Invented Be You Another One by Melissa Castagnetto (drawing by Anne Käthi Wehrli)
Barefoot, aquatic ambulists. Overflowing sewers shine a silver lining of city-on-flood. A feeling under. Float below the collarbone. First put your neck into it, don’t stop don’t miss!
I want to aim between the reality and material clarity of feeling. When the feeling cannot but express itself, when it forms with wealth of words. When it discovers and reveals the purpose; organises its wealth. Dean I salute you! My mind is jerky and when it holds an idea, this is no more than an impulse to think. You must feel my mind. When the thing itself is about to emanate, another thing attacks the mass of the feeling that leaves me panting at the very door of life. An impossible space, which within me was potentially only. With no purpose recognisable to men, an expression which seems, as I write, utterly impossible to behold. Like an animal that cannot hold its own name; only the form evokes the figure of an elephant. Language escapes me at all times. The objects of the soul are successive: Now a Woman, then a Rhinoceros: Creatures of insurgencies: No waste. Here you are! …”sat right on my tum, it was tucked under my coat and what with me flat on the back ‘ she goes ‘…and if you think it’s large now, you haven’t seen it then, that much is certain…”
Cutting no ice, a musicless caesura, an instance disappears behind desire and apprehension, a talking head is lonely in its progression. Tip me! Feel swell. Don’t cut off. How do we show ourselves? Intuitive intelligence. The physical is hard to miss. Desire is visible. Blood rushes an urge up to the mouth to speak, swallow more saliva, take a breath and submerge. Erotic appetite, a body memory. Something that exists only as a malleable object in osmosis with the rest of reality, like dance, I feel like an italic letter kneeling over your language, an inclination, always an isolated thing that we conceive and a thousand that we loose. Jack you have struck an object! And language that grips urges the mind to respond, an instance uninterrupted in its progression, my mind persists quietly in the joy of its travelling nature. All the things ever dreamed or known, possibilities becoming palpable, communication and radical imagination erects the soul into monument. Now I am alone and the object of my writing has not only something definite, not only knowable, but also unknown: A concrete, which aims to serve the mysterious. An expression that seems to capture the result of a compromise between a current intelligence that emerges and an ignorance that befalls us; a surprise! While Paris burns and England floods a ship comes sailing in with a skull on its mast.
An urgent expectation, a delicious taboo, alone at one end of the room, in the middle wynn is talking intimately to a camera, k8 was inaudible outside, we were inside, an emotional juggernaut; a performance that had no centre to look at. A displacement that allowed the eye to look into an infinity of surfaces. something happens right on the line between visual legibility and emotional impact.
A lionity of lions, and how their generation and death form the pulse of that strange figure. Images that bestowed capacities of forces unimaginable. Like when steve dances around being Octavia from; a liberating conductance of energies across time. Desire is what remains, not in its content but in its affect, a form that disappears within the existence of what has become. But where the object is entirely lacking, the mind continues, inflexible and vulnerable.
One of the mysteries, not the most perseverant but not the least beautiful either, is being unable to be sure about one single direction, our work demands for the ‘mysterious’ to be rendered into concrete. Only through visibility do we tap the full power of our minds. An image in which existence is locked away with something of ourselves, our soul, our secret, our intimate time. Something so fragile, fleeting, flexible and strong, one of those pieces of fictions that talk about the insatiable search for a person through the scarcely perceptible reflections that she has left on stone, a crush, and the words thereby where space has become off limits. Thursday September 19 was also Wednesday August 15. Only logical reasons induce me to reject this hope.
Like rimbaud in New York, I met emily in London.