A tangle of threads
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A tangle of threads
In the creation of the so-called fictional or fantastical image, one becomes absorbed in a such a way that is generally pleasant once the absorption is achieved. The same applies to the witnessing of the image as created by another. If the absorption is only partial and attention is scattered, a host of unpleasant sensations attends one; one is aware of the impure motive of distracting oneself from the basic existential pain of sentience and of the vicious-cyclically rising, psychically-dolorous background in consciousness that itself seems to drown out, mute enjoyment of the necessary suspension of disbelief the created image requires to engender a pleasant sensation. (Bladed stars, hard steel, glinting in cold light — burgundy-purple hair, softskin in the warm glow of midafternoon, etc. etc.)
From the opposite direction the manufactured image can also catalyze discomfort; that is, one can become so absorbed and as it were, self-hypnotized by attending to the taking-of-it-seriously (the image) in the shallow guise of being flippantly unconcerned, when really one is quite concerned with finding something enough outside the ordinary that it is engaging but not so foreign it is entirely incomprehensible to the point of near-desperation. Meta-reflection on all this could either alleviate or magnify potential terror depending on psychological set or setting. All the valid legal disclaimers apply — reader releases author from all potential mental injury incurred by the reading of this material; I, reader, hereby take all responsibility for linguistic risk of any and all kinds, etc. etc. (evocative aside, mix of abstruse and hyperquotidian aspects of perceiving life, the miming of intelligence without any real substance — and dry — so dry, a mummy the desiccated shell of the emerald soulcicada; sarcasm in the movement's of the mime's worn hands.)
The question of whether one has, or to what degree one has, agency in the creation or consumption of the image is also a potentially disturbing point; i.e. the basic question about free will's possibility in a reality-construct that is ostensibly endlessly interconnected and as it were saturated by necessity due to interpenetration of all seemingly disparate elements with all others. (A headache or perhaps a light sweat sets in; one is now wishing for one's mother and mentally sucking one's thumb or some other developmentally regressive behavior — or perhaps less dramatically just wondering why one can't just stay in bed all day with the feeling one gets when awakening from a deeply restorative slumber at the perfect moment and smelling clean linens.)
Then it starts to dawn that probably one consumes and creates for the sheer joy of it; and how is it that one lost touch with the fact of the basic, essential joy and superimposed constantly more, continually further overcomplicating layers on top of this basic fact — like, what was the point of the departure from truth in the mind (if not in actuality) other than one had somehow become bored with the overly perfect unifiedness of things?
And also, then, how could one be bored with something that was perfect, you know, total bliss and the like, unless one was maybe fundamentally twisted in some essential way, yet how could perfection create unlike itself i.e. something twisted like oneself — every step of the way introduces new subtle paradoxes to the extent that it conjures the image of a bunch of kids tumbling around play-fighting and laughing, the grass is green the sky is blue sun yellow sort of deal (pleasure of thinking in a carefree, childlike sort of unpretentious simplicity that is actually quite paradoxically profound), until someone maybe gets elbowed in the face and suddenly starts crying, god forbid perhaps with the sickening crack of bone structure shattering and a crimson cast comes over the scene and a broken nose becomes the new hypothesis for the meaning of life (pain of overthinking, desire to perfect the already perfect — complete the already whole.)
Then a balanced image would have to be tied up in the aesthetic behind it in the would-be-creator's mind, and this aesthetic itself be knotted up in the capacities and shortcomings of the tools used in the particular medium; so that one possibly hopes to end up with a pleasingly symmetrical asymmetry that frames-refines-rearranges elements of truth in such a way that it is elevated however briefly into some sort of graspable-ungraspable ideal that stimulates wonder by its very elusive availability to comprehension. That is, light and shadow, one value become a multiplicity and then resolving back into a unity at the speed of human perception. In other words, a convoluted but hopefully quite pretty tangle of threads.
images and writing by @d-pend
created for HIVE on August 1st, 2020