Of Standing Float Roots in Thin Air
Putting words down on paper and reading them aloud has a formality to it that matches the stasis of visual work. These words don’t run into the fluid and fleeting words of conversation. They stay on the page where they can be revisited. In the same way my collections of unimportant things, variously configured around us, in many different places, are here fixed for a while, or slowed down. They are and aren’t part of the flowing, or perhaps it’s more accurate to write, gushing stream of objects being hurtled around everywhere we go.
The space one doesn’t want to go into. Perched up here, looking down enjoying feeling detached from, and a little above the turmoil. Standing on top of the hill. Power and safety infuse vision.
Down there, gravity working against you as you climb back out in your imagination. Clambering over big grey rocks, in a hurry to get away from the vague worry behind the back.
The problem of never being able to see your back, of being stuck inside your own eyes. The vulnerability of the shell, the flesh, bones, and skin we’re in and the plywood. The tree cut down, machined and glued together in the shape of a rough flat scale that is loosely glued to our hides.
Dream Whip Jell-O layered like a landscape. Layers of different colors to eat. The Jell-O, like, plastic, is and isn’t the thing I want. Eating inside our white shell. My poor white body hidden (shielded) from the sun while we, scurry like ants around this edifice we are building while we live in it.
And, the red, green, and yellow glow. ….