Ethan Switch - Wednesday, 5 January 2011
Dawn follows dusk as water follows gravity. Dusk soon follows dawn, done after the day is drawn. Gravity, in like fashion, flows with it the folly of water, a drip and trickle leading all toward the lake, pond or puddle. Connecting one line to the next is where it all lies. And lies are where the best kept theories are born. And just as exact, where they often go to die.
The butterfly that flaps its wings in Tasmania may want to create a tornado in Tipitapa. Instead it calls out to the lepidopterist, who in turn flails about with their net to capture, skewer and pin it to a cork board. Thus, they are able to examine the stately instance of a single flap, locked in state, but stateful of nothing. Void is movement, void is the life and life void is none at all.
The study under glass is frozen of this. In the catalogue there can be a consistent insistence of existence while the persistence of life ebbs away one sample and specimen at a time.
Now the Tower of Babel, a concentration and/or fixation of languages as one. The locus of etymology, broken in the end, to scatter itself, its wares and tongues across the globe. Focusing and studying at one point leads itself to spread, to live and breathe as far as the seas will carry, before the edge of the world drops off the vessel. The pigeons in this case being speakers, traders, limey foreigners and unwashed filth, scrawling their natives and mothers.
Truths are all hidden, fractured and rendered anew with interpretation and angle of inclination. Reference points are all subjective, and lies, like lives, are entirely a subjective farce to deal with. Objectivity gets in the way of everything. Especially irrationality borne from gutchecking.
Hold it down and watch it wriggle, soon enough there's a riddle.
Mujahideen. Holy Crusaders. Radicalists. Capital Letter Enthusiasts the lot of them! And the load of them unloads the endearing endurance of living under a rule of lie and truth bending, weaving, relaxing all sorts of logic. Tales and telegrams through a desert storm. Nothing is clear when the water from the mountain top reaches the foot soldier cupping a sweet ladle of relief from the latrines.
In the end, when you follow it all, when you take the path it feels like it's holding your hand for, it leads you to a hole in the ground.
What's it want?
erosion underfoot is at arms with keeping ahead
Just a little piece of quiet.