To cocoon, or not to cocoon? How fragile the human ego? The interplay of desire unleashed to the limit of its chain and then yanked back again. So prevalent among modern women taking it up to the point of play but fearful of sensuality. Men grapple and women caress was the old adage of the past. But now so many are encouraged to circumvent their passions in abstractions that avoid the point of the struggle they felt drawn to to begin with. And their most vulnerable side is wrested from them through meaningless agitation as a smoke screen to cover up the tenuous nature of their vulnerability. Imagine the commitment of offering one’s hand to the touch of a stranger without the immediate hope of reciprocation. Fully revealing for a moment the sensual nature of the simple action to the vagaries of the fickle resonses of another. Most rely upon a Kabuki doctrine of escapes and ‘get out of jail’ free scenarios that are learned by rote through the popular media. We are all cast as voyeurs watching our lives from a removed platform in 3rd party space. We carry a picture frame around with us in this sense that we cast up before others, expecting the most desirable result that we think is due to something in our presentation. This artificiality is the death of any chance of intimacy and spontaneity. So many end up caught by their own poorly posed reactions in a lifelong cat and mouse chase. The electricity of sparks may come from the repression of the outward expression of feeling but like any capacitor, energy must ultimately flow in direct proportion to the amount of charge that is initially withheld. Funny how no one can escape the fundamental reality of themselves? As we are born to a world run by the pantomimes and shadows of cinema, we all eventually become actors. The only question becomes, is our performance ‘honest’ enough?
The usual rhythms of the rat that lives within one’s room are erratic by one’s own habitual standards. This being of course one’s animal nature which in the Darwinian sense tends towards the expeditiously mercurial. That lumps one’s obsession, one’s concern, one’s passion and a few other randomly visited sides that form into a singular, sometimes unfathomable, beast. One that is just as unrecognizable as that left to right reflection that pretends to be me. Something that I would at times rather do without but creeps back in at night when I am powerless to stop it. Just when you think your having a good day, the rat shows up. And like any Rattus norvegicus, its greatest talent is an ability to gnaw into anything and then contaminate it. Mine own is especially adept at spoiling otherwise perfect thoughts or leaving its droppings about so that there seems an unwholesomeness about one’s self that makes one wish they could throw out the baby with the bathwater. But, without keys to the 110th floor sky deck, its just something that annoying as it is, one has to endure.
I was told by an old friend who in his young adulthood had studied at Pratt in New York when many of the European emigres were still depended upon teaching jobs to keep their studios warm enough for the art dealers to visit. He related a story whose source was most probably Franz Kline, the abstract painter whose famous colleague, Willem de Kooning, once received a studio visit from Leo Castelli the art dealer, who was interested in buying some of his work. As Castelli walked up the stairs to de Koonings studio he saw the hall lined with exceptional examples of the artist’s work sitting out in the hall as if on their way to the alley. Upon seeing de Kooning, Castelli inquired why the studio was empty of everything but a primed blank canvas where all of his finished work was stacked outside the door. de Kooning replied, “because I have to find that damn rat!”
This hole of the heart that the sea daily pours through mixing emotions long eroded by what once might have been. Appreciable only within a large darkened auditorium located before thirty vertical feet of flickering screen. The conscription by love fatal to the enactment of any other suitable plan. No time for it now, nor a place for it either within these grim ivory whalebone halls. Existence without it a terrible ebon farce stacking empty days upon even quieter nights. At this point this notion is but a memory of something that one can no longer be sure or ever properly define. A menacing spider invading the torso, the purgatory of its life-long desire for that ever elusive someone special no longer holding any hope of existence within the cage of these ribs. How this life might have been different had one had the good sense too long past to meet some former stranger half way. But time has flown and there is little time left think of beyond twists and curls. No longer sink or glide. No more energy left to search for that anonymous unfound once dreamt of girl.