Lost in the dream landscapes, variations on space translated through the psychic, filtered through other cities and villages. Buses get lost and reverse, taking backstreets as if bicycles. It feels like 100 years ago. Dockland confluences, dead streets. Barren, demolished industrial areas, now concrete prairies, gridded with the street patterns. You drive here into emptiness and no buildings occlude the Sun. Bleached, powdered concrete, occasional shrubs. Corners and kerbs. How to get home from the other side of the world. From nearby satellites and subtle ways. From other universes.
Again the media, folds and translates the kneading of events through the pulsing exterior nervous system. The choked reality you clasp in your hand, and let go, flying….
Here, Michel Serres throws you Maupassant’s Horla. The outside, here. Remade badly by Vincent Price as he did with The Opium Eater. He fell in with a bad crowd.
Serres’ Kneading has you in its grasp. The thinking of new shapes and the shaping of new thoughts.
New shapes to think in. New thoughts to shape in.
Connor’s problem is of seeing “no other” in this shaping that is not still attached to the mainframe of a linear reality…and yet concedes the new shapes are…challenging. It’s the Shaper that holds on to the cupped world in his hands. We are shaped by linearity. Out there, hors la, beyond the Law, what is he? Unshapen. No longer. There are new kneadings to describe, new charged foldings of representation. Connor fears the concretised complexity of it. The overload. Yet, charging is discharged… is eaten, is decomposed. There is an untying here. Unbound. It’s seen in the Room With A View. How a confined space can offer freedom. The freedom of consciousness, going out, beyond the grasp of the Self, into Being Other and then not, because Other implies Self. Out, out. Discharged. Consciousness expands into the vastness of the Russian Dolls of container-dom. Of Holdings…let go.
New shapes of thought
New thoughts of shape.