Thursday, February 28, 2008

The Order of Things

I have spent the last several days trying to put these images to words only to fail, time and again.

I have framed them from the context of insomnia

of beauty

Of decay and fatigue.

I have tried talking about ideals

by comparing them to reality

Never satisfied with the final product but ever-plagued by a single thought:

I am finished.

I have been putting square pegs into round holes, forcing words onto images when pictures alone would suffice.

But the thing is: I want you to know. Want you to know about the insomnia and the decay. The living and the dying.

The saved and the condemned

The beautiful and the superficial

The perception and reality

And so every time I write, I am split into a thousand directions — all of them diverging, and all of them as discursive as the next.

But this is life, I tell myself.

This series of unending dualities. This polarity and inequality.

This is nothing new, I say to myself, pulling the covers to my chin and praying, dear God, to awaken some morning and know precisely

where I belong.


M@ said...

You won't find that answer by praying, Third.

My blogger-friends tell me I'll find that answer by having more sex. I dunno.

I am at least glad to know that I don't belong in a chicken factory--or the McDonald's on Martin Luther King Boulevard.

Eli said...

While sitting and waiting for people to throw away their trash, I've often wished I had a nice comfy chair to rock in...

Interesting post as usual, I'm thinking you were more writing in a characters voice? because of course you know we all belong wherever we choose to be...

david said...

Remarkable photos, as always. I don't know that the questions can be answered until we know "How did I get here?" (and I realise that Talking Heads already asked that question).

Pamela said...

I'm going to ask my 99 year old aunt...because I'm much older than you and I don't know yet.

The First Domino said...

We're always exactly where we should be, precisely, irrefutably, with or without the clarity of a drunk,

or the certainty of a sage, or the mewling of a baby,

or the number of the page we're reading,

or the lover in a blue funk, because she's been stood up,

or the preacher in his piety, leading a prayer of thanskgiving for what's in the plate,

or the parents that are late to their child's recital, and swear to never again be that careless,

or the fool that suddenly wins the lottery he's played every week with money he could not spare,

or the teenager being lowered in a hole, because his streak of luck ran out, and life's collecting on a debt earlier than it should, using the horsepower of a runaway truck.