You mustn’t hide too well. You mustn’t be too good at the game
Sitting inside of this project of mine. My Dossier is disarranged!
If I pulled a sheet at random, what image would I find?
The Title Page. (And that means?–
I might have lied to you, pulled another image. But what’s the use?
in the black of an eye
The image I wanted was of a bat held in the hands of a man. Translucent wings.
in the heat of the act
(I held bats in Costa Rica. We caught them in mistnets
they were tiny and astonished me)
a crack in the ice
Here I am in this project. Inside a fissure (loud).
no sign of the ships
And here is what I learned about Tierra del Fuego.
And here is what I learned about Gunther Plüschow
But what I am really learning is
I have listed in my mind, for organization and research purposes, the different components of The Golden Archipelago.
They are : islands, bats, caracaras,
Bikini Atoll, bombs
Tierra del Fuego, Queensland,
Germany ……And I’m off track again. Please forgive me for my distraction.
inhabit the garden
But is part of the point this sort of distraction? Or maybe not distraction. More like convergences and new meanings.
All time is unreedemable
I am addicted to a queer bath of biology and history and literature and pinlights of understanding. Inside of The Golden Archipelago and the Dossier, for example, is the floating, the moving through insecure and vanishing and watery worlds of time past and time present.
Thus, in your mind
But to what purpose
But, and therein lies the rub, I feel a tremendous, and unforeseen, anxiety in association with wandering through this particular piece of work.
Footfalls echo in the memory
I want to finish. I am stuck.
Down the passage which we did not take
These are the things this project is not:
It is not a research paper, or review. For these I could gather in existent resources and marshal my own analytic skills to cover the topic thoroughly. Feeling comfortable that I analyzed the data and scoured available information and, essentially, covered my ass.
It is not a dalliance in someone’s fixed work. For this, like my recent diving into Moby Dick and splashing around with my own little store of biological information, I can marshal information and forge into new realms knowing Herman Melville won’t be telling it differently except from the grave.
It is not my own thing. It is not the same as my other things, all these projects I am slowly working through that are actually mine. That are waiting for me to finish this self imposed assignment. My own things that are mine 100% whether good or crappy.
Towards the door we never opened
This is what this project is:
It is an attempt to parse through clues that are both personal and not personal to someone else. It is an attempt to break open a living work and in doing so, because of the nature of the work, my own emotional response, the ideas and objects the music and images bring up should be part of the project.
do you accept this, dear reader?
The problem for me is that I do not accept this.
I drift away, while you
Stay and shine in your beauty
Shearwater is currently touring and interviews with Jonathan Meiberg are emerging regularly (two recent ones are here and here). What this means is that I will write things that are not necessarily truly part of Meiberg’s vision for the work and then, perhaps, the truth will come out in an interview, or a live show, or I’ll just figure something else out or or or or and
this is what frightens me.
Had a chosen another album, for example, Shearwater’s Palo Santo (about Nico) or perhaps…oh, I don’t know what…but anyway, it would be somewhat fixed in time, no longer organically changing and I would be able to push and pull to my heart’s content without this strange anxiety.
you’re so much alone in this lovely world
All this is to say…I will lie by accident and tell you untruths and please forgive me now.
you cannot know
I will finish this project, because that is what I do, and then move on.
isn’t an option for us
as it is for the birds
The next posts will be the continuance and completion of this project. Therein I will ask
What is the animal being gutted?
What were you doing in the archives?
Where may I find my bat, in flight and resting?
And the volcanoes?
And yet the birds the birds the caracaras
And the sea. How I miss her.
Thus while she spoke, she cut the fatal hair:
The struggling soul was loos’d, and life dissolv’d in air.
quotes are from Jean Baudrillard, Ingborg Bachman, T. S. Eliot, Friedrich Hölderlin, Shearwater, Virgil