![]() ![]() And so: art often does not change this inner selfhood but capture it, less like a photograph and more like encountering words spoken by your own tongue, the uncanny sensation that a spacio-temporally displaced version of yourself left some artifact for you to discover. But by the nature of its innate alienation from the self, this integration can never be fully completed it always remains part of that middle space, the experiencing memorial selfhood, the thing between our psyche and our external selves, the world itself. It must be an object that exists outside of the self, is not-self, which then integrates into the self. Penetrating this moon of the psyche, to borrow Qabbalistic imagery of the Earth as the living body and the moon as the domain of the mind itself, the gateway to the divine interior, requires being outside of the moon first. It is rare for art to capture this deepest interior in part because it cannot occur by penetration. There is the obvious and nearly-cheap comment here, its light and dark side, the literal name of Pink Floyd‘s Dark Side of the Moon, and yes that’s in part on purpose, but there’s more meat to the bone of this metaphor than just that. Yet there is a moon beyond space, an object not of accretion, not of experience, but of the experiencing-self itself. I listened to a song by Prince and began pondering the limits of my own gender I listened to a song by Shamir and broke down crying because the image became clear. These are the fundaments of so much of the world of art and why we love it not that it merely exists as entertainment but that it penetrates deeper, reorders our experiences via its own schema to reveal us to ourselves as though we were art hung in our own interior galleries. ![]() It grabs onto these clusters fragments of memory, digs through the refuse and stones that orbit in ellipses around me to form not just dead connections but new ways of seeing and processing that which I’ve already experienced. So much of the music I love and have loved sits within this space for me, progressing beyond the merely phenomenological domain of experience into the world of memory and richness. ![]() In this middle space, the empty cosmic void in which twin planets of earth and moon are suspended, memories accrete like dust, forming surreal networks of drifting matter, rings and meteors, planetoids and irregular clusters. There is a space between the solidity of earth, the outside world and our actions in it, and the secret gardens that generate the self. ![]()
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