> Why can't a space offer both a "readable and visible world"(OT)from
> "space of words in their interior movement,"(CD)thus triggering a visual
> language reflecting the phenomena of mind,body,language interaction??
I'm not sure about visual ethics, after all the human Eye is a
cruel cutter of the human form, and without words our eyes would kill us.
The cruelty of sight when not informed by the warming hands of the heart
is
the intolerant object glance. The deathly mask glaze which prompts the
suicide of children. Without words we are nothing, hardly human at all.
My sense is the that space of words in their interior movement is
first and foremost a fiction, the fiction upon which we build our world.
Our world, its terrors, violences, joys and ecstasies. But first the world
itself is the object to be read, even before the words come we read
the world. To read, to sense the text of the world, (and that reading is
the legend, the legend text of the world; as in the gathering and
selection that reading requires of the senses as they assemble the things
of the world) as Stephan Dedalus says "signature of all things I am here
to read." The world is already (al[l] read in its literalness, its
literalness from divination) a book, a page, a fragment of a text, whose
owner author and seer are unknown, unseen. According to some the Writer of
the text is dead. It depends on whether we think the text was Magic, if
the Owner was
Magic, then Magic never died. And Magic was never One, so could not die,
but was Many and multitudinous with many bodies. So what could die if
there was not just one Magic? Although many thought so. ANd the text is
read as the world by the senses, the mind[s], the bodies before language
properly speaking makes its appearance. It is the space of the world as
read object which invites language to exist, to be uttered in the gut
throat of the firstlings (an old coinage), those ancient men-women of the
first spoken millenia. Their dark night of verbs was our Adam and Eve,
their coupling our birth to sex and desire, and all its plenitude. Its
darkness rapture. Who can speak of those spoiled centuries, before words
like angelic hands, spoke in our bodies and let us See. None, not before
the word was there a word. The word then was shape, a hand in the sky, a
god in the ocean who roared our name. What was goodness then but the whole
body seeing the world as child, as lover. Wandering in the world as womb,
making love to its own primal mother. Then the words spilled forth, we
could speak and our speaking was a seeing, Speak that I may see thee,
says Mozart in a letter. Speak, that I can see what is human in your
cruel body made of the verbs of life and death. And the mouth that spoke,
was also war. But that space of words which provided the humanity
allowing us to speak was merely the first station, between the truth and
reality stations. Before then we wrestled struggled with the primary earth
matter,
the unworded reading of the earth itself, the sky, the slippery cerulean
blue overhead. But that was a reading of the world in all the
primitive
roaringness of our senses, and their bodies. Which gave birth in time to
the words which spoke what was already spoken at the core of the world.
The molten hot explosion, seething implosion of matter and chemical
screaming its own birth pangs. Matter and its war of elements and raving
molecules. The sex of the earth itself smattering all of the nearby cosmos
with its orgasm. Then somewhere in that midst came language articulate
through ideagram, pictogram, hieroglyph and late late in the walking paths
of humanity's mouth came ALPHABET in its various forms. Then we could see
novel ways, see another body another body, perhaps a person, and
not merely a static form in the hierarchy of despotic states. In the
speaking came a seeing that was different, and words began to count (to
count to lisp in numbers to make verse, to remember and put the pieces,
the wild pieces of perception to-gether) the salient moments and space as
visible touch and tuning came alive. And there was an ethic then if you
will that not only tolerated, but expanded, encouraged, invented and
called out the mobs of humanity from the mud of incarnation and emptiness
in the crowd.
But the fiction of words can create empires which last for
centuries (at least until this moment in history), and take another
century just to prepare both us and our perception for the changes
the future is preparing.
So the visible readable and the space of their motion is the
dance, the dance of the body when tuning itself for the creation of
monsters and enemies, lovers and beloveds. Like each singularity they
speak to another space across the space of death. So the aesthetic will be
the one Tristan Tzara speaks of, the migrant aesthesis (inclusive always
now of the ethical collective and the singular doubled to-gether) that
your quote alludes to, and which was foreseen in the words that
made the reading of
the world possible, and was the very writing of its vocables.
Their
poetry was a secret voice which called the future and its peoples.
Thousands of whom would speak the silent osmosis of the transparent,
its silent coupling with the opaque. Then there might be a command a
commandment even which welded the visual and human, but not before. For
the eyes would murder us before. The eyes perfect geometry when left to
themselves demand a perfection not possible. But the movement of the words
in their space allows, nay, calls forth the tribes of humans who can walk
with one another without killing. Because we are savages and murderers,
and we are also the core blasting earth with no remorse no indignation
against our own bloodletting surgery. Our inhumanity has "paths" which
precede our words which read and write. And only flocks of messengers,
angelic entities admonishing us with potent word-tongues keep us from
worse nightmares than the atomic bombs. When the word unties the bonds
which keep it linked to that savage core of the earth itself, then we
might roll with another space of earth, an earth known for its rapture of
kindness and the dark pits of ash would be blown away. Graves and death
will be:
"else-where else words, the gods break open
a seal of testament. "
There is no human nature to see through, only the thousands of visible
layers which mark our beings, our becomings, our consciousness.
And the waters and land which link the elements of their composition. The
composition of differences and nomads. Then our
living space, our habitations would be our bodies, and property (another
fancy of fiction) would invite a
sight never seeing the world before; and those words we read in the space of
motion that the movement calls into existence would make new cities and
parks,
allowing
the dead their space. At that moment the two pole of the aesthetic and the
ethical would mingle in civil society. And their discourse, at least one
of them would be:
*******
"based on what one might term the collective
> experience of immanence."
Cduffy
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