[Spoken]
I am trying to find immobility. I long for repose and immobolisation. Within myself, I feel a longing to immobolise life around me, and that is why I like immobile objects; things that are always there and never change.
I attach importance only to solidity. A train passes along an embankment; the train does not exist for me. I only want to construct the embankment. The past is the precipice, the future is the mountain. So I had the idea of setting aside a buffer day between the past and the present. During that day, I am trying to do nothing at all.
You can't classify it, know where it belongs.I'm cut off from my own past; it's as if life were just beginning. It's as if the other had never been, so much so that it's - all of it - nothing but shadows. But anyway, as it's contracting, breaking up, growing smaller (the past, of course), it's shapeless you might say. It's more like a wooden hut that's collapsing; or rather, it's more like a picture with a perspective in space, and depth that flattens out suddenly, so that it's only on the surface.
[Soprano voice enters - Barbarina's cabaletta from Mozart's "The Marriage of Figaro"]
[Spoken]
What should I do with this watch? I have to keep looking at it. There's so much time; it is as though it were Spanish quillwork, dark and delicate, softly flowing and moist. I keep on telling myself it's a watch, but it doesn't fit together properly - the hands, the face, and the fact that it works. It's as if it were in pieces.
It's as if life were just beginning, the softness of it gradually working through me - like clouds flowing, smooth. I can't remember exactly - flowing, dark, warm, soft.
I know it comes and goes, and then stops. When the watch stops, then everything's alright - then I'm alright.
I like motionless things - trees when there's no wind, and they don't move; and there's no wind, they don't move.
The watch doesn't make so much noise, even when it's not going - even when it's not stopped. But now it is stopped, as the trees stopped, as I've stopped.
I know exactly where I am, but I don't feel I'm in the place where I am. It takes me backwards, but where to? Where it comes from, where it was before. It returns into the past.
I am like a machine that works, but doesn't move. It works at full speed, but it doesn't move. I'm like a flaming arrow that is shot forward, and then stops, falls back and is extinguished in an airless void. It is force-dependent. By that I mean that there is no future, and I am thrown back into the past.
Time is gliding into the past, the walls have fallen. Before, everything was solid, everything was as if it were tangible, as if nothing had ever been moved. Time is breaking up.
I am trying to find immobility. I long for repose and immobolisation. Within myself, I feel a longing to immobolise life around me, and that is why I like immobile objects; things that are always there and never change.
I attach importance only to solidity. A train passes along an embankment; the train does not exist for me. I only want to construct the embankment. The past is the precipice, the future is the mountain. So I had the idea of setting aside a buffer day between the past and the present. During that day, I am trying to do nothing at all.
You can't classify it, know where it belongs.I'm cut off from my own past; it's as if life were just beginning. It's as if the other had never been, so much so that it's - all of it - nothing but shadows. But anyway, as it's contracting, breaking up, growing smaller (the past, of course), it's shapeless you might say. It's more like a wooden hut that's collapsing; or rather, it's more like a picture with a perspective in space, and depth that flattens out suddenly, so that it's only on the surface.
[Soprano voice enters - Barbarina's cabaletta from Mozart's "The Marriage of Figaro"]
[Spoken]
What should I do with this watch? I have to keep looking at it. There's so much time; it is as though it were Spanish quillwork, dark and delicate, softly flowing and moist. I keep on telling myself it's a watch, but it doesn't fit together properly - the hands, the face, and the fact that it works. It's as if it were in pieces.
It's as if life were just beginning, the softness of it gradually working through me - like clouds flowing, smooth. I can't remember exactly - flowing, dark, warm, soft.
I know it comes and goes, and then stops. When the watch stops, then everything's alright - then I'm alright.
I like motionless things - trees when there's no wind, and they don't move; and there's no wind, they don't move.
The watch doesn't make so much noise, even when it's not going - even when it's not stopped. But now it is stopped, as the trees stopped, as I've stopped.
I know exactly where I am, but I don't feel I'm in the place where I am. It takes me backwards, but where to? Where it comes from, where it was before. It returns into the past.
I am like a machine that works, but doesn't move. It works at full speed, but it doesn't move. I'm like a flaming arrow that is shot forward, and then stops, falls back and is extinguished in an airless void. It is force-dependent. By that I mean that there is no future, and I am thrown back into the past.
Time is gliding into the past, the walls have fallen. Before, everything was solid, everything was as if it were tangible, as if nothing had ever been moved. Time is breaking up.
( Loren Rush )
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