—it is a Circle; it is impossible to trace; it must be traced, however, and once it has been traced it disappears; and we have to all start over again at once…. this is the only way, the only trajectory, the only vector for acquiring the freedom and the autonomy we say we cherish but whose course we hate to pursue: it is so contrary to our rigidities, our other certainties, our other values - it HURTS so much, it so threatens to do bad things we don’t want rather than the good things we would like to do.
But then, if Miley can’t, who’s still willing or able to tell … what’s good?
When you draw a line, it goes were you want. When I try tracing things, be it circles or anything else for that matter it mostly looks, feels and sounds as crude and crooked as what you might be listening to now or looking at, staring at, scrolling over, swiping thru, reading; if you clicked the link https://www.mixcloud.com/SEABASS_T_ύN/demi-orinoco-3-flow/ Actually, if anything, this is the re-presentation of half of an attempted circle, a drawing of watching me get undressed por una otra primera ultima vez, for someone, specifically, dearly; yet no One - exclusively, really, or to decontextualize from memory, again, someone else: we have to try and transcend the +1, this awful guestlist paradigm. Could we start by counting us in? beyond 2, if possible, too, negative.
But anyone who has ever tried to count the non static of moving bodies, a state of flux like the temporality of time itself, knows losing count by just blinking feels closer to filming raindrops falling at night with nothing but a strobe at hand - and no your 100fps iphone camera won’t help you here either - you will never capture or catch’em all… imagine Pokemon started breeding behind your back (or deck) and the babies were tiny enough to slip through any net, bar, fence, wall, graph, matrix you had to contain them. Possess them. Hold them. Collect.
These meshes, however trending they might have been are always too coarse, too bland, because, and this is inherently ironic, no mesh can obscure the fact that they are all but one thing: solidly cartesian, and therefore full of holes. Infinite points with no dimension, yet always a difference in crossing: There’s always a gap (that you’re welcome to bridge until the next paragraph if you hate logic) between A and B, X or Z. Of course given that A ≠ B (or X ≠ Z), actually it can still be that either is the difference (/) between each other. E.g. By substituting A/B = A / (A/B) ad infinitum to A/(A/(A/…)…B) we arrive at A/B = B. But A can also be the difference at the same time, which, leads to A = (A…(…/B)/B)/B) = A/B combining the two, the ultimate paradox presents itself: A = A/(A/…)…(…/B)/B)/B = B. So, what??? you ask; a reflex. It mirrors the present.
What does that mean? Or should I say where did meaning go? I’m sitting in front of my screen in the last night of this year not for the first time with tears in my eyes, a new gregorian chant circle is offering itself to be traced, and I’m not sure if I would want to, or if I could even were it not for the few that will once again remain untraceable and untraced, untouched and untouchable, unnamed and unnamable, for, and please bear with me being blunt but honest: we may or may know who, what or how we are yet (even if, we might not be comfortable with the limelight), but we are in dire need of finding a way to address this difference differently, with all its paradoxically horrible beauty, when the net we have been dragging around behind us produces nothing but by-catch, fragments of broken pieces that get thrown out, discarded to lurk in the shadows until the next time around, when we pick up the same pieces again, this time believing in the ever sharpening sophistication of our tools, re-fined and tightly knit, only to get rid of them, over and over again, wondering if we are ever to hold on to anything, that is so dear and clear and precious without crushing it along the way; the beautiful bubble just bursts every time we wanna touch it… even if we go really subtle and soft… it hurts, like it was made of super thin glass, that really really stings, when it breaks in your hand, leaving behind tiny, blood stained, shattered remains… The pain of literal ostracism might help in realizing we have to make do with a non accumulative mode, a different col-lection of letting go, of making a pass beyond the common playing field…
Which is to say I’m incredibly thankful for having the opportunity to gather TOGETHER, to not be scared even tho we might have found most of our footholds nowadays are merely slippery slopes propelling us quicker into sewers we believed to be magnificent canals, but then they never have been. any different? We climb out soaking wet, laughing about us or them, because we realize we have never been not dirty either, not smelly, not haarig. How foolish to try and think differently. Still, to try and close this circle with yet another opening, faire passer:
To whom it may concern - I love you. Thank you.