This blog has been sitting, creating a sort of distension in my brain, awaiting another kind of bursting forth from my psychic canal. Tabula Rasa? A clean birth, like a clean text, all foam and dog-earred pages. The blog itself does not know how to begin, but somehow calls for something brilliant, something representational (like a name?), something authentic.
This is my edentity.
Choosing to conceive was the first step, the first idea, followed by naming, then choosing the layout. Three choices, three forks in the proverbial road. The first step is not worth sharing. I could care less about relating the dialectical argument within myself about whether or not to start this page, but in the end I did, and that’s all that matters. The second, naming, is profoundly interesting. The idea of naming, the process of naming, things that are unnamable. Thus begins my metaphysical doubt.
There is presence and there is absence, commingling, in a perpetual state of coitus. When I name a flower, or rather call a flower “flower,” that flower, its authenticity, is suddenly obscured by what it means to be a flower, its flowerness.
The essence of things is a resistance to representation.
And this essence exists in special kind of space, always cushioned by the void. The void which resists expertise and understanding. The itness of an object cannot be recreated within any medium. The artist will always fail at this endeavor. But as Beckett tells us, fail, and fail better.
Language and memories are but two modes of representing the real world, and they are constantly slipping against each other. For instance, something happens in my consciousness when I begin discussing myself: I divide myself, undergo meiosis. I am both a subject, the one that knows, and an object, the one that is being known. Only by continuing to speak do I constitute my own subject.
And this is my postmodern crisis.
I was calling it an existential crisis, but my friend warned me to be different, to get with the times. And she’s right. I am not experiencing a messy moment of anxiety. I’ve already gone through the realization of my own mortality. And at the moment, I am not feeling alone or isolated. (I am in love, glorious love. He’s my mirror, my other.) But I am wishing to stitch together my subjectivity and objectivity in a seamless union. I am trying to understand the deprivation, the yearning, the desire of a proper label, some sort of access code into what may or may not exist.
And in some way, I do not wish to name the unnamable. I enjoy the silence that is always there. Reading in between the lines, embracing the constant anachronisms. The “truth” within an ellipsis. Therefore, this is a blog that documents, archives, my readings, my writings, and that ubiquitous human struggle, but only through texts. This will not be a rant, a diary, about my life. That’s boring. Instead, I hope to create a pastiche of external stimuli that speaks for itself, and in some way, as best it can, reflects and represents my artwork, which is of course an eidetic trace of my soul.
Thank you, dear reader.