So proud of this particular artist! Congrats – wish we could be there! Love you brilliant wife!
for my wife on Valentine’s
The Way It Is
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread
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“…like a kaleidoscope which is every now and then given a turn, society arranges successively in different orders elements which one would have supposed to be immovable, and composes a fresh pattern.”
Pieces shake out of joint.
Father. Husband. Man. Girl. Woman. Boy. Produces the child, a child, children.
Arranges different order.
Husband meets girl. Man, Woman. Husband, Wife. Mother, Father. Mother. Produces the child, a child, children.
Jumble and collide, slide over.
Girl meets boy. Man. Husband. Father. Woman. Husband. Wife. Mother. Mother. Child, child, children. Produces none. Adds three.
Kaleidoscopes fresh patterns.
Husband, Wife. Men. Women. Father. Father. Mother. Mother. Mother. Child. Child. Child. Child. Child. Child. Child. (Children).
Many is the new unit. Same – the new variety. Names – the faulty designators.
Fall the doctrines of origin and cause. The sense belong. The myths of ontology. Infinite regress. Unlimited semiotics.
Turn the scope, altering view – collage is the new entire. Copy – the new original. Fragment – the new whole.
Child. Child. Child. and Child. Child. Child. Child. “belonging” now to Father-Mother. Father. Mother-Mother. Mother-Father.
By steps and halves and partnerships; alliances and circumstance and blood.
Arithmetic of variables multiplied by chance and power.
Now Mo3 + M3 = 2 + 2 + 3.5 or F3 + W3 = 2(-1/2) + 2(-1/2) + 3-1 where Mo=mother (Mo1, Mo2, Mo3, Mo4), M = man (F=father, W=wife, H=husband, and so forth-1 once removed).
The scraggly male through one variable and nonsymmetrical equation would be F2×2(+3/.5)H3M? for W3/C2+C2+1/2C3 or Father of C=biological children 4 times via 2 sets with 3 additional ½-children by marriage to W3 (third wife) which man or woman they are for one another is an n = unknown variable.
A physicist might be able to map this new arrangement, fresh patterning of conventionality: the family by strands of blood and webbed relations multiplying, bending and stretching (read: re-signifying) concept terms and nouns of relation such as brother, sister, mother, father, spouse &/or partner.
All in variable contexts. Involves Theory of Complexity. Without mastery or solutions. No absolutes. Arbitrary forms actively adapting. No truths. A world of half-breeds and bastards. Infinite regress. Anomaly.
On Beauty: A Portrait of My Wife
If I don’t write it, what reality does it possess? What substance or content are a memory or vision? Sound? Fleeting concatenations – experiences. Which is why I ask. Like Dante or Cervantes, Homer or Herodotus, does not here a duty lie?
If no one inscribes remarkable things – they will not be remarked, thus no further remarkable. But is writing a re-mark? Are we indeed marked by perceptions – jumbled, edited and collated into what we call experience – do they leave some discernible trace like magnets in the guts of a computing machine – that might be recalled, rebooted, reformatted and marked again? Or is that creation? New traces born of the old? What similarity – what identity – obtains?
If the scribe exists to codify – to translate vanishing occurrences into a relatively more stable domain – how should he select? What criteria? Whose testimony? Should he, as artists of old, gather the evidence and forge, in his matter of medium, some combinatory new myth? Take account of as many angles of appearance or observation as he is able, to contain and collage them into space like Cubists?
We call it “re-presentation” but we are crafting something new, something else. The eye is not a camera. Seeing, hearing, what we taste and feel are highly selective pro-activities – never catching a solid snippet or observing still life. We develop according to what we expect. Intuitive anticipation.
The façade of a building – you’ve already supplied it with volume. Unseen. The photo of your child – gains dimension and sound, perhaps even smell and sense. Context invested. Invented. We cannot stop the alchemy from going on. Nor would we really want to. And yet – what might we preserve?
This began as a portrait of my wife. An impossible thing. It will end still farther from its goal. I meant to remark what has marked me profoundly, filled me of scars and traces, redirected my nerves and my blood, and I am left with the unexpressed, and these scribbled words of a man.
“What does it mean, to know it and not be able to say it?”