[A narrative improvised from words found at Word For / Word.]
Femininity: an exploration of the experience of redemption unrecognized provides one of living that will more thoroughly explore upside down the expected and almost snapshot perception of the mysterious experience of the feminine and the awareness of how its holiness and lushness are packed into conundrums like contagious brushfire alighting upon the impossibility of ambiguity. The awesome task of ambiguity merits alighting upon the narrator's own difficulties, and finally results in large and ominous desert journeys…
How easy it is to challenge this challenge, and hide the contradictions, blindspots and contradictory aspects of ambiguity by paradoxically alighting upon the formation of ambiguity as a surface; for surfaces could provoke suspicion, proof that might tentatively describe the traveler as different with her aggressive feelings, including intense neediness and annoyance, and evidence of blatantly expressed anger; however, it's easy for somebody to drone on in that sarcastic tone that often seems justifiably biting, even when it has many references in common, and especially when, because these are the invisible seams between a lover's tributaries of exploring sexual desire and the alienation from having achieved it. In the unrecognized dynamics of desire, the loss of holiness is equally mixed with acts of love.
What is this quiet absence that strikes her with the impossibility of exploring it? Its presence drives her with the awareness of the suddenness of awareness in formation. And she cannot always hear disruption when it is happening/has happened. What will remain unsaid can be misunderstood and will rest disturbingly on specific human behavior without a warning about vulnerable detachment from the troubled nature of femininity, the attention to listen giving way to the daily drive to thrive in motion; seduced by death, she explores her desire to listen while squeezed into a desecrated network of personal relationships, a collage of human interactions that we might tentatively describe as an imaginary thicket that overwhelms. To become ‘me’ wishes for a force of recovery or migration that may not be taking place. Like winning the lottery, the exuberance remains a ripple that sutures the absurd suffering and alienation with irrepressible and charismatic energy. The suddenness of redemption is a relaxed ease that contrasts with detachment from what binds us daily to the foibles of communicating that become a restraint on presence.
There is the need to depict as quotidian what is precise and opulent about the present; to acknowledge its smallness reminds you of the impossibility in communicating in passing what the narrator recollected. The present becomes paradoxically vulnerable to a bravery that's over-full with history's suffering, leaving to bravery only all that's safe to act on. This often overwhelms characters that are sometimes whimsical in nature. It binds them to disturbing the plain-spoken with a challenge to normal meanings, making them note how the rhythm has become a burnt one that can elude sight, even when alighting upon attention irrepressible and full.
She understands in this rhythm that its dance is the potent event of her body that the light can fall on and flash into a beautiful image that is richly informative with a maternal lineage that cannot be measured by history. Turning forth in its offering up memories of an interestingly fractured picture is the imagery of a moment literally penetrated by whatever it means to find earthly ties to flower with meteors in a rhythmic adagio embodying the mother and daughter in a whisper repeatedly imagined. She gathers planets from the sky in a waltz through these celestial moments that assures there's some anchor to blossom before. But she won't allow her identity to be so informed by the way she brings different worlds together that deposits of enlightenment are left in the planning. There is always in a woman’s attention a switch on the observation that is beyond the limit framing infinite creation.
The season begins with eyes filled with darkness, loud with observation, and vicious with images that usually pick up this sentiment of the mother's creation as a physical act. Imagery informed by prejudice around the body became the extrapolation to be mingled in. So she locates herself historically within the big picture of motherhood to inscribe within it images destructive of its immortality. She does not understand the retelling of these images as questions around identity being answered with an even gaze. Instead, her changing position would suggest her physicality is converted into an identity that has broken free of all the imagery I've mentioned, uninterrupted by prejudice, secretiveness, and scepticism. Identity itself is therefore uninterrupted by the redemptive quality of potentiality and the available space for it to love in.
It is a beautiful idea to position this sentiment within the changing and immense perspective that can keep a continued existence consequent for generations. Humanity dwells in these unmarked moments in the transference of time, these given stages in the self sometimes etched from the enormous space hidden in the body where memories are lurking behind memorialization. And her daughter: she's not an infinite chore. She brings subjectivity to motherhood, answers to life, radiation that can melt, a complex of richly informative deposits with regard to the needs of mothers that usually fish for (and sometimes pick up) scraps of potentiality.
Impressed by their habitual presence, the daughter admires how human life goes on miraculously with the same impulses. She has to re-member them turning a head around for recollection of what memory means. Yes, I say that experience is remembered with clarity when it guarantees nothing more than rules about the experience memory is clearly defined for. This can result in memory elaborating upon experience to their benefit, what they have, what he says in his arbitrariness – all those instruments that dissolve her universe to a granular level with a powerful sense of devotion. This sentimental structure has evolved by the way reality works, by nature being concatenated with responsibility. She would have explained the way this reality is entirely worthy of being only tenuously held as such, but she cannot really speak about it without fear of being injured by that powerful and complicated impossibility that creates utter darkness everywhere. Failing to articulate involves in equal parts the mourning for words and the adherence to the rules that have repeated the experience of that mourning for speaking them. This moves her as she breathes ordinary memories in from the breeze before they are eaten by the wind plucking oxygen from her history. Who knows what evil lurks when there is no meaning and no consolation?
Despite these fires which ever-threaten intelligibility, it remains, repeated in memory as a post-enactment licking the quintessence of democratic potential from history. Yet we cannot make civilization originate beyond the encroachment of this evolved structure without a simultaneous awareness and exploration of the fantasies of the mankind that we observe in that embodiment: its death is an absence that involves equal parts of mourning and that experience memory means as an indelible devotion. What we observe is how the people naming those who constructed those instruments are today failing to scrub the memory of them because there are memories of mankind which may be explained by a nature about which we may be declaiming a plethora of strangely prominent, simple yet complicated, and sentimental yet dispassionate fantasies people remain trembling before.
We have to romanticize this misadventure, its strings, and the struggle against it because we cannot really speak of natural laws. Our ability to stave off surroundings and their contiguity should be indications that the presence was only thought of by those who require that civilization can provide no charm or sap for the intellect and its fragile other. The imagination itself displays as tenuous that quality of depersonalization in selflessness and blankness. To intimately concentrate upon experience does come down to our understanding of speaking about that which we can only speak of with responsibility for recollection.
