Repetition series 2024: Local image #80-96, or I am trying not to be an aesthetic retard
14 February 2024
Holomovement, the implicate order, David Bohm—the text that makes all other text possible. The pervasive vertical pattern is folded into reality, where everything is connected somehow or is part of the same thing. It is impossible to be separate; it is impossible to be me and not me. There is no simple inside, and there is no simple outside. The pervasive vertical pattern is folded into reality. Sometimes it can be manifested in time and space, becoming something that our human senses can perceive, together with our minds—situated like a gate connecting, opening onto this primary reality folded into time and space, outside time and space. It forms our aesthetic, which shapes our image of reality—never accurate, never right, never all good. We are all fallen. Paint the sky in ever deeper shades of blue.
'I have nothing to lose, D--, so do your worst. I most certainly have nothing that you can take away. The banality of evil. Everyone already thinks I'm a loser, anyway. I don't care; I paint the town red. Don't stick your dick in a fan. You say you have no interest in living up to Christian ideals, but your mind is grooved like a Christian. If it wasn't, you would not have taken offense.'
5 February 2024
I am trying not to be an aesthetic retard.
The mystery of marriage. Human potential beyond sex and gender. Fluidity of being. Each one of us, male or female, as a bride to Christ. How will that be? The mystery of marriage. How will the relationship, intimacy be done, performed? Is sex required? A mystery is not necessarily beyond our comprehension; it can be something that has merely not been revealed yet. Do we explore this? Do you want us to think about this? How sex will be performed with you? You don't strike me as someone who will give us genitals without a purpose or function in eternity. You strike me more as a creator, something like an artist—making things incomprehensibly beautiful and sublime to me. Beyond my language and my categories, beyond my aesthetic and the image I have constructed. Whatever it is, it will be something I was made for.
I don't want you to obsessively focus on sex, but I want you to realize some things—like the difference between socially constructed gender roles, such as 'man' and 'woman', and who you are. The mysteries will be revealed at their proper time, i.e., at my pleasure.
I trust you and look forward to this. Whatever it turns out to be. Will my aesthetic need to be developed for me to experience this as something good? What lies behind the veil? The cloud of unknowing?
16 February 2024
Receiving words—specific words for people, individuals—healing words, helping words that would usher them to their next step closer to you. Privacy without violating, overstepping, seeing secrets that don't belong to me. Words that make little or no sense to me, words out of context, words within my stream of words that penetrate like an arrow into someone’s heart, that sting maybe, that walk the fine line of respecting free will but motivating, having an effect, nudging, blowing like a breeze while there is still time for gentleness. Speaking in parables, speaking in contexts that don’t belong to the current, present one—telling narratives, words in visual form, in the painting medium, adjusting images, recategorizing constructed images, developing aesthetic, getting it wrong, failing, falling, taking a weed eater to one of those round fluffy seed flowers, that when you blow on them all the seeds release into the air—taking a weed eater and thrashing that seed flower when a breeze would have been enough. Or blowing on one of those tough tangled plants that not even a weed eater would affect. Or granite that won't respond to a chainsaw. Or oil that just envelops and subsumes whatever you take to it. This is impossible, but it must be done somehow. Marriage is impossible, but it must be done somehow.
''You hung me on the wall too 'neatly.'''
Shimmering, flickering, snowing. Waves shifting, buckling, bulging. I see the effect of the panels moving in the breeze of the fan, but the painting, the painted surface doesn’t move perfectly with it. It is as if there is a delay, the surface and panel moving at different speeds—as if another reality is breaking into this one, another reality is placing its laws, a different law, on the surface. I suppose I should mention that the panels are hanging from single clips, and they are moving slightly, like mobiles. It's as if I can see something like the holomovement folded into time and space. The holomovement and the cloud of unknowing.
Holomovement, the implicate order, David Bohm—the text that makes all other text possible. The pervasive vertical pattern is folded into reality, where everything is connected somehow or is part of the same thing. It is impossible to be separate; it is impossible to be me and not me. There is no simple inside, and there is no simple outside. The pervasive vertical pattern is folded into reality. Sometimes it can be manifested in time and space, becoming something that our human senses can perceive, together with our minds—situated like a gate connecting, opening onto this primary reality folded into time and space, outside time and space. It forms our aesthetic, which shapes our image of reality—never accurate, never right, never all good. We are all fallen. Paint the sky in ever deeper shades of blue.
'I have nothing to lose, D--, so do your worst. I most certainly have nothing that you can take away. The banality of evil. Everyone already thinks I'm a loser, anyway. I don't care; I paint the town red. Don't stick your dick in a fan. You say you have no interest in living up to Christian ideals, but your mind is grooved like a Christian. If it wasn't, you would not have taken offense.'
5 February 2024
I am trying not to be an aesthetic retard.
The mystery of marriage. Human potential beyond sex and gender. Fluidity of being. Each one of us, male or female, as a bride to Christ. How will that be? The mystery of marriage. How will the relationship, intimacy be done, performed? Is sex required? A mystery is not necessarily beyond our comprehension; it can be something that has merely not been revealed yet. Do we explore this? Do you want us to think about this? How sex will be performed with you? You don't strike me as someone who will give us genitals without a purpose or function in eternity. You strike me more as a creator, something like an artist—making things incomprehensibly beautiful and sublime to me. Beyond my language and my categories, beyond my aesthetic and the image I have constructed. Whatever it is, it will be something I was made for.
I don't want you to obsessively focus on sex, but I want you to realize some things—like the difference between socially constructed gender roles, such as 'man' and 'woman', and who you are. The mysteries will be revealed at their proper time, i.e., at my pleasure.
I trust you and look forward to this. Whatever it turns out to be. Will my aesthetic need to be developed for me to experience this as something good? What lies behind the veil? The cloud of unknowing?
16 February 2024
Receiving words—specific words for people, individuals—healing words, helping words that would usher them to their next step closer to you. Privacy without violating, overstepping, seeing secrets that don't belong to me. Words that make little or no sense to me, words out of context, words within my stream of words that penetrate like an arrow into someone’s heart, that sting maybe, that walk the fine line of respecting free will but motivating, having an effect, nudging, blowing like a breeze while there is still time for gentleness. Speaking in parables, speaking in contexts that don’t belong to the current, present one—telling narratives, words in visual form, in the painting medium, adjusting images, recategorizing constructed images, developing aesthetic, getting it wrong, failing, falling, taking a weed eater to one of those round fluffy seed flowers, that when you blow on them all the seeds release into the air—taking a weed eater and thrashing that seed flower when a breeze would have been enough. Or blowing on one of those tough tangled plants that not even a weed eater would affect. Or granite that won't respond to a chainsaw. Or oil that just envelops and subsumes whatever you take to it. This is impossible, but it must be done somehow. Marriage is impossible, but it must be done somehow.
''You hung me on the wall too 'neatly.'''
Shimmering, flickering, snowing. Waves shifting, buckling, bulging. I see the effect of the panels moving in the breeze of the fan, but the painting, the painted surface doesn’t move perfectly with it. It is as if there is a delay, the surface and panel moving at different speeds—as if another reality is breaking into this one, another reality is placing its laws, a different law, on the surface. I suppose I should mention that the panels are hanging from single clips, and they are moving slightly, like mobiles. It's as if I can see something like the holomovement folded into time and space. The holomovement and the cloud of unknowing.