some and the destruction of others. Expression at any price.
This encumbrance of presence preventing dissolution, beneath the flat post-event-trauma sky, the "blue" sky. Aeroplane gone forever but will always remain. In that signified blue sky. Beginning to fill up with the songs of volunteers in a rough line, dull harmonics like the hallway outside an operating room. Ragged marionettes in a "theatre of operations." Hi Ho. Hi Ho.
Marching on and on, until thirst expelled into the void after thought, hunger, voice and the rest. Dumb, absent, isolated. On into nothing: everything is free.
"White clouds" + "Blue sky" + "Green grass" =
= pleasures that are dead
= an ancient pleasure-seeking
= a painful sting
The best of intentions. Like joining up on the right side. "Army of Liberation." Hi Ho. Sprawling onto the fields to let the giant snake snake by on the road. The undulating column of bronze, moving in the opposite direction, rifles lowered, sunken mouths. Silver chains hung from necks, jangling. A ragged child with no pants stumbles, slows up a thousand bearded men with guns. Indifferent to the general confidence. A thousand soldiers meet a thousand . . . children and women (to use words) on a country road, and: not a single display of emotion. Only the silence of inward detonation.
Another way of putting it: our public places are filled with blood.
posted by Scott MacLeod at 5:28 AM
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