February 28
Seeing things dry and sharply etched. Pine trees full of the Prussian past. Cherished notions of the quantifiable, the innards of the hard-tuned instrument, betrayed, disinherited from the fictive perspective by its origins in bourgeois science, the god that made iron grow, submit to orders and connect to sites injected into every mouth. The paranoiac, miraculous technocratic resonances derived from ideology. Whenever attention wavers. Self-consciousness standing aside, drawing figures in the air because there is silence on the corrugated edge of existence and its collaterals. Some realm removed to the cellar in the evening for purposes of documentation. A home for the blind summoned to a rehearsal, across the fields like frightened hares, flashlights in the darkness, as on the stage. The figures proceed from one building-site to another, with less rapport than a bleeding rabbit. Hypocrisy makes its entry into a neighboring territory, while confession is tortured, and confesses dramatically.
The result is a language difficult to learn, becomes this strange document, abstractions as ashes in the mouths of those who thirst for vengeance. The same old song since the days of the last remaining body. A persistence so great, beginning with isolation confounded in her longing for righteousness.
I have recorded this because it is the unspeakable flesh in contempt of this immense burden of work. More than the mere evocation of the inconceivable (nature) thrown up around the subject. Human bones displayed in public places under medieval allegories. The atmosphere of the times found in the peculiar language, the highly-complicated form of the proposition, the usual bravura and sacrifice to an old thousand-voiced monster which rattles the flimsy costumes and moveable sets, leaving behind a ruined garden of the luckless, the idle, and the thousand other miseries.
Projecting the world with lighting and stage hands, as if born to the trade.
All this and more, verging on maudlin, as an expectant occupation which enables progress and setbacks, as a whispered word reveals no satisfactory resting place.
Seeing things dry and sharply etched. Pine trees full of the Prussian past. Cherished notions of the quantifiable, the innards of the hard-tuned instrument, betrayed, disinherited from the fictive perspective by its origins in bourgeois science, the god that made iron grow, submit to orders and connect to sites injected into every mouth. The paranoiac, miraculous technocratic resonances derived from ideology. Whenever attention wavers. Self-consciousness standing aside, drawing figures in the air because there is silence on the corrugated edge of existence and its collaterals. Some realm removed to the cellar in the evening for purposes of documentation. A home for the blind summoned to a rehearsal, across the fields like frightened hares, flashlights in the darkness, as on the stage. The figures proceed from one building-site to another, with less rapport than a bleeding rabbit. Hypocrisy makes its entry into a neighboring territory, while confession is tortured, and confesses dramatically.
The result is a language difficult to learn, becomes this strange document, abstractions as ashes in the mouths of those who thirst for vengeance. The same old song since the days of the last remaining body. A persistence so great, beginning with isolation confounded in her longing for righteousness.
I have recorded this because it is the unspeakable flesh in contempt of this immense burden of work. More than the mere evocation of the inconceivable (nature) thrown up around the subject. Human bones displayed in public places under medieval allegories. The atmosphere of the times found in the peculiar language, the highly-complicated form of the proposition, the usual bravura and sacrifice to an old thousand-voiced monster which rattles the flimsy costumes and moveable sets, leaving behind a ruined garden of the luckless, the idle, and the thousand other miseries.
Projecting the world with lighting and stage hands, as if born to the trade.
All this and more, verging on maudlin, as an expectant occupation which enables progress and setbacks, as a whispered word reveals no satisfactory resting place.
posted by Scott MacLeod at 6:28 PM
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