Thursday, 29 March 2012
I'm not sure I agree with myself about there being 'nothing inside' (problematic as the idea of inside/outside might be, it can still work for me in a rough kind of sense...). There may be nothing intrinsic, in the sense of a soul, a personality, a 'true self', a core, a centre. But the idea of the open channel is also not limited to what filters 'in' through perception on a daily basis.
Stuff can also filter 'up' from previously obscured dimensions, or perhaps 'through' previously impermeable barriers. The channel also contains ghosts, traces, fragments - historical remnants of past presents, swirling around like disembodied footprints.
Feeling around in the dark for subject matter, I see fresco walls, Cimabue blue, the rosy cheeks of Madonnas, the colour of Perugia steps, the curve of the Trevi fountain, tiled rooftops stretching away to soft green hills.
Snow peaks against a deep blue sky, rhododendron trees outlined against the valley far below, monkeys screetching, light through pines.
While marble shikaras and red flags, golden sari edges, woven green cloth, bleached stone in endless sun.
Curving tiles, shining green glazes, three hundred year old wood, full kimono, white powdered skin.
Carpets of pine needles, rivers of bark, tiny red shrines, rocks and sky.
All still there, in the channel, gasping for breath.