Well, this looks to be the last paper-stranger entry of the year. And seeing the deluge of university work coming my way in January, it’ll probably stick for a few weeks after the new year. Thanks for visiting paper-stranger weekly (i.e. you strangers and that one yappy dog) and have a good holiday.
This blog post is in reference to #11.
The photograph was taken – if I remember correctly – in a quaint place called Grantchester, Cambridge just last summer. We sat in hammocks with sponge cake, tea and elderberry juice and we never said very much. It was probably better that way.
The goldfish are stock photos from Stockxpert. I don’t think it means anything other than my desire to see fish float in the air.
As for the text … well, thinking back on those days where I lived for a majority of my childhood life in a wild, forest-ridden and secluded university campus – I think I miss it (it’s all very neatly compartmentalized now, though). Over here at University, tulips and other outrageously large, flamboyant flowers surreptitiously appear overnight (along with a strong stench of manure). I’ve always found that a bit strange.
Anyway. I promised a dear friend years ago that one day we’ll ride off on dusty bicycles and see how far we go. And well, I haven’t forgotten that.
This text is in reference to #10.
When I talk about love and infatuation and everything in between, I am talking about {design}. You and I, we’re all part of a blueprint to grasp micro-chaos – the systematic kind – of all the bolts and levers set into motion, one oiled cog spinning after the other, teetering at the edge of senselessness.
I am talking about a plan that perpetuates itself in the form of heart palpitations and scarlet jolts. It flashes from one scene to another like a fluent slideshow, one-to-five: exhibition (a) attraction; (b) yearning; (c) passion; (d) tenderness; (e) compassion – a neat, resounding click with each switch, and each scene with its own characteristics, sweaty palms, stuttered pronunciation, lips lickety-spit-drip dry. An arm slung lazily over a torso and damp blankets. A snowflake kiss on a freckled cheek. And finally: flesh lifting flesh before the flickering television screen, wrapped in a nebula haze (and the walls were painted with an animated neon colour, don’t you know?)
And no, no – it’s a machine, not a river, not butterflies. Spontaneity is the enemy of love and desire – when I talk about love and all of the trailing dregs, blame it for the uncontrollable and the stoically biological. We follow each stage blindly, feeling through the world under the comforting guise of chance encounters (you didn’t mind the iron when it was covered in silk, a lukewarm bullet in your hand), the ‘it just happened’ when you knew – your body knew – that there is no resolve or will, no lady luck impulsively pressing two bodies together, no fortuity, no triumph in falling the way the dominoes all did (neatly in a row, perfect synchronization). We are damp clay with fingers kneading into our flesh, and we are makeshift pieces of jigsaw puzzle looking to cement onto another like parasites, joining, multiplying, infesting.
When I talk about love and infatuation and everything in between, I am not talking about anything other than a hard process or an overplayed scene. It is prolonged car crash; your head jerks forward, your spinal cord juts, your arm twists like a bent fork and ruptures in the impact – and you can watch at all this and say – this, this was all just part of the {design}.
New pet project, updated weekly (I suppose):
I’m trying to encourage myself to produce at least one piece of art – based on a random thought simmering in my mind – every week, in whatever form it may take (mixed media/sketch/photo manipulation/animation etc.)
I wonder if I’ll stick to it.