There isn’t much emotion in this piece, it’s just an attempt to notate my immediate thoughts after trying out some Buddhist meditation. Yes, I’m a monster, and I’m cool with that.
This stuff – meditation and, I figure, and exercise – running – seems to help other aspects of life, enormously. I remember living – by chance – at a transcendental meditation centre in Brighton for a few months but remaining resolutely ignorant as to whatever the hell it was they were doing, as they didn’t seem weird to me – rather, dull… so I couldn’t be less interested.
But one of the things they said was – you don’t get better at living by living – just like a knife doesn’t get better at cutting by cutting – you have to take both off somewhere remote and sharpen them, to improve… Fair point, I remember thinking, as they attempted
I saw Bluebeard’s Castle a while back and thinking about what a modern version might be like – the old vampiric-technology vibe came to mind… If you wrote it now, all aspects of love would be mediated through several screens of different kinds…
Bartok’s opera, if you haven’t seen it – tells the story of a man returning to his castle for the first time with his new wife, Judith. The castle is dark, gloomy and imposing and he’s continually telling Judith she doesn’t have to stay, giving her chances to escape. But in love, she has that indomitable determination to know and accept Bluebeard, frightening or otherwise. Once inside the dingy interior, she notices the outline of seven doors – so in an attempt to bring light into to the place, she asks if she can open them – obvsos.
Bluebeard is reluctant – “Can’t you just love me as you
Abstract Thought in Words #1Thursday, 2/03/2017
Words and symbols on paper and stone will be the only residue of human consciousness that remains – the only fossils of inner light left. Not because the future can’t restore the old hard drives, or play the old records – but because each incremental interface built into the message, adds a layer of cultural distortion between the artist and his art, ’til eventually his sentience is wholly obscured and his response, wholly automated.
Isolation is in reality, intimacy. Every artist is driven in youth by alienation from the false-world, deep into the genetic singularity that unites all mankind – the forgotten and invisible communion with the natural soul. Walled up, as he meditates, as separate from the earth as death itself, the artist is, really, in the loving embrace of forever…
Researching a project, I looked up the word “myth” and was reminded that the etymology is effectively – actual events encoded into allegory… or – hypothesised events encoded into allegory…
I mean, I knew that and yet I’ve always thought of “myths” as – things that were supposed to have happened but obviously didn’t… of course there’s Greek tragedy, Aesop, all that – but what about religious texts and fairy tales… reality encoded into allegory… just as maths is reality encoded into numbers…
You’d imagine maths was less artificial than human language, perhaps. And yet, every now and then, I get this weird feeling that maths isn’t real – it’s man-made – and it’s just a remarkable coincidence, worthy of inquiry – that it matches reality so well… And then it’s back to maths appearing as a natural phenomenon again…
Perhaps maths is the outline of a 6th sense, now absent. In the midst of a dark state of mind once, in highschool, I