I awoke and was heartened by the new pink dawn. I went walking in its darkness, its richness, its newness. The act of light coming into the dark is itself a darkness, a mixture that does not boldly step forth, but seeps, steeps itself, infuses the horror and unboundedness of midnight with just a first round presence, a deep blue, an embrace, like the lover touching the back of the other. A single finger, and as yet no eye, is affirmed, and yet wholly. 

The Australian gum is suited to that rich pink dawn, itself a kind of sartorial salute to the coming cleanness of day full, day proper. Streaked and tangled with creamed and fawned colours all, its bark and leaves are dawnlike, wild, gouged, deep but endlessly lightening, their twistedness saved by their graceful extension of limbs, contortions betwixt the cruel world of causality and that of dance, of art. Redeemed.

And so the day begins. It is my birthday. I am heartened by nature, and the nature I see in the people who surround me. Their greenness, freshness, pinkness. Pinkness is a most living trait, a flow, a pulse, a river under the skin. In crumpled, softest babies' skin, tightly wound around a life raft in a finger, a pinkie, as it's so often called, of that life which gave it life. It won't let go. They say that those in the concentration camps used to prick their fingers and pink their cheeks with blood to look healthy enough to work, so as not to be sent to die. Such was their human lust for life, despite the ofttimes horror of the world, its midnight moments, its heart of darkness. Rich blood flows in the dark too, and mostly so; it only dawns as it borders the pale skin, a mere grey barrier without its red embrace. But the cut is not dawn, it is fire. The wound is not begun softly, as an embrace, but violently explodes, as an apocalypse. It is made, it does not gather naturally at the folds of life and seep in, but pierces. There is horror, but there is also beauty there. We lie somewhere between the two. We colour the world with both, as we in turn are coloured.

the proof of our love for matter... Bruno Schulz, eyeballs and soy fish

'Can you understand,' asked my father, 'the deep meaning of that weakness, that passion for colored tissue, for papier-mache, for distemper, for oakum and sawdust? This is,' he continued with a pained smile, 'the proof of our love for matter as such, for its fluffiness or porosity, for its unique mystical consistency. Demiurge, that great master and artist, made matter invisible, made it disappear under the surface of life. We, on the contrary, love its creaking, its resistance, its clumsiness. We like to see behind each gesture, behind each move, its inertia, its heavy effort, its bearlike awkwardness.'

There are things than cannot ever occur with any precision. They are too big and too magnificent to be contained in mere facts. They are merely trying to occur, they are checking whether the ground of reality can carry them. And they quickly withdraw, fearing to loose their integrity in the frailty of realisation. 

Bruno Schulz, Street of Crocodiles, or, Cinnamon Shops c. 1925

Breaking the Waves; Hamlet, Prometheus

'Tis not alone, my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
That can denote me truly. These indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man might play,
But I have that within which passes show;
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

Hamlet, Scene II, lines 77-86

Here I sit, forming men
in my own image,
a race to be like me,
to suffer, to weep,
to delight and to rejoice
and to defy you
as I do

Goethe, Prometheus

New Zeal


smoke, silt, & sulphuric swells; 
inspired by the radiation feel of Kohei Yoshiyuki's park series

Circles; Ralph Waldo Emerson

The eye is the first circle; the horizon which it forms is the second; and throughout nature this primary figure is repeated without end. It is the highest emblem in the cipher of the world. St. Augustine described the nature of God as a circle whose centre was everywhere and its circumference nowhere. We are all our lifetime reading the copious sense of this first of forms. One moral we have already deduced, in considering the circular or compensatory character of every human action. Another analogy we shall now trace, that every action admits of being outdone. Our life is an apprenticeship to the truth that around every circle another can be drawn; that there is no end in nature, but every end is a beginning; that there is always another dawn risen on mid-noon, and under every deep a lower deep opens.

This fact, as far as it symbolizes the moral fact of the Unattainable, the flying Perfect, around which the hands of man can never meet, at once the inspirer and the condemner of every success, may conveniently serve us to connect many illustrations of human power in every department.

There are no fixtures in nature. The universe is fluid and volatile. Permanence is but a word of degrees. Our globe seen by God is a transparent law, not a mass of facts. The law dissolves the fact and holds it fluid. Our culture is the predominance of an idea which draws after it this train of cities and institutions. Let us rise into another idea: they will disappear. The Greek sculpture is all melted away, as if it had been statues of ice; here and there a solitary figure or fragment remaining, as we see flecks and scraps of snow left in cold dells and mountain clefts in June and July. For the genius that created it creates now somewhat else. The Greek letters last a little longer, but are already passing under the same sentence and tumbling into the inevitable pit which the creation of new thought opens for all that is old. The new continents are built out of the ruins of an old planet; the new races fed out of the decomposition of the foregoing. New arts destroy the old. See the investment of capital in aqueducts made useless by hydraulics; fortifications, by gunpowder; roads and canals, by railways; sails, by steam; steam by electricity.

You admire this tower of granite, weathering the hurts of so many ages. Yet a little waving hand built this huge wall, and that which builds is better than that which is built. The hand that built can topple it down much faster. Better than the hand and nimbler was the invisible thought which wrought through it; and thus ever, behind the coarse effect, is a fine cause, which, being narrowly seen, is itself the effect of a finer cause. Every thing looks permanent until its secret is known. A rich estate appears to women a firm and lasting fact; to a merchant, one easily created out of any materials, and easily lost. An orchard, good tillage, good grounds, seem a fixture, like a gold mine, or a river, to a citizen; but to a large farmer, not much more fixed than the state of the crop. Nature looks provokingly stable and secular, but it has a cause like all the rest; and when once I comprehend that, will these fields stretch so immovably wide, these leaves hang so individually considerable? Permanence is a word of degrees. Every thing is medial. Moons are no more bounds to spiritual power than bat-balls.