one thought
Eduardo Recife - 1 and 2
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it's been awhile since i have used this space for myself. i hardly know how anymore. i feel like i am speaking to a known audience. that scares me. my lack of anonymity frightens me. what does that mean when a person can only speak what she feels or thinks to an unanswering wall? a wall or space of emptiness that knows no language. or can not name?
i suppose it can mean that she is afraid of being asked to answer for the many things she says. it can mean that i am afraid that someone willl recognise me and life ceases to become one stream of interesting mundanity after another, but instead, become like the focussed aesthetics of a camera lense. violently obtrusive. every pimple magnified.
or perhaps a form of mindless flowing into norms. calcifying modes and methods to what is given value, or already named. chance and creations squandered through repetitive motions of a different pattern. telling, multiplying, reifying, performing. linking. attempting significance through the same. attempting invisibility through the same.
or maybe casting another layer to the skin. one more cleaving of the self into another private, another public, another common, another test of trust. one more incomprehensible poem to wade through before realising truths that lie in indistinct textures that change with every contact. slipping like the alchemy of perfume and sweat.
there is no reason for one to lay her life within the palms of another; the blackened cold pupils of another. the only safety and sanctity in being is the innate ability to disappear into silence.
yet we persistently attempt its rupture and destruction through evolving calculated guesses. intimate as instinct.
language, signs, codes, logos, gestures of the limbs, flickers of the lips, making histories, burdening every accidental occurence with meaning, dates, numbers, time, locking every colour, line, smell and light into an eternal prison of unforgiving memory. compelling the impossible feat of free falling from every random ressonance. calling every hesitant resistance as betrayal.
am i truly walking around, searching for my name? as it burns onto new tongues and rebelliously squirms its misrecognition, does the yearning stay the same?
one of the 43 things i would like to do is forget myself and laugh. but i truly think i lack this thing called humour. some will tell me it indicates a shallowness of intelligence. knowing the inside cosmic joke means understanding the cosmic pattern itself and the ludicrousness of its continued self-perpetuation. but the more i find out, the sadder i become. my bafflement produces no self-effacing snigger. or the clarity it gives. every dive bops me up to scummy depths.
if i were a cartoon character, i would be a morose tadpole.