Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

February 02, 2006

razor blade of a magic feather

I wonder, in dark moments, about myself as a human example. What is this timorous thing in my chest, how do I get rid of it, would I be myself without it? I sort piece-meal through my own better qualities, looking for their foundation in vice and vulnerability: humbleness, altruism, loyalty, and passion, exposed as the bastard progeny of self-loathing, stubbornness, loneliness, and obsession. And so I extrapolate out from myself, to all people, until all manner of greatness is bound down in the gutter.

There must be purer abstractions of men to dwell upon than these, some solid idols of gold, chalk, and flint -- but perhaps the truth is only accessible when approached as nebulous; for fairer or poorer, cloud-like; atomized in a disparate fog of words. I historically prefer it this way; when it comes to truth, I have always rejected the comfort of solid forms, in love with the ambiguity of language.

It is the act of truth-making and not the thing itself that pins meaning down for me -- the movement of fog across an indiscernible landscape beneath. Where am I in this conceit? Above the grey, then? In it, of it?

All of this and more: a bird on the wing with the wind in its lungs, born to bear great distances without landing.

Key to the Idols from traditional symbollism:

gold=extremities of evil and sanctity

...just like I planned it that way, eh?

Posted by Delire at February 2, 2006 12:39 PM