All the uses of this world.

Go to http://www.inbflat.net.

There is something about a song as a work of art that takes it beyond any physical types, such as paintings or sculpture, at least in a sense. When a person sings or plays a previously written song they are able to create new meaning from something already existent. This occurs just as easily whether the song is one's own or was written by another. And even if it is sung by the one who wrote it, who did so with a particular meaning in mind, when it is later performed it can have some entirely separate meaning when it again courses through one's body. And it's doing so from something that already exists and was created with a particular meaning attached to its authorship. The same song's elements can exist in many forms. So I like to find the elements I might draw from that website and its song, if I may call it that. I would certainly recommend giving it a try.

And there is something about the way one person breathes, and how its meaning is affected by the breath of those surrounding. The gestures and their implicit, or explicit, meanings that are given by one person may be received in an entirely separate manner from what is intended. And, if received at all, they may then be imitated. The same gestures, but with a removal of primary meaning, refitted with something else that is completely unsuggested by the origin. This is a recurring idea that I have grazed over, but there are deep, misty workings that take place in what people give to one another, much more than the simple gaze.

Not to be found in the world of objects.

Several nights ago, I stepped into my bedroom and flipped up the switch. When the light spilled out on top of the room's darkness, all of these objects lining my walls and my floor leapt up to greet me. And it seemed so odd that they, these sudden things, existed anew only now that I was present. A couple mugs, keyboard, clothing, computer, guitars, records, rows of books, all things that seemed only just now relaxed from an anxious, wire-framed tensity. Crouched in potentiality. Endlessly decomposing lest I interfere. I felt the guilt of their dependence, and I felt them curdling beneath a skin of vigor, standing just so, for me to impress upon them. What if I stepped back again, flipping that switch for blooming darkness. Now, what if I could let them be on their own.

The I as a Dead Fish in the Sea.

We are people so we are individuals. I wonder if it is safe to say that. And in the word individual, there seems to be a certain heraldry, something so purposive in proclaiming not only who you are, but that you exist to state who you are, and to do so through a relation of difference between others. This is a good thing, it seems.

But a person is expected not to do this. Yes, a person may feel great cause to define their individual political stance in opposition to an oppressive one, but that is a political field and not an interpersonal one. The strength of being an individual for self is taken apart because of an expectation to divide yourself for others. In entering relationships with others you are expected to provide out of yourself a certain divisiveness, to slice a few parts of your individual person away so that what you are now defined to be, as it is, is through those very relations with others. You, an individual person, are defined through however many ways you divide yourself for the pieces of others to fit in your stead. You are defined by the things you are not.

So if this is some false kind of individuality, a shadowing form of strength of 'person', where is the real person's strength and truth? It seems that, if this definition through division is what is preferred, then one is disallowed from searching out where and who that is, kept away from coming alive.