transcript from above...
AND SO, THE GLASS FOLDED INTO ITSELF, LIKE SOME
FIVE-WINGED BUTTERFLY, CAUGHT IN THE WIND,
OR PERHAPS IT WAS THE ENGINE, THAT LOCKED
EYES WITH YOU AND SAID, YOU DROVE ME TO THIS
PLACE, SO NOW I MUST RUN YOU OVER
WITH THE VELOCITY OF A BATTED EYELASH
the train is not unlike a cadaver (again). it's a constant gnawing. it's a clear threat to those who can hear it. it does not sound good. it is comparable to a distant scratching, an irregular echo of an abandoned drum set. it could have lived, a full life on the tracks, had it not run its course. "I feel like I am going to die," it said, to the five-winged butterfly, kneeling in a precarious position that indicated death. "you won't," the butterfly yawned, stretching out of her delicate slumber. "it is not your time yet," she fluttered her wings twice for emphasis. "don't worry, it'll come," her eyes glinted as they expanded to the ceiling. "...and it'll hit hard. you'll be in so much pain, taste so much anguish in that moment you won't be able to tell blood from drool. and you'll be begging for it," the train shuddered. "for what?" the butterfly gave a light tilt of the head. "the very thing you feel everyday. Death!" As the wind picked up from the strange beating of her shimmering wingspan, she shouted, in a certain dignified glee, "and it will be blissful! Death will always be blissful for those who have suffered!" Whether or not the locomotive had cried in this moment, it could not say. It only knew what it held onto. Her words, her curiously truthful words. It had never experienced more beautiful sounds. it's a ringing in the ears, a buzzing in the head. A blissful death. And that was when it happened.
caption:...
after I wrote this I googled ‘five-winged butterfly’, which was something I made up in the moment, and the first thing that came up was ‘Greta oto’, which is a species of butterfly commonly known as the Glasswing butterfly for its transparent, glass-like wings..
and I think about how it camouflages easily [without colour]. and I think about how I cannot remember the last time I used colour. and I think about how this glasswing butterfly can carry up to forty times its weight, and how strong it is, despite looking like it could shatter with a flick of a hand.
[to the five-winged butterfly, which gave me great comfort in the short time you were conceived through automatic writing, to you, a bundle of curious words that I held gingerly for an uncertain time afterwards… to you…]
and I think about how it camouflages easily [without colour]. and I think about how I cannot remember the last time I used colour. and I think about how this glasswing butterfly can carry up to forty times its weight, and how strong it is, despite looking like it could shatter with a flick of a hand.
[to the five-winged butterfly, which gave me great comfort in the short time you were conceived through automatic writing, to you, a bundle of curious words that I held gingerly for an uncertain time afterwards… to you…]
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what is this thing? What is this thing.. what is this thing about glass … I do not want to admit that it has captured my attention.. but it is true.. since the last time at the practice event when I ended the text with, 'this is where the glass collides_' (with the pleasantly surprising presence of shattered glass in the surrounding work) .. I am thinking of all the surrounding pathways that could walk in parallel with clichés like glass shattering. it's always shattering, always goddamn shattering.. but colliding, or folding into itself, what does that mean.. it suggests a semi-real thing, that could exist but couldn't, really. like an unfamiliar image created by the familiar. it's just a bit off, it reads as something of fiction or abstract thought. the short passage above seems to be in this vein.
and glass, being colourless, being strong yet fragile simultaneously, like clear acetate, like the whiteboard, like gloss vinyls with words printed on them, there's something about this transparency (e.g. diorama glass) and something that's temporary, perhaps comparable to the diagram, or any thought process in a visual form (like drawing). the lack of, muted, or very little use of colour seem to be important.. it does not suggest full bloom, perhaps leaning more to the conception of something, something that has potential or something that begins to die as soon as it comes into existence. I want to use language to create something out of seemingly nothing. with language, something that has no colour can hold weight. our everyday life is bursting with colour. perhaps in this way we can be brought down to pure thought, pencil scribbles, an extension of the body directly from the automatic mind. I want to extract thought and throw it on the wall. it will land where it will land. I have done too much thinking without landing and i am sick of it. I am ready to release it all! Here, have my thoughts, I am an open book, that has never been written.
I have realised a bit of a pattern, when I stumble across something conceptually fascinating, it would be classified as an obsession in my mind. and I would be attached to it, it lingers, certainly. but with this sick sense of time and weak memory I selfishly believe I have, these obsessions become almost inaccessible with a distance that feels inexplicably foreign. how can I forget why I was so obsessed with it? perhaps I do not forget, but the strong feeling for it fades, which I feel speaks to the existential experience of human life. it is a bitter, sad feeling. I felt so strongly for you, yet I can barely see your outline now. sometimes they come back in words, and in that way I can excavate them again like a fake fossil model made out of plastic, but it does not feel the same. perhaps it is comparable to the experience of living through documentation. it is not the real thing. but somehow, with language, I feel glimpses and shimmers, some could call it hope, that it ignites again. and that is a wonderful feeling. that is what makes life worth living.
right now, I am fascinated with this strange dialogue between the train and the five-winged butterfly, and I wonder what I can get out of this interaction, in this fictional dialogue set-up. maybe the train can have dialogues with other characters. maybe I can collect a group of interactions whether it be in writing or words in a physical space, strange pieces of existence these characters have... I don't know what this means.. perhaps this is a reflection on me, but hopefully on all of you too.