TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
This week I suffer from an excess of feeling, in danger of penning sonnets in a post(post?)modern age. So refrain from the purple inkwell, please.
Instead, why not a compost-modern structure? Not simply recycling, collage or pastiche, but a metabolic breakdown of finite materials, i.e. their simultaneous decomposition and renewal, even if what is renewed is unrecognizable. In the metamorphosis, I may glean or glimpse the infinite, before it conceals itself again.
We can't return to old consonants of pain and disappointment, nor should we deny their palpable presence.