Today yet another day. Day of two of my 750 words a day challenge. I noticed how unpleasant writing way to start with. I was so scared to write my thoughts out as if I am going to see something scary. At first it feels that way. Just like getting used to ones own image – at first it makes you cringe, then you get used to it – to get used to one’s own image, as if a friend or relative that you cannot get away from. The same way it is about the writing. WRiting being scared of one’s image on a page in the text. A different attitude of reading the image and text. A different meaning, yet they complement each other. Writing and text – autobiography of myself, my shadow and my reflection my images in different places and situations with a camera asa tool to capture them. The importance of the eye – the observer. Just like the Authentic dance, the witness. It is not enough just to feel one need to see the outside as well. Will need to look into the development of the Authentic movement – being part of the observer. The camera that looks, without judgement and portrays what is there. The same way the reader and the text. Whatever is written is awaiting to be read.
Not enough flowers in one year – visits to Botanical gardens, flowers at home, given flowers and received flowers. Are they ever enough. The symbol of a flower. Flowers as apology, flowers as forgiveness, as waiting and wonder. Obsession of flowers, however some years I have taken more pictures of them. They are fascinating in their beauty and they message they send. So varied not only in their colours but also in the meaning. My writing – start with reflection and what we see in it and how we see it. The Other not necessarily ourselves. The projected interpretation on our own shadows and movement. The movement in photographs, how to show it. Chasing my own images, in other people’s words, images and thoughts. It must be so varied, changing. Does the image changes us? They way we look at the mirror and what to look different, they way we get response from others and want to improve on our performance in one way or another. It is fascinating to observe that. The change the image asks us to do. However that is who we are, the thing without an image is unthinkable. The Invisible man, like Frankenstein – things that are uncunny. They are not real. Day turns grey again, a minute ago it was sunny. And I want to finish my daily challenge of 750 words and today particularly I am drowning in my own empty and forced thoughts that are flowing but I am unable to see them. Dance with your own shadows and reflection – celebrate them and have a dialogue, because they are our best friends. The image that turns against you. The image that stabs you in the back. The images that always follw us arrive even before us. The image of our name, the image of our birthplace, the image even before we are born – it awaits us to capture us and make fun of us and play. It takes time to recognise it, but there is no point in crying or trying to deny it. We cannot live without one. The image that betrays us and makes us better that we are. The Other, the celebrated Other. The text and the image of the text, the dark strokes on a whate page, expressing meaning of something nom existent. The abstract image of the text, text on a transparent paper, text that does not start and finish, text that does not have any boundaries, like thought that are pouring one on top of each other. WIth a few words sticking out like pricks, pearcing the page and our minds. Pearcing the silence and emptiness. Accepting these words as the copies of our own. Copies that live an independent life. Not far to go, not far to go. The sun is shining again, on the flowers by my wndow, it is inviting the shadows in my room, to dance and play in front of me asking to be photographed, asking to be played with. Bot today, I have another plans, I don’t want to play with shadows. Not today. May be tomorrow or another day. Today is just writing and reflecting on text.
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.