I’m in a long, protracted celebration of the yahrzeit of my loss of visual things. First of all photography. A loss of sensory perception, never mind compensating or “playing by ear”. It feels like the loss of a precious gift. It is now slipping away from me. I don’t know if I care, I probably do, if I write this, here. As if it is dissolving, knowledge of what goes where in the frame. I can imagine photos, but the desire for making them has gone. Perhaps the rainbowshots were the last of the batch, I don’t know. Secondly, visual space and perspective. It is profoundly going into it. I used to be panicking much, I still do, but it is a representation of panic, almost something rational, whereas my intuition is to accept what the Unseen will give me. Hard, that’s the word for it. There is something brittle and hard-edged in pursuing that Path. Joy will creep in, like it always does.
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although hailing from a slightly different context, perhaps these words could contribute to the composting process:
“do not go gentle into that good night”
do not go gentle into that good night,
old age should burn and rave at close of day;
rage, rage against the dying of the light.
though wise men at their end know dark is right,
because their words had forked no
lightning they
do not go gentle into that good night.
good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
rage, rage against the dying of the light.
wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
and learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
do not go gentle into that good night.
grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
rage, rage against the dying of the light.
and you, my father, there on the sad height,
curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, i pray.
do not go gentle into that good night.
rage, rage against the dying of the light.
(dylan thomas)
dylan thomas…hmmm
autrement dit:
“and when today he lights up his cigarette, he uses a flintstone and a fuse, like everyone else. “in a boat,” he says, “that is the best way. the wind blows the matches out, but the harder the wind blows, the more the fuse glows.”
(walter benjamin, “spain, 1932″)
..& also:
“if the theory is correct that feeling is not located in the head, that we sentiently experience a window, a cloud, a tree not in our brains but, rather, in the place where we see it, then we are, in looking at our beloved, too, outside ourselves.”
(walter benjamin, “one-way street”)