I for instants…borrowed

Arkadii Dragomoshchenko

this one is too good to deny…

“The insignificant position of two associated objects is probably determined by both the randomness of their relationship (let us remind you that neither the ‘statue,’ nor ‘I’ in any way ‘expressed’ a desire to be together, to be united thus by a proposal of anticipation followed by a separation) and – if you will – one’s semic insufficiency.  Indeed, if the semic nucleus of the word ‘statue’ or, say, ‘she’ governs the layers of contextual semes, then ‘I’ is empty (or infinite and hollow, from the very beginning).  This lexeme has no nucleus whatsoever; it’s nothing more than a cocoon of ‘contextual semes,’ like the knot that is a constant deflection of an illusory straight line towards its starting point.

“Frankly, I’d like to say, as I did at the beginning, that ‘I’ is reduced to a ‘seething, ever-changing void.’ But let’s leave it at that.”

-Arkadii Dragomoshchenko-

And, in very much seriousness…if you are a writer in any sort of way (letters, memos, journals, ANYthing)…I find it hard to stomach you not having read Dragomoshchenko’s book Dust.  Really.  Truly truly truly.  Please, if you have even a passing interest in the use and creation and employment of language (even for conversation, thought or memory)…Dust, Dragomoshchenko, Dust, Dragomoshchenko…(mantra until you hold it in your hands)

I beg of you.

Scripting the Photographer, Pt. 4

The Photographer Battles the Inevitable

Cartier-Bresson

 

 

Point. Shoot. fstop. Time. Cut. Develop. Preserve. Capture. Take.

the bravura.

I’m an old man now. I know about time. I know how I am not I. No longer. This mottling, freckling, wrinkling and mole-ridden flesh each new hour I am forced to call mine. The pain in the shoulders and the neck and the knees, my excruciatingly stooped back, my trembles and twitches…I fight back.

I capture the young. Flesh nubile and soft, pliable and pure, elastic. I carry my posture of strength, contracted muscles of athletic days on this little 3×5 glossy scrap, you see? Here’s uncle Mort – alive, swimming – BEFORE 1918 and he was no more. Pah! Right here friend! Right here is uncle Mort. And the Native Americans did live here first, and did wear strange clothing, ride horses, build tee-pees and clod huts – you see?

What might have been erased by vile death, by erosion, what we may have never truly “witnessed” or “seen” – right here through this powerful small cannon!

Matthew Brady

If we speak simply of existing, in whatever form (given what becomes of our actual bodies and minds) Atget has defeated death – you may challenge me to find his flesh, his bones, his musty breath – perhaps not! But here, right here! His aspect, his presence, his form. See? None of us, none of us, even those of us who greet it at our own hands, like death. We try to circumscribe it, undo and short-circuit its authority, vitiate its inevitability – well, here is how I do it!

Eugene Atget

Death and anonymity destroyed by the ambiguity of the lens! You may have no inkling WHO this subject is/was, but you will not doubt that they were, and therefore are in your ingestion of their image.

Beauty vs. decay. Beauty of decay. Youth versus age, the vitality of age. Life against death, or the life of death. I can capture it, exercise my will to power, stay the tide if only this moment, you see?

The action makes the difference in the arts. That I can take action against, on, within my world and produce a stoppage, an ongoing, an object that without me would not remain, be.

A salesman’s pitch, a preacher’s sermon, a whistling in the dark, you say – I say sure! I say it’s a banter and a babbling whistle, but it is my friend, it is. This is the significant battle, the valorous war. To take a stand against void while accepting its encroachment, to face up to destruction taking names and numbers, to perpetually freeze its moments, stop-gap, isolate and preserve. Seek and destroy.

I think of each shutter-click like a whittling, another shiver off death’s enormous trunk, a cut, a shape and scrape, a form emerges in its waste.

Death will assuredly do its worst. And we are.

Aidan Wells Filbert