Tumbled piles
Collections amass within and beside themselves, at the edges of each periphery like so many a-tonal fragments propagating like fractals. The collection of knowledge adds to each species an inner and outer link to its common mass, simultaniously self-referencing itself and editing itself, vortexes within explosions. The collection of knowledge, only references its necessity for more, alludes to its addictive side without embracing it fully and thus produces a tolerence that weighs down the sole, and for those who begin the quest at the question of the sole as an addicted fiend spinning in the patterns of its own life, finds the "only," an all too well distrubuted thing. But the collection of sheer massivity stung or struck or sent into the abyss and frenzy by the possibles of an "art of possibilities " (a post-concept concept in that it is not logocentrically oriented toward an internal or external continuity) gives shape to the fragments as a pattern of arrangement and organization, reason and recognition. The person creating within is captured by the organism which they recognize in the too personal, personal, the hyper-personal that cannot escape its own being a factor of an invention and intervention by the creator and the context construction within which the creator is working and playing. The multiple possibilities, collected from the scattered duality of being without and within, are not "only," like some found object discovered, an object uncovered in an archeology, an object related to a memory, a tactile, visual, linguistic experience, but an object moved from place to place--"What have you been up to? We're just moving things around"--that constant location and dislocation, here and there as an interrupting trajectories of thought, idea, intent, an interruption at the very fabric of inside and outside---a free radical of space--that scoop up the 2D past and presents it in a projected future all awhile watching tumbling piles of happenstance overturn the very boxes that contain them.
Comments
alteration --
abomination of sensation,
no.
we move selves around as neatly as we do objects
transient, tumultous, triumphant versions
of our souls
of our soles
those worn, weathered, weary
manifestations
of movement