The Dark Angels are a come and go crew. They create then disappear like street art. Their works exist in fragments, particles that float, dust motes that spin before the wind that blows them to faraway places. They are individuals that work as one. Deep as oceans, as impenetrable as the night. Art urchins and poets, they dissolve before they form. They are the Dark Angels, they are discharge.They are a bloody mouthful.
Friday, 8 April 2011
Image is not truth (reposted)
Do you think you see a story? No. It is light that casts shadows. You only see illusion. Look into the apparitions' eyes - what obscenities stir there?
but
don't stare too hard lest someone wink at you... perhaps a child?
The interchange is itself interchanging: KB's deal with God deepens and finds its logical extent. If we are all constructions endlessly constructing, then the switch off will be merely binary... no ka-boom, merely a fizzle.
We are returning to the static of the original, the only, ka-boom.
Will the static become pure nothing in itself? Will the switching off become less than energy?
Binary is becoming only zeros. Nothings floats. There will only be in-betweens of another nature. DNA strings will be so thin that they will no longer be able to attribute individual identities.
Oh, I've forgotten to ask how God and KB's latest negotiations are going. The latest bargaining has taken aeons and I'm out of the loop as I've been circling inside...
Of course. How could I not of realised where KB is not to be found. It is KB's nature.
Oh, and the strings, the strings. I've explained them to no-one who'd listened quite recently. You are familiar with my biography however if reiteration is required:
My life began as old rugs pulled from under me. I progressed to stretching knotted strips of carpet, faded and tattered silk kerchiefs worn by young women with high aspirations so many decades ago, hoarded string and old elastic, tying ragged ends together and hoisting my lines on impossible hooks as a tightrope suspended by improbabilities. Poised on the precarious slide of a microscope, I belly-flopped into space so as to observe my construct from various vantage points. Being is an internal speck of no consequence blown around the external infinite until cessation. Yes, this is how long a piece of string is… more or less. God is inconceivable. Entity reproduces an impoverished image of hand-me-downs. Humans have become proficient in the emperor’s new clothes.
But, my sister, you know the know as well as I might have done, but now do not and cannot. I am strung, inread and overloaded, pissed through with amplifiers. My tongue is slit and anyway trapped in the pages of some book or other - any book or other; flapping like a sail, rudderless, Mercating, on a seasick sea. Get macro, or
That picture lies so much. You said that though, didn't you? I just suddenly grokked the static/fluid illusion, I guess.
Powerful image. Appears candid yet the composition is superb, dynamic, and filled with visual delights. I can't figure out which Classical painter it reminds me of, probably many.
Ah, Messy, we are neither string nor zero... we are less than the moment captured yet more than the sum total of moments caught in the corner of an eye and preserved for posterity.
Someone's eye observed the moment and sought to perpetuate it long after that moment's meaning was gone. It has now taken on a life of its own. Audience attribute their own values. Memory serves the child's memory. She is amused at the shadow play just as she was at the time. So many sobbing victims of the object in the coffin who were crying for their guilt over the relief of having lost the dangerous creature inside.
The child knew he was already only light and shadow: nothing but an illusion of what had dwelt within the discarded exoskeleton remained. No tears for gone.
Do you think you see a story? No. It is light that casts shadows. You only see illusion.
13 comments:
Thanks Iryna...
hugs!
Very powerful concept: Life and death. Photography that stops a moment when next to each other are life and death. Photografy become immortal images.
sorry about the menopause...
Are you the little girl on the man's lap? forward right corner...
if so.. wink back!
good stuff!
Thank YOU Ruela! You gave me a shove when I needed one.
Big hugs back!
Thank you Mersault. Yes, I agree with you. Usually 'home' photos as representing moments in daily family life are supposed to represent 'life'.
Life and death together become strangely iconic.
JB: well spotted, sir. 'Tis me on my Uncle's lap. Uh-oh, now she has to be very careful. If she knows you know she's going to get the giggles!
The interchange is itself interchanging: KB's deal with God deepens and finds its logical extent. If we are all constructions endlessly constructing, then the switch off will be merely binary... no ka-boom, merely a fizzle.
We are returning to the static of the original, the only, ka-boom.
Will the static become pure nothing in itself? Will the switching off become less than energy?
Binary is becoming only zeros. Nothings floats. There will only be in-betweens of another nature. DNA strings will be so thin that they will no longer be able to attribute individual identities.
Oh, I've forgotten to ask how God and KB's latest negotiations are going. The latest bargaining has taken aeons and I'm out of the loop as I've been circling inside...
KB's ambit is an armpit; from whereabouts all those noughts get diminished into being.
How long are those strings, Ms. Harpy?
Of course. How could I not of realised where KB is not to be found. It is KB's nature.
Oh, and the strings, the strings. I've explained them to no-one who'd listened quite recently. You are familiar with my biography however if reiteration is required:
My life began as old rugs pulled from under me. I progressed to stretching knotted strips of carpet, faded and tattered silk kerchiefs worn by young women with high aspirations so many decades ago, hoarded string and old elastic, tying ragged ends together and hoisting my lines on impossible hooks as a tightrope suspended by improbabilities. Poised on the precarious slide of a microscope, I belly-flopped into space so as to observe my construct from various vantage points. Being is an internal speck of no consequence blown around the external infinite until cessation. Yes, this is how long a piece of string is… more or less. God is inconceivable. Entity reproduces an impoverished image of hand-me-downs. Humans have become proficient in the emperor’s new clothes.
But, my sister, you know the know as well as I might have done, but now do not and cannot. I am strung, inread and overloaded, pissed through with amplifiers. My tongue is slit and anyway trapped in the pages of some book or other - any book or other; flapping like a sail, rudderless, Mercating, on a seasick sea. Get macro, or
God is dread x
Confused. Am I string or a zero? ;-p
What cares...?
That picture lies so much. You said that though, didn't you? I just suddenly grokked the static/fluid illusion, I guess.
Powerful image. Appears candid yet the composition is superb, dynamic, and filled with visual delights. I can't figure out which Classical painter it reminds me of, probably many.
I'm staring too hard. Just saw the wink. ;-)
BUGS!
Messy Decker
Ah, Messy, we are neither string nor zero... we are less than the moment captured yet more than the sum total of moments caught in the corner of an eye and preserved for posterity.
Someone's eye observed the moment and sought to perpetuate it long after that moment's meaning was gone. It has now taken on a life of its own. Audience attribute their own values. Memory serves the child's memory. She is amused at the shadow play just as she was at the time. So many sobbing victims of the object in the coffin who were crying for their guilt over the relief of having lost the dangerous creature inside.
The child knew he was already only light and shadow: nothing but an illusion of what had dwelt within the discarded exoskeleton remained. No tears for gone.
You're not mistaken. She did wink.
Bugs back at you!
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