final, finally

, and as for insights, i have re-embraced the trajectory of timing as both forward-moving and back-burning, a re-cognition of the re-petition suggested by Sigmund as a compulsive propulsion of the melancholic I amand embrace that toobut it is life (and death) rather than projects that have situated me within my subject-poem yet again (though that too is timing, opportune or tragic, take your pick)the ruptured text, the marking of the edges of the void, the attraction and repulsion of the ache of loss necessitates itself, rears up and roars itself, meeks and moans, insinuates itself into one’s own (my own) experience of loss and losing (yet again) – hypertext? fer reals now. these texts are hyper in deed… manic, frenetic, frantic… moving all over the map like memory does, jumping in and out of tale and tone and never letting the sentence or the story end, completely. just keep moving keep it moving if we can keep it from closing we can keep it from the end…is near. is here!dead links… access denied… electronic mediums and virtual lives… i started blogging my death drive, my danse macabre, hoping to create from the emergent links and topics a rhizomatic map of memory, text, image and absence – a paper without paper, a text that shifts and changes for each reader, a prohibitive interactivity, an invisibly guided maze-walk into the dead ends and dark corners of a performative, gothic, fractured (but of course) personal, visual narrative…just tracing the edges is all i could ever do.just creating ideas of traces – plans for the maps.(like mallarmé could only write notes towards a poem – never the poem)though partially (substantively) due to the impossibility of grasping an absence, much of this particular failure is simply technical… i am lacking the ‘bridge’ building material Jason refers to… my knowledge of creating functioning hypertexts is based in myspace-styled html, <img src=”…”>, and other cutnpaste codes easily googled or otherwise gleaned from trial and error…yes, this is how we learn things. sure, what i want to do could easily be done. but i don’t want to spend my time learning the rudiments of what others expertise… calling the perfect collective: the painter, the moldmaker, the mechanic, the tech wiz, the promoter, the manager, the seamstress, the chef…

instead – i’ve been painting lately. another practice perhaps best left to experts but i find that pushing paint around is like my recent walking of the city – slow going, meditative, rhythmic and physical. sometimes i make an errant mark and my finger plunges towards an imaginary undo apple-z. it’s been years since the smell of oils and turps has seeped into the air of my ‘studio’ space. it’s not just an office anymore, and pleases me. this has always been fundamental to both my attraction and repulsion towards the digital experience – discorporealizing.mourning, facing death – wading the abyss – first expells ‘me’ from ‘my body’ and i take refuge in the placelessness of information, codes and pixellated texts. (we continue leaving comments on his myspace page long after he last logged in) …later, ‘i’ need to convince ‘myself’ that i still hold a space in the material of the moving world. like all good projects, this one leaves me (and has always been departing from my space to no-place) with more questions than i’d began with. how to bridge the digital – material ‘divide’? how to embody information? hyperlink in actual space? who’s gonna be on my A-team? who do you play in the ‘real’ world? what happens next? and what’s the first step?