Milky musing, down the side of the plinth, the view elongated, fore-shortening, fore-longing, no one on earth or mars has this view now of the foreshortened bronze public sculpture in the blinding sun, all milky vision and sensitive. Try to explain to the person walking by, you know its like when you close one eye and look, keeping head still and then swap eyes so everything shifts. your vision has two different perspectives, the person walking by is another universe. One eye is objective, the other subjective, in the milky light, no point crying, because the tears can never be sure, subject or object. Now looking up again fighting the sun from prone position alongside plinth, the bulge of Bronze something. Reminds me of a thing, the thought’s gone, and it was never shared with anyone, does that matter, how would it be shared? It cant, physical world, musical means, no direct transfer and the milky vision is just mine. So stand up and read the plaque, the words bite the corners of eyes, that sharp N, really gashing as it rushes past cornea. Back prone, on floor, mouth forming large bubble, perfect bubble, in which language would this mean ‘Pass the salt”? None. Suffering the public sculpture with hand outstretched leaning on its warm surface heated by the sun and gaining access again to the vertical world again. Never mind, walk past the other people thinking of the shape of the things, and if it were inverse, the sculpture in the park would be the space, the nothing, the air. Breath only in areas where their are objects, suffocate without.
Verbal language is an organism, we do not use it, it uses us, it exists in its own right. It spreads through the diaspora like a virus, living and breathing and changing, until we all think we understand.
Understanding is a set of constraints rounded by a set of tactics, take a pebble, put it in your mouth, take it out and give it to someone to hold only in their hands. This we will call conversation, the exchange of an object between two different sensory organs or organisms. How does the pebble feel in the mouth as opposed to in the hand? This we shall call lost in translation. There seems to be no constant in the life of the pebble for it is a shape-shifter, a contortionist, an object capable of multi-existence. A bendy, curvy paradise of lost words shattered grammar and wobbley greasy syntax. Set the pebble down admire its definition-less existence peb pob bob wob webby pebby blob.
The suffering white side, gleaming in the sun, coveting the bending, arching bronze, greased up by the years. Feel it, make it, define its edges, make it so it does not continue past those edges, control it so it ends somewhere and you will have an object. Make another one, different margins, re-defining error, wrong and right combine the beauty of objects in their lack of opposition. Even sword and sheath are not. After a second, after a second one, after a second one has been made, think about a third and make it, like a wave of energy, dying as it solidifies into existence, all objects become deaths, like waves reaching the shore. The world a tomb full of memorials to the death of activity.
gimbal, grommet and groyne.