Burnt spent used still beautiful
Reflections of us
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"Shan shui painting is a kind of painting which goes against the common definition of what a painting is. Shan shui painting refutes color, light and shadow and personal brush work. Shan shui painting is not an open window for the viewer's eye, it is an object for the viewer's mind. Shan shui painting is more like a vehicle of philosophy." The woman in the blue coat considered the painting before her. It was gray ink mostly, shot through with a tint of green, maybe, though that could be just an effect of the lighting above; it was dark in this corner of the museum. The paper was the color of dead grass, and the hills on the paper stretched away from the viewer. They were rendered in folds like a bunched together bedsheet, or corrugated metal when viewed close to its plane, and they were cut in two by a river running switchbacks towards the foreground. A few rows of Chinese characters marked the corner, something to do with the author’s name she assumed. And near the characters was a man, his head bowed, navigating twists in a thin dirt trail. "Shan shui." She looked to her left. A man was standing beside her, his eyes to the painting. She hadn’t heard him walk up, and he seemed not to notice her. "What was that?" "Shan shui." He raised his brow in acknowledgement of the painting. "It’s a style of art. It’s what you’re looking at." He kept his eyes on the subject at hand. She played coy. "And what exactly am I looking at?" "A landscape." "You go to school to learn all that?" He smiled. It was his turn to look coy. "A landscape that constitutes more than its parts would suggest. A landscape rendering all details within irrelevant." With this the man finally turned to face her, smiled, and gestured back toward the painting. "The lack of color, the ubiquitous pale in shading and tone, the frailty of man set against the very world that contains him, and the calm with which all this is expressed. It is all intentional. Through this screen everything within is made equal. Even man cannot stake out his claim. He saunters off in the corner, barely worth our attention at all, no more significant than the dirt path which he walks. Indeed, in shan shui he is far less significant than the path itself, for the path is essential to the form, and he is not. In shan shui we find all things in harmony, the majesty of nature balanced against the insignificance of the life therein." The woman was now smiling at him, though she herself hardly noticed. "Of course, all art is merely a projection, and the real truth about nature is there is no harmony, and there never has been. For in nature balance is not produced by some delicate union of opposites. In nature balance is forged through conflict, it is the product of extremes set in eternal opposition to one another. It is an idea that is only ever approximated, and never for long. The median of the pendulums swing. "And so it is with us, for as is the case with all things contained in nature, we reflect the natural way of things. So I ask you, in us does one find balance? Does one find anything close to moral equilibrium? Or harmony? No. One finds great evils, and then in the face of those evils great courage, a light for every darkness. But one is dependent upon the other, always. To see the good in things, contrast is required. To know virtue in this world is to know its enemy. We encompass the universe in what we express, and what grim expressions those include." The woman was silent. She had stopped smiling. The man walked away. It’s the best kind of anything. Think about it. A smile that can’t help itself. Laughter that’s anything but polite. A speech that can’t help but express, some monologue walled behind rib cage, chest, and cartilage that can no longer contain its confession. An attraction that can’t help but dictate one’s actions, be they involving good choices or otherwise. Passion is anything but moderate, far from self contained, near impossible to control, unrestrainable. Anything done in moderation or with self control is either (on the rare occasion) a reflection of an individuals own hard earned discipline and will power or else (more likely and far more often) evidence that the whatever you’re doing is kind of fucking boring. Almost real. Has you almost engaged. It’s almost whatever it is that you’re looking for, but, muthafuck an almost, y’know? I’ve fallen in love in three countries, been in love in five, and said I love you in four languages. I’ve “I love you”d, “te amo”d, “phom rak khun”’d, and “wo ai ni”d my heart into rhythms of maelstrom, eagle wing, and temple ruin. I’ve lived as though love is the meaning of life, but most importantly, I’ve lived… and loved. For that, I give thanks.
I don’t place any higher value on an American life than I do an Iraqi life, they’re human lives, one and the same. I don’t think being biased in favor of our country will ever amount to anything positive for the world. That being said, I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m biased against our country either. I think at one time I may have been, but more often am mistaken as such for my willingness to speak out in favor of they who wear the face of the “enemy”. I say that to say this: What happened 12 years ago was terrible, a tragedy so immense in its scope and unfamiliar in our cultural landscape and collective memories that we still wrestle to make sense of it today. But when I reflect on the amount of innocent lives lost the world over as a direct result of our military reactions, and then overactions, I can’t help but think they deserve their day too.
“I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy.” ~ Jessica Dovey “Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”— Martin Luther King, Jr Racism will not be overcome today, nor tomorrow, for the dehumanization of an individual is coded within them, until it becomes them, and travels down from them to the generations that follow. The same can be said for they who dehumanize others, in reference to the attitudes they must cultivate in order to be capable of such callous action, and the long reach of those attitudes as they extend down our family lines. Rot sewn today lasts lifetimes. We move forward to the same backwards times. We are the oblong circle, ever returning to the beginning, far from perfect, a distorted continuity. And we travel the cycle with no idea as to the path.
Identities are continuous, alive; they are constantly confronted, torn down, and reformulated. As such, the person I am today isn’t necessarily the person I will be tomorrow. I say that to say this: I am and always will be Dylan Amaro-McIntyre, a name officially listed in Webster-Mirriam as synonymous with aphrodisiacal, excessively poetic, and just generally badass. Purpose of mathematics: To understand the language of the universe, a fish trying to comprehend the water that sustains it.
Purpose of science: To explain our understanding of mathematics with language. Purpose of language: To trap ideas within a context we can understand. To anchor ourselves in a world of abstracts. I think writers often exist in worlds that do not simply because they feel the world as is does not suit them, or else cannot contain them, and so they find solace in an imagined reality that can.
Sept. 30, 2011: Thailand
Beauty does not lie in the eye of the beholder. If anything this is where true beauty is lost, for true beauty is as is, unordained by imagination and poetics. It needs no witness to be. Behind a Thai Smile A Thai smile cannot hide The fire in the eyes Milking irises red Flames of those who smile Instead of crying |
AuthorRhymer of words. Speaker of sounds. Ancestral conduit. And cool as shit. Archives
March 2015
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