Water

This is an image of water. yet it feels like my own-most image of water. It disturbs me that the horizon is not entirely straight. It may also be said that this must be the view some of the people had from the ending of the Werner Herzog film "Heart of Glass" (Herz von Glass) when they looked out from their tiny island.

I consider the ocean to be the intelligence of the Solaris entity of our planet. It is intelligence. Humankind with their haphazard and incredibly ugly houses in Los Angeles could never compare to the beauty of this scene. Somehow I believe that human beings must learn to fit with their landscape if they are going to meaningfully enter into it.

We could speak of schooners and clipper ships, sailing vessels had a little more nobility. Then there are the science fiction episodes about cities built under the sea. But all of this still is not in accordance with the rocks and the fishes who seem to perfectly relate, through billions of years of a dance that has turned into a sublime aesthetic. Aesthetics? The will to power as art or ethics? Somehow kindness enters into our attempt to be beautiful: what is not kind could never really be beautiful: human history and myth is full of the expression of those who are torn between kindness and lust for beauty. But this lust to penetrate, to abuse the beautiful victims, to turn them from their innocence into some twisted perversion of themselves... this shadow (actually spoken of in Sauron's perversion of elves into orcs in The Lord of the Rings... which remains a lesser epic by virtue that it is too late, somehow incestuous, and too naive, lacking a healthy dose of Kafka or Bernhard's Beton to bolster the impossibility of the undertaking, and in some ways still captivates the farthest reaches of my imagination. What we need is a realm of fantasy epic, like Tolkein that also opens up to the absurd idiocy, beyond the "Aspergers," retardation of fantasy... allowing the softness of this but still pointing to its illimitable frustration... maybe even throwing in some political despair... and yet still leave room for elves and silky space sirens ...my adolescence will not be entirely requited... but itself in battle with the old man, T.S. Elliot, high Artemesian art and all that cognizant experience, let the battle begin: maybe in the form of Henry Darger's battle, certainly not in the overly earnest battle of the angels in Milton, which is insufficiently infernal and so on...). Or maybe it is the restlessness of the currents of the ocean: perfect and yet ceaselessly toiling to become some other condition we can only barely perceive from a great distance, perhaps the unknown, but never easily so...