Sunday, 10 December, 1995
To find the emanations from it in the dark, these troubles kept up with a density whose passages take us, not easily recognizable, as landscape. Understood, strictly speaking, as something recalling something else. Discriminating, limiting. To forget the dull, persistant, unbearable graces of depraved children for a little while or for ever. Those swollen, hairy stems corkscrewing over the heart. Open-mouthed, listening. The inexhaustible heritage, the everlasting disease. The form of religion without anchor, without end. That peculiar malady which ravages under its apparent vagueness. No transmutation in this unending procession.
With the purity of a bed of vice, the committee on each side (heirarchical, devoted, supportive, in adherence) would try to begin to attempt to reproduce. The motions of narcissism in spaces chosen for it. Engineers stay neutral, anatomists to be filled with masses, as so much iron. The products of industry left to grow naturally, trying to swallow its pill. Pictures are being taken of this forced abundance and decay, this simply expressive and more expressive uselessness. A serious kind of make-believe trails no loose end. Imagine dead populations. Elevated. Trembling with unsteady images. The places, conditions and techniques of those emptied and dreary bodies. The ever-increasing silence an endless source of ridiculous misfortunes, circular figures that lie scattered. Experiences without replenishment. Already worn thin by the inevitable, unjust, incomprehensible gas-lit rooms of certain fixed ideas so completely dominated by abstractions. A dream of other clothes which simplify, empty, purge into a dream of absolute machines. While all the material details are conjured in solemn procession or witness. Real iniquity with real intent.
And the world (it is only stone) has so completely covered us.
[this is hardly an invitation]
The foreigner lacks words.
To find the emanations from it in the dark, these troubles kept up with a density whose passages take us, not easily recognizable, as landscape. Understood, strictly speaking, as something recalling something else. Discriminating, limiting. To forget the dull, persistant, unbearable graces of depraved children for a little while or for ever. Those swollen, hairy stems corkscrewing over the heart. Open-mouthed, listening. The inexhaustible heritage, the everlasting disease. The form of religion without anchor, without end. That peculiar malady which ravages under its apparent vagueness. No transmutation in this unending procession.
With the purity of a bed of vice, the committee on each side (heirarchical, devoted, supportive, in adherence) would try to begin to attempt to reproduce. The motions of narcissism in spaces chosen for it. Engineers stay neutral, anatomists to be filled with masses, as so much iron. The products of industry left to grow naturally, trying to swallow its pill. Pictures are being taken of this forced abundance and decay, this simply expressive and more expressive uselessness. A serious kind of make-believe trails no loose end. Imagine dead populations. Elevated. Trembling with unsteady images. The places, conditions and techniques of those emptied and dreary bodies. The ever-increasing silence an endless source of ridiculous misfortunes, circular figures that lie scattered. Experiences without replenishment. Already worn thin by the inevitable, unjust, incomprehensible gas-lit rooms of certain fixed ideas so completely dominated by abstractions. A dream of other clothes which simplify, empty, purge into a dream of absolute machines. While all the material details are conjured in solemn procession or witness. Real iniquity with real intent.
And the world (it is only stone) has so completely covered us.
[this is hardly an invitation]
The foreigner lacks words.
posted by Scott MacLeod at 4:43 PM
<< Home