Oh strange they are, the objects, all bowed and shined. How odd to see them again.
How lost they must feel in the world, where all lyrics of instruction have been rubbed
blank. What is the object now, and what must one do with it, hard to know really, I
suppose it is just metal now, that is all, no more and no less, inside and out. These
strange objects, all packets that bare their silver lining, the corners that dull and colours which fade, let them buckle to rust and then what; where will they be thrown,
to trash or at the wall. No matter speculating, I just like for the object to stand naked
and unwitting. I ask, should it be held this way or another, and it seems positive to
not quite know, to afford a little uncertainty in protest to all else that is clear and trite.
It’s an epidemic really, for us to see so much, the vastness of it all and with such great
detail. Look at the brands and their boards, EAT MORE, the things keep coming,
and the old is tossed away.
One and two.
And the information is no sooner received than forgotten. So ironic, that when
spoiled of so much, of so much detail, all that’s left is for us to learn how to endlessly select, yes, that’s all, as a child would, to see colour and point. No different to a
burrowing hound seeking some shiny cap, I too ask to toy with all this crap, to hoist
a sheet and reveal the bright and gnarly. And under such innocent folly, the word too
may look all crooked and broken, a shape even, word as shape, image as object – all
things turned over towards an opposite – and then why not choose a word which
looks most intriguing. No need to think any further, no, things can be specious, look
right and act wrong, that’s fine.
And all things have a history. They must, as nothing is just random, no, they were
possessed once, then thrown and snagged in piles that tower so high above me. Oh I
want be a child, conscious of my unseriousness, to sift through crap, write crap and
show there is something to it.
So let all this sit, hung by the nail. Recognise one corner at the fore, and a mimicry
in the painting beside you – is this, and what is that, metal, whose was it or why
here. And if confused even by the things we toss away, all the objects and trivia, then
something must be askew. See that even with things as strange as they are, too much
is too much.