no matter what i do the bones of the world do not reveal themselves. everything is too ripe with fat.
i can not see beyond me.
do you know how disgusting this is?
yesterday in the car on a long car drive with my children we talked about the possibility of the existence of god and the necessary redefinition of it. (who can possibly be absolutely right about god, or about anything?)
i threw out there on the table, beyond the arguable, what is: no matter who says what, my god, there are billions of individuals alive right now in the world, absolutely individual, particular, concise, equipped with their own histories, their own stories, their own feelings and beliefs. this, this, this is a miracle! that any one of us exists is a miracle and a miracle not to be taken lightly.
and yet, and yet, how horrible it is to know that a world exists just beyond me, just beyond how it is that i see it and not just a world but the world.
i see only a particular world, my world.
oh god, how i want to see more clearly and beyond my particular individual.
but even when i take a photograph i soil the world with my opinion.
i am incapable of anything else.
can i imitate and thereby rise beyond me?
no, when i imitate (and i can only do this poorly) i only exercise what is possible inside of me as a mirror but the possibility always comes from me. i am incapable of anything else.
i take photograph after photograph and i am disgusted with how i taint the world, with how i limit the world.
and yet i know this is precisely the miracle, that i exist at all.
i can not see beyond me.
do you know how disgusting this is?
yesterday in the car on a long car drive with my children we talked about the possibility of the existence of god and the necessary redefinition of it. (who can possibly be absolutely right about god, or about anything?)
i threw out there on the table, beyond the arguable, what is: no matter who says what, my god, there are billions of individuals alive right now in the world, absolutely individual, particular, concise, equipped with their own histories, their own stories, their own feelings and beliefs. this, this, this is a miracle! that any one of us exists is a miracle and a miracle not to be taken lightly.
and yet, and yet, how horrible it is to know that a world exists just beyond me, just beyond how it is that i see it and not just a world but the world.
i see only a particular world, my world.
oh god, how i want to see more clearly and beyond my particular individual.
but even when i take a photograph i soil the world with my opinion.
i am incapable of anything else.
can i imitate and thereby rise beyond me?
no, when i imitate (and i can only do this poorly) i only exercise what is possible inside of me as a mirror but the possibility always comes from me. i am incapable of anything else.
i take photograph after photograph and i am disgusted with how i taint the world, with how i limit the world.
and yet i know this is precisely the miracle, that i exist at all.
