Sunday, April 08, 2007

Trip Mckenzie and the suffocation set.

Writing, words, paper, pen, ink.

Nothing in my head. How do I get past this point?

Oral histories, fractal collapse and empty expression.

Powerful idease, but none with a voice.

Mind should be the voice, mine are the ideas.

So where is it?

What is strangling it stillborn in my throat?

Holding back the words, caged in head and heart, untouched by lips or fingers. Pure in abstraction, never reaching manual expression, concrete reality.

Why should they ever do this though?

Is this the wall?

The source?

Is this the doubt?

Empty expression, love of the abstract and the spontaneous.

The concept and the action.

But never the conscious combination of the two.

What would that add to the proceedings?

Existence in collapse. Awaiting new energies to annhilate stagnation and hold back the inevitably entropy.

But without the energy.

Witout development, progression, evolution, relative transcendence. Pond life is stifled, expansion repeats. Fractal suffocation.

The vision of my own context, framed by arrogance, blinds me.

'Ending forced by circumstance'