(no subject)
Even though my life seems to be taken by the making of images. Even though photography has outstripped its predecessors in both expectation and execution I still walk around in this world as though language was the only promise that I have ever made of myself. Even though I hardly say anything to anyone. Even though what I do say is so often the false, the omitted, the facile and superficial - a language that for both me and my interlocutor approaches most nearly to silence. Even though the broad purview of synthesis, myth and ideology, teleology and intent has disintegrated into so many cruel white clouds of competing self interest, rendering thought a kind of pointlessness and speech a vanity and all of literature falls clattering down the slate steps descending to nowhere... Despite all of this, it is language that holds my hopeless hope. When my heart saturates with its melancholic weather and my tongue begins to taste like song it is language that I am the promise of. Not images. I have never been able to say anything and still I am filled with this arrogance. You can be my judge. You ears that do not hear these words . You eyes that do not read these words. You can judge my value and my worth and the scale and the impact of a language I am full with but cannot seem to speak or for most of the day even to feel within me. You interpret this dream that you do not dream and I cannot tell you of.