I think there is a god of the same, and of the Same of the same. A god lost in the heart of the turning of the days and has gone mad there. Mad because turn in the same element. Because the same can only happen again.
Why make anything at all? Why begin, or seek to separate yourself from the hours stuck to one another like grains of glutinous rice to make a beginning? I think it is to translate the eternity of the day, its exhaustion, the madness of the same into a new eternity: to mark by beginning what fails to begin or to close itself into an ending. Only to mark it again – to make a mark to let quiver the interminable, the incessant. Perhaps art is only the attempt to make a mark. To double up the everyday, to lend it another kind of consistency. To give it form, even as that form is allowed to tremble.
But why seek to make? Why the desire to form? Are you the child that would make a yo-yo of the day, like Freud’s grandson, sending the death of his mother away from him and back, as if to master absence? To the master the day, then – or the Same of the day. Not to be trapped. Not to endure their blind turning. And this is why the makers are those who attuned to the Same, who suffer it. Who suffer the everyday as what it is: blank time, dissolution.
It is out of a kind of exhaustion you must begin. An exhaustion so great it dissolves you. Only there’s a minimal doubling up, a minimal reflexity. Something of you is there. Something of you crawls to mark a place, like the flag in the Sea of Serenity. But what you’ve made is only part of the day, a change, an alteration, and nothing else. And what you are is only a limb of the day, a way the Same can know itself.
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