Shadow of the Groundhog # 11: The Dance

kaufman

Still questioning the desire to write about my endless questioning of my desire to write, neurotically driven to confess the seemingly neurotic drive behind my desire to confess my neurotic drive to confess.

Still woring on the Kubrick piece, “woring” insofar as the “k” on my Keyboard is a big if and occasionally doesn’t work, especially, it seems, on the occasion when I type the word “working”—or woring.

As long as I am working on a new piece, book, or project, or whatever, I can maintain the illusion that somehow this one will make a difference. While in thrall to the creative-exploratory process, it always feels like this is the one. Once it’s done and sent out there, like a stone thrown into the still surface of a lake, the satisfaction of seeing those ripples fades almost as quickly as the ripples. The stone is gone and all but forgotten, and the ripples seem quite literally never to have existed.

A ripple doesn’t really exist does it? It is only a momentary effect, caused by interface between stone and lake.

So it may be better never to finish the Kubrick piece, to extend the delightful illusion that there’s something different and special about this one, and postpone the letdown of the “climax” indefinitely.

At base of everything I write is the inability to simply be the silent witness, the observer receiving the signal and enjoying existence for its own sake. Instead there is the compulsion to contribute, to add my special noise to the signal, to constantly test, test, test, that the Universe is sentient and that it will respond to me, that I exist as something other than an empty recipient of sensory data.

But like the ripples on the surface of the lake, each time I receive a sign it fades away, and I am left with the same uncertainty, the same stillness, and have to toss another stone, to reaffirm my existence once again.

Little boys tear the wings of flies for the same reason. Warlords conquer nations. Kubricks make inflated cinematic testimonials to their own importance, and  so on.

The dance goes on.

Which reminds me. I had a request to dance in my next video. Maybe I should get on with it?

10 thoughts on “Shadow of the Groundhog # 11: The Dance

  1. I wrote a response that seemed silly when finished, so instead I’ll just post a poem I found online that seems to sum it up:

    Lamentation-
    Ours is not the song of tranquility.
    In the dark there is no reason for doubt.
    Lift your sword high and pierce all the way through.

  2. Postponing the letdown of the “climax” indefinitely. Climax orientated media = a movie, non-climax orientated media = a tv soap opera?
    Why does nature allow the success of kubricks and warlords, aside from self-importance, what is the quality they have that earns them a “go” from the universe?
    Observing ripples, seems something similar is practised by market researchers, social media junkies and ceremonial magicians alike. A method of speaking to individual gods?

  3. ‘At base of everything I write is the inability to simply be the silent witness, the observer receiving the signal and enjoying existence for its own sake. Instead there is the compulsion to contribute, to add my special noise to the signal, to constantly test, test, test, that the Universe is sentient and that it will respond to me,’

    It seems to me there are two views or ways of relating to reality. One is where the focus is on the objects and the relations between them, between youself and the others, cause and effect, judgements, stategies,- normal day to day reality. The other seems more like the focus is on the background. The space on which appearances seem to hang, which seems infinite. That view seems to me to be most like ‘Home’ or what I am in some timeless way – as if the world is myself and I’m within that Self. In that space, or when the focus is on that space it seems there is no-one else there. No sense of needing to impress or help. It’s like a reversal of energy flow instead of reaching out there’s a recieving in. I think these two views of reality can happily co-exist, the finite self with the infinite Self, but I think often the finite self gets too engrossed and forgets the space of the infinite, always there on the periphery.

    I think this relates to autism in that I think I remember reading somewhere that autistic people when viewing a picture tend to focus more on the picture as a whole, on the background and edges, whereas the more normal people focus more on the prominent objects in the centre of the picture.

    Also I’ve noticed in myself a strong desire to be alone and often resenting other people’s infringement on that solitude as if I feel that there should be no ‘others’ there, there should be nothing alien to me, maybe because deep down I feel I can only be at Home when everything is me in that infinite sense.

  4. The dance needs to be so fucking good that it goes fractal on youtube . I’m talkin 500,000 views at least. A dance of that magnitude is your only hope, and that’s being nice.

    Do it , Horsley.

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