oh, renoir

nocturne communique/nocturnal e-mission
during the depression she stole lilacs

textual relations/e-ruptions
in the summer i will cover my body in negatives and expose you on my skin. i am building a bridge to/for you and you do not know it, but maybe if you looked through a telescope you could see it.

What happens when the world is structured on a grid and you find yourself not on a line, a path, a road, an American dream, but rather in a space of empty, surrounded, confined, illegible? Courage is to be found in this space, not by perseverance to establish a conduit to something else, but by realization that to reside in this space itself is courage, is courageous. The dykes quitting the band and finding a piece of land and moving to the woods and stocking up on canned goods. A country of paths not taken, of alternative lives.

Proof that courage is a space is evident in the etymology of the word itself, as it derives from the Latin for heart. The space of the heart is courage. The color of courage is red. What is important in this is that contrary to modern and popular readings and understandings of courage, it is not to be found in acts of intense and intentional daring. Henry Fleming does not prove his courage fighting. Rather, Hester Prynne’s scarlet letter is the real red badge of courage, one that marks the interior space and movement of desire.

From whence does the place of courage come? Søren Kierkegaard proves illuminating in two respects. First, there exists a courage of faith that exceeds human courage, one that is accessed through total acceptance, collection, and reception of temporality, finitude. Courage comes accidentally and absurdly in every moment to see the sword hanging over the beloved’s head. Second, the leap is not one of faith, but one to faith, which is to say that the courage of faith is the disconnect between thinking courage and doing courage. Learning this about bullets: that one second there isn’t any hole, the next second there is. Nothing in between. You see it happening but you can’t watch it happening.

I recall memory. I recall the weekend. I look back and forth. I look backward and forward, but I don’t recognize myself. I don’t inhabit or embody my memories. I ask myself, “Who is that?” and, “How does this happen?” My reflexivity is a leap to faith, a jump cut. First you are jumping, then you are flying. I am either being, or thinking about being, but not both, for they are two very different people. It is unfortunate that they are not a coincident, that one is never able to experience experience, to move closer, to bridge this chasm, fault line, Everest crevice. What would it mean and how would it feel and would I scribble about it, both in the sense of around and as a theme?

LOOK!
chiba manabu
diller scofidio + renfro - high line
500 days of summer
kolkoz
luigi + luca - are stuck
no homo, pause
number of alien worlds quantified
tham + videgard hansson arkitekter
seinfeld - muffin tops
vanity teen

LISTEN!
bishop allen
bat for lashes - glass
kath bloom
tayisha busay
diane cluck
port o'brien
todosantos
tune-yards