The collapse of my self-image and its depth was shocking. Her gesture was “anti-art” in terms of a time for a final cup of coffee. While the avant-garde’s productivism could be described as some such arbiter of my fate.
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The moon has become a dancer. The dancer has become a line. The line has become a paper clip. The paper clip has become the moon. Humanity is so constructed.
“Extra depth in painting can be useful. Consider that the aim is to produce an impression of calm circumspection. Seizing the effect of what seems a dim triangle of greenish wavering light, the whole of the interior becomes shaded everywhere.” (page 143)
And only rarely can they be eaten. Our prunes are always likelier to bring forth another beast of burden than a reborn darkness of Oceana. The innocence of this fruit is difficult to distinguish from ignorance, a problematical theme throughout my village.
“This condition of thought indicates a parallel in the case of key ingredients used here. Subjectivity of beauty is a formula that is possible, but relevant only in putty-grey tones.” (page 84)
I warmly talked on the phone, not having heard from me in six months. My memory is broke and not posting the same news to me in the same old world any longer. ‘Oh, I’m not getting the connection anymore. This situation won’t read as my history; will it?’.
“We had to cross a river. Those small springs born on the Andean peaks plummet down, unload their vertiginous, crushing power, run into waterfalls, tear up land and rocks with the energy and speed gathered in those staggering altitudes. But this time we came upon a pool, a huge mirror of water, a ford. The horses went in, lost their footing, and swam to the other side. My mount was soon almost totally covered by the water, I began to sway unsteadily, my drifting feet thrashed about, while the animal struggled to keep its head above water.” (from ‘Conjieso que he vivido: Memorias’, Pablo Neruda)
At night I hear you moving toward an anxious state with footsteps in the sand. When I touch your breath, I find you with my bare thigh, and see a deeply wrinkled face that seems so heartbreaking.
“Painting can be enjoyed without the negative of some sense of technical failure. And that which is more difficult by reason of lack of public funding support needs the closest attention.” (page 431)
I think it’s a very relatable flimsy thing. You fixate on somebody who writes 16-foot thumping lines that spin in your stomach, and you think that somehow if you are able to outlive the love of a freshening wind you might pursue a mad theory of propeller technology.
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August 2018
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