this knowing “you are on to something good” is exactly where the artist meets the scientist. only that in general the scientist will be patient and disciplined enough to acquire the skills necessary to actually explore and eventually understand that unfounded suspicion and the artist will just take a cursory inventory of the idea’s implications and then take to the type writer (or the canvas) like the monkey, ready to blindly shell out the sequence of letters to actually and surprisingly eloquently prove that “it” was always known.
i have committed to the practice of exchanging, if only for 3.141592653 minutes a day, now for then, up for down and today for yesterday
so when, during those 3.141592653 minutes, i see my hand guiding a pen over the paper, rather than to follow the steady progress of a new drawing, i see it erased line by line, and am rewarded by the promises of a work just envisioned, not yet constraint by its execution,
when i scan the sky for vaporous messages of ominous prophecies instead of wilting under the weight of a heaven i care not to imagine i look down into the vast expanses of the deep oceanic universe consisting of the probabilities of its continuable or discreet measurable properties, energy, position, momentum, angular momentum, and i escape, if only for a moment, the inescapable urge of the common mind to inject the holy into the profane as described so aptly by eliade
and, at last, when i walk the well-known streets that carry the contagion of my own history continuously infecting my present with meaning like an obsession i backtrace and erase the past step by step to acquire a new sense of what this place could be if it was not what it is already.
What would you have me Embroider on my dress Or my coat? And would it quell that sense of outrage That haunts you? What confession would you Have me deliver Or sign? And would it satisfy your desire To prove … Continue reading
I sat down on my chair and opened my notebook. A yellow, folded over sheet of legal paper slid out and in one smooth gliding motion fell onto the floor. The old lady. I had completely forgotten about her note. I picked it up and unfolded it. The creases were precise like origami folds and still remembered the birdlike fingers folding them with sharp determination. The lettering elegant and even, very pretty, did not at all resemble the kind of handwriting to jot down a passing thought on a small piece of legal paper. I could read it and couldn’t at the same time. I got the rhythm and it seemed strangely familiar. It wasn’t all that difficult to decipher and yet it took a moment to realize how the writing had been transformed without becoming a stranger to itself. Most everyone who is capable of reading will eventually grasp the concept of script as reflected in a mirror. The old lady had been writing in mirror script. Once I recognized that she had used mirror writing I could read it as you would, too. My mother had once told me that Leonoardo da Vinci had used mirror writing in his journals. He only ever used his right hand writing from the left to the right side of the page when he was addressing someone else through his writing. For all other purposes he chose to write right to left side of the page, reversing his letters as he spelled each word. Historians have discussed ever since what could have motivated him to do so. Some have said that he wanted to make it harder for others to steal his ideas. I don’t think that could have been the reason. Anyone can read mirror script fluently just with the tiniest bit of practice. A genius like Leonardo could have done much better encoding, thereby disguising his secrets. I think he just chose to write from left to right because he was – as is known – left handed. A man who loved to draw in the most precise, specific way, would he not have hated to smear his own writing? But anyhow, reading reverse script is not all that difficult. But I wanted to make sure I got it right. So I lifted it up against the window. There it was, the writing clear and beautiful. I had recognized it even in mirror image, even before I had recognized it as such, I had listened to the words so often and had read them many times, they were like a familiar face. “The Road goes ever on and on. Down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone, And I must follow, if I can.” She had painted the letters JRT underneath. And I must follow if I can. As if I didn’t know. I stared at the lettering in the mirror of the window glass against the darkening sky. I stared at myself holding the sheet against the pane. I stared at myself n the window glass. Who was I? Where was I? The other me looked back, a pale, shimmering reflection.