The Movement Series So Far
Movement I | Movement II | Movement III | Movement IV | Movement V | Movement VI | Movement VII | Movement VIII | Movement IX
It moves and it contorts. It bends and it shapes itself along the edges of where it goes. The series is shaped by my philosophy, but my philosophy is at the same time shaped by this series. It moves, there is movement, there is life. I hope you enjoy yet another installment of this series. I reached the perfect ten, the x, the destination. Enjoy the photographs and the accompanying philosophical musings.
Movement X
Unrecognizable, yet familiar. Alienated by the very thing that should have provided security. We move through life with nothing stopping us, but once we come to a halt, the very thing that kept us alive is now threatening to take it away. Now, it takes on a new appearance, moving under a different guise.
Taken out of this false sense of security, everything falls back into place, but we have moved. Metaphysically, we are not the same anymore. Ontologically, we see the world differently. Everything is out of place, yet in place. It is merely I that is out of place. It is as if I am contorted, twisted, moved, in such a way as to not be here anymore, yet still be here. Liminally, in between.
It pulls me, it tries to swallow me, it tries to take me in. I am pulled towards it, whatever it is. Kafkaesque, I do not know what is pulling me, neither do I know where it is pulling me towards. Or is pushing me? Whilst I am pulled, I know there is a fixed endpoint, but when I am pushed, nothing will stop me but the ledge or wall.
Smooth space allows me to move endlessly, not mindlessly, but always meandering onwards. From time to time, I meet an obstruction that keeps me from going, it stops me from endlessly moving forward, sideways, onwards. It stops me from not-thinking. It makes me think, it moves me to think.
Infinitely malleable. Never a final form. The mind that moves will always take the shape of the container, of the place it finds itself, but the container is also shaped by the container. Without something that fills it, it is yet-to-be. It is not yet. It can me warped infinitely.
Adapted to change, we the modern human cannot but accept that things will never slow down. Things increasingly speeds up, every week, something new, new desires created so that the desire machine never runs out of ideas.
And, and, and, and, ad infinitum. The sentence can be infinitely long but merely placing an and behind it. It will never stop. Being, to be, is, will eventually cease. But and, like the rhizome, will never cease, endlessly, experimentally. It carries on, like the river flowing into the ocean only to become rain again. And....
Violent edges cutting through soft smooth flesh. The words of the poet will never murder, only the dictaror who uses these word will be tried. Sticks and stones, they say, but the serated edge of novel thinking can sometimes cut and cut and...
Stopping is violence. It is funny how sudden everything can become quiet when the storm has passed. Only for another rupture to happen. Only for another bomb to go off. The end is always just the beginning of a new chapter.
Postscriptum
Moving away, moving on, the end.
The words aimlessly experiment to just hit the wall. But sometimes the splatter that remains is art. And art moves, so they say.
I hope you enjoyed this rather strange post. The words just kept flowing. The words did not stop.
The words are my own, and the photographs as well. Taken with my Nikon D300 and 50mm lens. I hope you enjoyed this philosophical post. Happy photographing and stay well!