sarma

Insipid Cork

Pull the cork. Get up there and make a bloody mess. Don’t clean it up. Lie in it. Smell it taste it hear it see it feel it. Become the things that arise. All of them. Don’t represent, don’t reference, don’t interpret or assume anything. Don’t make believe anything. Be it. Don’t edit. Don’t create meaning. Discover meaning. Pay very careful attention to the what and the how and worry about the why later. Remain ambiguous, volatile. Don’t drop anything, go deeper. Don’t neglect or control. Include. Remain Subjective. Empathize. Observe and empathize. Make impressions in the empathetic goo. Change it. Force yourself upon it. Boldly, shamelessly, fearlessly.

Duck, Duck, Goose

Not about finding my own voice, not about my very original way to say the same thing over again or my own unique way to say anything for that matter, not even about finding something original to say. Not about identity, not about originality, not about difference. Not about the other, not about any other, not about you, not about me. Not about reaction, not about resistance, not about revolution. Not about nots because not about reaction. Maybe about knots, but not about untying them, not about fixing, not even about everything in its right place. There is no right place. Not about right, not about wrong. Not about good, not about better. Not about improvement. Not about leaders, gurus, or visionaries. There are no teachers. Not about about. Not about knowing. The impossible unknown feeds the myth of knowing. When not at work knowing is everything, while at work it is immediately clear that knowing is nowhere to be found and everything I thought I was doing is a farce. This is a farce. And I feel suddenly (again and always) that I am pursuing a fata morgana... this work is a mirage-hunt, a Chinese finger-trap, a wild goose-chase. The geese are evaporating and reforming. The geese are clouds: they don’t absorb bullets. My brain has got to make something besides bullets for this bird of prey. I must set a trap... and wait to fall in it.

The Goose and The Why

Is it a habit or a pattern? A basic need or a primal urge? I’d like to make a mess and know the source. I’d like to be silent and know the source. I’d like to indulge in the ordinary and know the source. I’d like to know why, for all these years, why the need to be so damn exceptional, extraordinary, extra-ordinary. Was it a habit, a pattern, a need, an urge? I’d like to know why, now, there is the need to know why. It may be impossible to know, and if possible, it will probably be disappointing. In the doing the goose forms a disguise, the why hides itself, and as long as I am searching for it again I am not doing. In retrospect a stab at the goose is sometimes possible, as a conjecture, an educated guess, an analysis. In premeditation the goose can be selected, envisioned, theorized, predicted. But instantly in the doing, the goose evaporates, and again I am only doing. Making noise in the dark. Adding fuzz to the static. Duck, duck, duck, duck, duck.

Trap

There is no way, from moving, to find what it is from what it isn’t. It’s not a matter of movement from what is to what should be. It’s not the opposite of what it’s not. It’s not the opposite of anything. Love and hate are not opposites just like bedspread and carrot are not opposites. Duck and goose, nor silence and “aha!” are opposites. There are no opposites. There is only what is. There is the goose and the rest. There are geese and trees. Or geese and clouds. Or geese and lakes, geese and gasoline, geese and fleece, geese and apricots. Everything in relation and nothing in opposition. Because the hunter is the hunted. The observer is the observed. The dancer is the danced I am you and you are the trees and the trees are the geese-clouds. You are me and I am the goose and the goose is everywhere in-between just waiting to be noticed. Duck duck goose.

Thanks: Beth Gill, Malaika Sarco, J. Krishnamurti, Deborah Hay