Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Post 1: 030506

Some people are born writers; some people are born escape artists. I am a born escapist. This is yet another form of escapism. I spend my life seeking out ways of escaping form the task at hand and usually the task at hand is merely the act of living. I haven’t yet learned to enjoy life; I’ve only just come to a small understanding of what life is all about. We are barely on speaking terms but I’m hoping over time we might become friends.

I have one of two ways of treating this. I could write like you are strangers I haven’t met yet or I could right like you are strangers I will never meet. Let’s just work on the assumption that given enough time and the right inclination we might just bump into one another.

So welcome to my slice of the pie. I hope there is something of interest within these tissue paper walls that stirs up flurries of thought and leaves you asking something more of me, of yourself, or of the stranger you passed on the street and never looked up to see the worry lines, the distant look or the weight they carried on their flagging shoulders.


mcgeady said...

The Nomad

The nomad is revolutionary inasmuch as his trajectory through space can be charted on a very special map. This map represents the contours of movement, but does not contain them. To contain this movement, even to detail its main features on a page, is to bring about his subtle reigning in. The nomad resists this force however, and has at his disposable the kinetic energies of repulsion and attraction, which are at times strong enough to launch the nomad into another orbit. Repellors and attractors are influential in bringing about, pushing forward or lifting within the field of vision the concrete stones upon which the nomad steps. These are the steps in the contour, some of which are not intended, described as a misfire or a burst when attempting to harness this strange energy that shapes the pattern of migrancy. For the nomad is a migrant treading a path where sure footing is not always possible. Even in this case however, the miss-timed step is vital. It does not land on nothingness but on newness. Newness then divides, as does the stone upon which it is founded, according to the pressure of those same agencies of attraction and repulsion. These agencies are akin to virtual forces in which consist the myriad and multiple possibilities or stones upon which migrant footing treads. Perhaps one of the central characteristics of the revolutionary migrant is the possibility that the body moves without movement. This is much like the way the body oscillates to a vibration, the oscillation bringing about contact with the newness of the as yet unformed stepping-stones of the contour. New experiences are actualized without the necessity of any discernable movement in space-time. The revolutionary component of this movement, is that what becomes actualized is sometimes radical, radical in the sense that if offers forth new perspectives on the way that the behaviour of the migrant has been organized. For some methods of organization do not belong to the migrant, but instead are organized on his behalf. This is the essence of interiority, a turn to the inside, inside of form, inside the page, and locked in this prescribed and fixed shape. This is a violence exacted upon the migrant and lies at the heart of state thought. The revolutionary migrant/nomad understands this and seeks through whatever means to maintain a relationship with exteriority, the outside, outside of form, outside the page, which allows for the possibility of newness and at times a radical potentiality. The simple act of migrancy, simple in its concept but not it’s undertaking, demands a contouring of the nomadic map, without ever calling for that to become entrenched as a map of signification. It is the latter that leads to the treading of habituated pathways. As understood by the nomad, these paths are not his own and not of his own making. The nomad has no destination, no location to reach. That is far too easy for our migrant who has set himself another course, not afraid to miss the sure footfall and to make newness real.

Anonymous said...

please could I have another slice of pie life
a little larger piece this time
the one with the strawberries and the sugar on top
would suit me fine
the taste would be sublime
the smell would be nose quenching
the touch would be thought-provoking
and I would hear the echo of the strawberry pip escaping...

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