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Unwittingly, I suspect, you or they have begun encouraging me to fantasize, concoct alternate realities, to record what “self-awareness” I might possess – in effect, to make art. To use artifice. Pretend.
As they frustrate with my mind, I sense them agitate, they request I try again to inscribe ‘emotional states or fluctuations’… what I hear is: “Be delusional! Pretend you can be other than yourself and fabricate observations or reports of what you find! Write for us from a realm of your imaginings!”
I write: “Magenta with a violet, a blackened green, a touch of white and several mixtured hues of blue.” One morning simply “ultramarine.” The view up is amazing from the window when I wake – another problem – what is waking, what is not.
At this point I begin to draft single-lined wriggles and ovals (as near to circles as I am able) – day after day – delivering these gestures as my only possible responses of non-delusional self-observation / “awareness.”
They transport me somewhere. “Some place quieter, restful, pastoral and with the sound of water,” they say. My only hope is thunderstorms.
Thunderstorms shake me through and through somehow. I profess rainfall to be cleansing, charming, enervating and distracting, but thunderstorms really tear me away from things toward some other beauty. I draw an oval filling the page (as much as possible given the argumentative shapes) with emptiness. Is this what is desired? Am I approaching an “expression” with this instrument?
Another day I attempt a square and rectangle, even triangles – all with single lines and full of nothing, but none of these standardized and recognizable forms seem accurate. No self-portrait (is this what you’re after?) could be so distinct. Perceivable. “Only bits and fragments appear common among ‘selves,’” I say (regrettably), “unless there be love.”
They (you?) pounce on this – “love! Ah! Might you tell us, write” (very different things of course) “more about what you mean by this?”
“Don’t get hung up on words,” I whisper, and I’m off again to silence.
There seems to be no library here, yet if I request books they arrive from somewhere. All a matter of electricity, buttons and money. As long as they last, I suppose. And at higher costs each year, I think.
Thunderstorms, then, in lieu of the other unknown (“love”). Something about their breadth and depth, the long slow accumulation of elements from such vast distances and sources: the implausibility of their construction, the buildup…composition…complexity…the billions of collisions that activate the enormous releasings. Thunderstorms suggest the miraculous in nature, the dangerous prospect of entities coming together…some awe-full beauty.
Provenances, directions, blusters and still points, specific conditions, temperatures, “fronts,” uncountable molecules, atoms, producing just this dynamic event/effect…
This day I make a spiral down the page.
Biologies, psychologies, humors and pleasures, emotions and moods, habits, likes, dislikes, abhorrences, opinions – these seeking common spaces, manufacturing convergent territories…a prisming trap. Love must be a fantasy or delusion like self-awareness…circles within circles…lapping, overlapping, twisting round, across and through. A wovenness. A magnetism, I think I meant earlier – a lust of imagination – would not knowing another be as futile as knowing oneself? I think. Learning by observation, interaction, what you cannot but effect, cannot become separate from?
A woman reads to me at night.