F-Art. Strictly Ball Room

Satreian Spheres. Imspired by a kind of nausea

Satreian spheres . I try to see beyond their bodies, white and round as moons and into the lure of the mirror….its ‘Delux’ sheen makes it almost a solid entity, i avoid it only to float into the lure of the sky….and back to the complexity of my problem. How is it that they know to move in such harmonious synchronicity …yet… there is no melody, how they hover like sorry notes, endlessly poised and jostled by an entity which has no form , a myriad of unsung melodies that know no rest and have no voice, i know few impressions sadder or more hopelessly beautiful........... where are they going , where have they been, vessels of space adrift in the void…..i would like to hold them back.....but if i succeed in having one, it's beauty will be lost and dissipated, and it will be just another stinky object cultivating life on its skin, a mini world, in the caretakers shed ...but i must collect and instigate their death, store them in cobwebby darkness where to wait is to feed on memories, and to dream is to miss the point, but for now i can admire as they pass a loft on hollow umbra effortlessly falling in time with the slow rhythms that are the breath of the Higgs, the motion of that which resides in the in between spaces, the gaps are not empty and the sphere is the baby of the Higgs . Sphere is the measure of all the power of the universe, the result of all that is not it and is other. It is the trace and memory of the space, it is the natural conclusion of a comedy of power. It has no will to be more, not yet, not after what happened last time, evolution was a slippery mess. For now it is happy to be as it is, it is at one with the drift and the ebb. To be the ball would be to accept the emptiness of it all with humble languishing resolve, and to be the ball would be to eventually dissolve, to know no future, as I know of it now……..poised over me casting shadows in the spaces. I am within the space but I cannot feel it, but I feel the shadows for they are cold….. if I were a ball would I know I was hollow, as I now fear I am and I have never had such a putrid sensation that wails at me to let me know , I am devoid of any me-ness now, of all secret dimensions. I should know I am but only, defined by the space around me and within me , deflated balls are they still balls, there are many in the shed, are they dead……..am I . The I has been excavating itself and finds it is no more…more hollow like the ball, drifting on polluted tides a wash with the debris of non-decomposing matter, but they are numb to the quagmire faeces and deluge of bottles which escort them and I am not…it gives me a nausea that lets lose saline leakage in the corner of my eye, for desire is weighty and hinders every will to crush and stop the love in me. They are two in the same and I am always already trapped. I watch them collide and reunite , they kiss as they pass and whisper it is time to leave, I snatch them up and let them drip , I place them on the tar, disintegrating smelly shells deprived of their independence, I have killed their poem but we will wait to hear them sing.

Wednesday, May 9, 2007

F-Art. Strictly Ball Room

F_Art. Strictly Ball Room

Satreian Spheres. Imspired by a kind of nausea

ode to MR Palomar

Strictly ball Room. F-Art

Max lends his support with an auto graph.

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