Form vs. Void
All our finest endeavors are unfinishable, useless and irremediably flawed.
Yes, our canonic inheritance of priceless, precious and all-too-perishable artifacts will hold their form for centuries with proper care and periodic reconstruction, and it is well worth the effort to extend the lifespan of these treasures, for within their tortured, beautiful bodies hides the heartbeat of our highest humanity. Yet, it is futile to deny that all which can be seen by eye or held by hand must succumb, inevitably, to the common doom of all particulate matter. We are wax, wick and flame, and the life which we flickeringly sustain burns the vessel which contains it.
To make anything we designate as art amounts to more than merely mirroring the mirage of the real that taunts us and vexes us with its perplexing, mutable face pressed against the glass epidermis which separates our whispering within from that raucous, bewildering tempest without. In order to make art, we must wield our will with superhuman command and abandon our poor, unctious vehicles of meager ego to take flight in the soaring chariots of godly pretension parked within all our minds, in the median between all expressible sentiment. We must know the essence of dumb rock far bettter than it knows itself, and we must have the stupid, unwavering perseverence to mold it into the shape we see in our minds. Michaelangelo interrogated rock mercilessly to extract the secret David only he could intuit; he coerced a false confession from innocent stone to discover the enduring truth no man nor material alone could divine. Implacable will, skill, and a restless, relentless eye may effectively sculpt the real when driven by a rootless, unscrupulous awareness that never mistakes the shorthand iconography of consensus consciousness for the naked apprehension of the terrible void.
We are life. We are form. These spacesuits of bone and meat that track our path across the surface of the globe are but informed vortices of engaged dirt, engorged with water, provisionally worn until our waveforms dilute to noise. We spin our spawn from the vital wriggle that once upon a time kicked and clawed its way from the dark womb of the sea onto the trauma of dry land. It’s easy to forget what a hostile, horrible nightmare it was, surviving the indifferent, daily assault of mindless nature; we may well indulge ourselves with fantasies of a nurturing, abundant earth given to our dominion, but it’s a genteel conceit purchased with an uncounted, forgotten wage of blind rage, impotent fear and brutal accidents of insight by our nameless, suffering forebears.
We are form, finding passage through time’s churning abattoir by way of a compromise with the void. But we must never forget from whence we came, nor should we be seduced into a complacent subservience to the endless need that void represents. We are not the caretakers of our earth; we are its prisoners. Whatever means by which we may wrest our freedom from this rock are acceptable, so long as the ground beneath our feet does not give way before we launch our diaspora safely away.
Sons and Daughters of Origins
I am what I am; and by the same turn of phrase, I am what I’m not. These two cancel each other sufficiently to bear a child between them. And this is how the daily dialectic of self unfolds its unruly rug out from under all the heavy furniture that fills the human parlor with places to rest and ephemera to itemize.
When we follow the modelled showrooms of palatable worlds that fill the screens that now litter our field of vision, we make note of the fixed notional bodies that persist across a range of disparate roles. We are captivated by the actors themselves, especially those who seem to wholly inhabit the axis from which the apparent words, actions and affect of their characters appear to originate. We revere and fear this ultimate plasticity of form, which seems to suggest the possibility that a sort of universal Turing machine could conceivably be contrived to lie underneath us all, as common a machination as our core anatomical configuration. What part of this scintillating schema of narrative individuation is actually just a common factory default? What haven’t we yet found words with which to name, among the very particular aspects of our unique sense of ourselves, which, when shared, will show us yet another way in which we are not so different after all?
We are social animals and asocial ‘I’s wrestled around a single follicle that places us upon the epidermis of a larger construct whose countenance fills us with dread. Nothing is so repellant to our collective consciousness than the idea that we are a crowd of single cells unwittingly working against the sacrosanct interests of the single-celled self to build a global unity whose organs of differentiated, controlled functionality are bound together to build a far greater good than the good we know. What rough beast is this who shuffles our fates between its hands with unfathomably superhuman intent to form a corporate`creature capable of crawling forth from the seas of timespace to walk upright and to survey the higher dimensions that hold us? What sort of global conspiracy of power-hungry capitalist fascism hides behind the promise of transcendence that pulls us inexorably up this bloody ascent? What wicked wisdom will seduce us with wily words to cast the blessed scales from our eyes, so that we may yet submit to our own Ubermensch Adameve of Here Comes Everybody to master the jungle of possible causal storylines which insinuate a rootsystem into our past to flail its Yggdrasil filaments into the eyeball of our most fruitfully franchised future? Who will we be when we’re at home in the anthropic sponsorship of our own authorial imperative? Give up, man, on giving up, except as a function of the fleshy, firey immolation inherent in the entropic exponential incline that describes form’s liberation from void along the forward-thinking arrow of time. The reward of settled certainty you calculate with precise, complacent surety will always, only a moment after the most explicit statement of its ultimate terms, invoke the terms of its own overthrow. Boredom is a failure of imagination.