I say unto you: one must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star. I say unto you: you still have chaos in yourselves. —Nietzsche, “Zarathustra’s Prologue”
With every event, there is indeed the present moment of its actualization, the moment in which the event is embodied in a state of affairs, an individual, or a person, the moment we designate by saying ‘here, the moment has come’. The future and the past of the event are only evaluated with respect to this definitive present. On the other hand, there is the future and past of the event considered in itself, sidestepping each present, being free of the limitations of a state of affairs, impersonal, pre-individual, neutral.
“The multiplication of technologies in the name of efficiency is actually eradicating free time by making it possible to maximize the time and place for production and minimize the unstructured travel time in between…Too, the rhetoric of efficiency around these technologies suggests that what cannot be quantified cannot be valued-that that vast array of pleasures which fall into the category of doing nothing in particular, of woolgathering, cloud-gazing, wandering, window-shopping, are nothing but voids to be filled by something more definite, more production, or faster-paced…I like walking because it is slow, and I suspect that the mind, like the feet, works at about three miles an hour. If this is so, then modern life is moving faster than the speed of thought or thoughtfulness.” Rebecca Solnit
Joan Miro, Barcelona, Carborundum Print, 1970, 75 x 105cm
A thought for the new year:
“The foxglove tells us that our life is a whole, consisting of youth and age, of flowering moments and dying moments, of buds and seeds, of uses and needs. It is not one big blossom, but a whole plant. Its wealth resides in its wholeness and the relationships of all its parts to the whole. The dust gathers to make foxgloves, you and me. We too can shape the dust. What shape will that be…?” John Ruskin
My doubt, accumulation of a former night, ends up
As many a subtle branch, that having remained the true
Woods themselves, proves, alas! that I offered myself alone.”
Extract from “L’après-midi d’un faune”, The Afternoon of a Faun 1875 by Stéphane Mallarmé, quoted in The Poetics of Occasion, Mallarmé and the Poetry of Circumstance, Marian Zwerling Sugano, Stanford University Press, California, 1992:pp.38.