Free-writing, 1st August

Where would the sun go in the sunny days? Edinburgh’s sunsets are very beautiful or may be it is because after a long time I live on the top floor. When you live on the ground floor facing a low wall or an opposite house, there is nothing much left of the sunset, and not because it does not exist. The same in the pictures – we see what we are looking for. But perhaps the totality of the image can give us something new. The accidental come across, the right moment when the image emerges. Just like a pray, you shoot it and it dyes. No wonder why taking pictures also means shooting pictures – shooting them dead if you get them in the right moment. Otherwise it is a missed goal. There are many missed goals but when it is right we know it. Point and shoot… Composure of the image – interesting how these terms how becaume the terminology of photography. The metamorphosis, the image that lives it own life. Does it exist? The same way as the original does. Which one is the original, do we know that anymore. The text and thoughts may not be the same thing. The text imitates language, it does not eeven imitate sounds, may be it used to. We do get upset about the Other selves, trying to proove our own right in the face of other people. Which one is right, do we actually know. How do you proove your own right, own existance and truth. I did not mean that. I did not say that. I did not show that. I did not think like that but our image still does, says, thinks that. Why do we get so upset with our double, like a two years old child, upset with the fact that he cannot create a dialogues with one own self. We cry and try to hug the image in order to make it agree with us but it does not. At the end we try to agree with the image or beautify it. Look at it and try and make it similar to us. Does it? Sometimes we try so hard that we become the image, just the surface without the insides. We try to become like our image. The distant us, observing from inside what we could see outside. Just like surveillance on our own selves. Constant CCTV observing what we can observe. The image asa surface supersedes us, it does not change, it does not die, at least not in a way we do. The image on the paper, the image as a picture, the image in the mirror. It starts its independent life, seperate from us.
About the text. Is what I do an automatic writing? It is supposed to supernatural. The voice from another planet taking our hand? As far I can tell I am only trying to follow my thought process, it that can be called that way. I am following it but it is not easy. What I think does not look like what I write. What I write is a copy, a copy of texts I have seen before or will see in the future. It is a repeated conversation, repeated talks, repeated sights. It is not original the way my thoughts are. The thoughts are images and text in one. Something that we can not express with the means we have now. I like writing with controling what I write, I just have this little voice in me saying that I ought not to make a fool of myself. I write to have a conversation, I am not sure with whom, that is unclear to me. It is not even importnat. I just know it is a conversation, therefore I ought not to make a fool of myself. By repeating words the way I just did. I feel naughtly just by admiting that. I will make no sense, I think that the image of myself will be as somebody who makes no sense I think that I do or should do in the eyes of the others, or in the eyes of my Other one. As he is the one who will live beyond myself, will leave the legacy and the words will be seen without my presence just interpreted and read the way my image sees appropriate, not the way I would like it to be. The image is the one that will be interpreted, I myself does not allow to be interpreted it is just the image that can be played with.


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