Thursday, April 7, 2011

Monday, April 4, 2011

Someone before a Robert Motherwell painting might say "I don't know anything about art" and they might very well consider art to be primarily (if not entirely) an aesthetic exposition, but they will have no such trouble in front of a scented candle.

"I don't know anything about candles" or "I don't know anything about scents" would seem impossible reactions.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

I feel malaise like a black hole. There is a distinction one must make between a feeling that is felt and marked by the minutes or the hours, versus one that is extensively lived. The shortly terminal feeling that is felt tends to occur for some reason one could name and correspond to one's own model of practicality and reasonability. To feel a feeling is a distraction. The qualitative sense of this classification I accept; a hierarchy is natural to matters of substance, more and less or positive and negative. My malaise is not a feeling then, but rather it seems to be a constituent to life. Specifically, malaise inheres with time

To feel is the struggle for some sort of friction against the living of time. One yearns for the control one believes is so easy, despite all the while finding each metaphor at hand proves to be apt like a hammer for a parachute