It's a struggle with where I find my Lucid.
Lucid meaning
comprehensibly, linearly narrative / dreamily luminous often to the point of being insensible
obviously.
Each time I share photographs here, I first
invert / invest / devest / suspend / divert / demand / command
them with my personal emotional context,
to the point of a fully blown balloon that
will / may / may not / won't
pop.
With that noise we can only describe as
pop + hand signals + horror trauma magic look in the eyes.
And then with my best
remember-the-page-numbers rationale / peak-around-the-corner-first intuition
choose the photograph that seems to have the most ability to expose itself,
the most willingness to be
see-through as sixty-degree bathwater / opaque as Formica kitchen table.
The most lucid.
The most yes, not now.
The most disappearing observing somnambulatory
yes not now.
It's part of what I like about being on the receiving end of corporeal punishment.
The difference between the tool and use of the tool become
not thought about in the slightest.
I don't even know if I'm referring to
the tool / the you / the her / the him / the me / the them / the day / the where / the reason / the unreason.
As soon as I share the photographs here
they withdraw from visibility.
Then they become
not as much mine / more mine
because they are also yours, disappearing.
It is only erasing. Objects as erasers.
I as erasers.
0 Yorumlar