Monday, May 10, 2021

And of course we forget.

How could we not forget?

And that's when we originally had an awareness in the first place, which, sadly, is not only not always the case, but most often is rarely the case.

And we are immersed in it.

So deeply that we never see any of it.

How does a fish see water?

They don't.

They just swim through it, mindlessly, endlessly, everlastingly focused on much closer concerns of a vastly more immediate and consequential nature. A fish, not paying attention, not exercising high-end vigilance every second, will become the contents of some other fish's stomach in dreadfully short order.

But we are not fish.

We can, and we should, and we must, occasionally stop to consider what it is that we're constantly swimming through.

What is the point in art if no one looks at it?

What the hell is art, anyway?

And words this slippery will never allow themselves to be caught, to be held, to be considered.

But we snatch at them anyway.

It's all over the place out there.

It's everywhere.

You see it in a flower's petals.

You see it in fascinating patterns, numbers, grids, lines, it's all just lines anyway, isn't it? Lines and shading? There's really nothing else there, is there?

Light and dark, light and dark, light and dark, endlessly repeated in a pattern of broken symmetry that has the power to hold our minds, even if only briefly, telling us a story, that all of us believe we understand, that no two of us ever see the same way, the same meaning, the same same.

Monday, May 10, 2021

It defies us.

It laughs in our face.

And we struggle with it, not even knowing why.

And the patterns extend beyond the here, the now, the this, the that, and fade off into an infinity of actions, of potentials, of vectors, of velocity, of places been, places yet to be, and places in between them where we find ourselves flummoxed, unable to make proper sense of any of it.

And we grasp at our social environment like a drowning man clutching at straws, and all we find in our hands is for nothing, and we go under, never to resurface, never to breathe the sweet air above the surface ever again.

And they're over there working on it, trying their best to rise above it all, to escape the shackles that bind them to the ground.

And fly above it all.

Fly so high that they'll never come back down again, and land, feet-first on the dusty ground of another planet.

But from here it looks like grease, and steel, and paint, and it holds no appeal to anybody.

Except a very few, who see past the grease, and steel, and paint.

Who see fearsome velocity tamed and made into a thing that, with luck, will take them to a future that beckons, unseen, but somehow felt, just as if it was real, just as if it might actually happen.

But there's a message on my phone, and who has time for any of that, anyway?

Look, they're on a distant shore.

They took a picture of themselves.

Oh, if only I could be on that far shore with them.

But I'm trapped.

I cannot reach them.