The Highly Subjective Objectivity Of Objects

Objects in mirror are closer than they appear. This includes Moscow, angels, and God. Particularly when you’re driving across state lines with a shipment of tabasco sauce. Here’s what Wittgenstein has to say about objects: objects contain the possibility of all states of affairs. It’s a circumstance of great latitude, and tremendous responsibility. The door, the window, the ironing board and the car across the street all testify to the rigors of being an object. It is the object of the object to be an object. The matter with matter isn’t just glitter, but garlic. Consciousness flows through both matter and space, and in some way allows reality to exist so that perceptions can authorize steel and codify the circus. Infinity, meanwhile, slides through Indonesia and goes bald as a crab. The entire universe has to be hosed down with history. This wrinkles the planets that are there to be admired. I can think of this space as empty, but not of the thing without the space. A speck in a visual field need not be red, it can also be France, and turn subversive at the drop of a hat. I was there when it happened: when Dada was born in a delicatessen, and Tristan Tzara sliced a logic in half with the subtlety of hypnosis. All the lobsters were set free, and each symptom was licensed to carry Friday forward and make it available for fondling and aberration.

Every proposition must have a sense. Assertion cannot give it a sense, for what it asserts is the sense itself. And the same holds true of destiny. It’s hard to make any sense at all of things without a compelling narrative. My instincts indicate grease. How its very syllables could warp the sputter if something came loose and the sentence rolled forward on its odium, its fangs bright with torque. I can’t deny that the ground is a riddle. The garden savors of dirt. Yet the roses deliver bags of road to the money of the nose. I’m clean now, and the way ahead is free of elevators. I feel awed before this easel. Even my chair feels stupid. Perception goes wide-eyed with gestation. Everything around me seems a little bent tonight, and warm. I feel like I may be walking into something monumental. Each snap of my fingers is seminal to the general percussion. Each stitch has that compelling engorgement we call romance. If you follow the thread you will find it gallant in proposal and diffuse in conversation. The way a crow argues its placement in time and space reveals a crack in the general entelechy, a potential realization given the tone of the summons and the aerodynamics of the analysis. I feel better now. And peculiar.

Some objects are tricky. Others are swampy. Clay is eminently malleable, but slippery. As for kimchi, it has great benefits, but its spicy, and makes my stomach burn. Objects do this: they make promises they can’t keep, just like humans. Disappointment is educating. However, I do find many of the lessons to be confusing and contradictory. Anyone who has come home with an Ikea bed or bookcase knows this. What you envision might not be exactly what ends up happening. If the truth requires assembly, maybe it’s not the truth. Maybe it’s a diorama containing a riotous night at the Cedar Tavern in 1956. Maybe it’s a chance encounter at 3:00 a.m. by Red Grooms. Maybe it’s deception so lovely in its conception as to create a sense of circumspection. A sense of iconography in a state of abbozzo. And a sad but wistful acceptance of soy sauce. All I know is what I have words for, and sister, they can exist in multiple states. They can create a new wave. We can surf our way to Mars. We can balance ourselves gracefully as the chaos that exists in all organic beings thrusts us into the turbulence of Teahupo'o. Or Malibu. Or Oceanus Borealis. This is the interval known as sunyata. And is a luminous halo.