decompose ⟷ recompose

a great deal of stock is put into coherence into cohesion into completion. or perhaps coherence cohesion completion are taken to be the stock the foundation with which change and difference are to arise.

in order to assert fruition is to already have come.

waiting for the ability to speak rather than allowing the inability to speak for itself.

the other day i was thinking about how a majority of european and american literature that is considered canon was written and read during the great binge, a description of the period from 1870 to 1914 when there was widespread availability and usage of narcotics.

much can be said about the distinctions made between high and low art. much can be said about the distinction saying more than the distinct.

“Ashbery and his colleagues insisted that the distinctions between high and low--and coincidentally good and bad--were illusory or, more to the point, that they were categories of cultural power and control that sought to direct the artistic market through exclusion”

until by marina manoukian

the persistence of artistic hierarchies only serve to uphold an understanding of art that dismisses its infinite complexity in favor of a marketable simplicity. but just as the linnaen taxonomy was folded away as we began to comprehend the true plurality and intricacies of the world, so must the valorization of objective aesthetics be cast aside. there is too much multiplicity and difference in our countless interpretations to do it the disservice of a singular rendition.

for a time you thought of when it would be possible to go back. to redo and revise. a new years kiss revisited and revised but there’s always something off in a reconstruction that is done towards a singular rendition. always the desire for it to be better next time forgetting that there is only this time for this time. there is no going back and that eternal return holds turns at its core.

in a way it’s impossible not to keep turning to keep folding.

although by marina manoukian

it’s been like coming out of a dream. everything is tinted with it as its existence and disappearance is noticeable and negligible. the desire to look back on it to check in even though nothing more will ever come of it. something new may be created from it but that requires the time of distance in order to arrive at a new perspective one that will allow for expansive transformations. when asked about it it almost feels like others seek to celebrate this lost lover while i nod wordlessly wondering how to make sense of the space it left.

still trying to get the bearings find the rhythm find the form find the content outside of that which is prescribed as legible and clear. that insatiable request for clarity. inevitably when you return to the words there is anything but. that can be reassuring if you remember to laugh.

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