The title of this piece references the infinite alongside Robert Smithson and Rosalind Krauss who, respectively, have written on the topics of the site and self-reflexivity. I'm not sure the time and effort it took me to make this video translates into its effect. The process was surprisingly arduous: filming the screen, editing, exporting, uploading, repeat ad nauseam. Not that it would ever come close to the instantaneously reflexive quality of video that Krauss talks about, particularly in her analysis of Vito Acconci's Centers. Here, the medium is not 'bracketed out', but becomes a Russian doll. Maybe this makes sense. The internet is a catacomb of the self-referential. whatever, it's trippy. I have been growing recently. As a person.
I mean it literally. God, I hate the feel of skin on skin when it's my own And there's this crease in my back, It folds in upon itself and makes me sick Sometimes, I'd not be shocked at all if I ate myself For I am programmed to consume. I have been fighting with my shadow for years now wishing I could give up on sleep and food but what would I do with all my time Think? Thinking is dangerous. Speak? Surely not without thinking? -Only without thinking. I do not speak. I just make sound effects. Every part of me is stage directions. Bracketed. Parenthesis be I The jagged somnambulist. Stagnant like still water, Old coffee, A pint glass over night. Full of sorry, tepid bubbles. Oh but I am sorry for everything I have ever said or done. And for all the things I haven't more besides. I am tautology. No- I am. I am! And I have waking dreams where I cut myself into cubes and grind them down so small the air inhales me. And there's times when I imagine ripping the breathless sky in two to find a blue never seen before bright enough to scorch the retina. Cos colours aren't so bright some times. And my world is shrinking like the spectrum Not becoming smaller, No easier to circumnavigate but the edges have been hemmed and overlocked bricked up by me proverbial plasterer of my own undoing. (Well they do say DIY and its the only way to self destruct.) One needs insulation to be efficient. But I have one without the other. I am filled with so much nothing, that it's all I'm good for. It isn't that I see no point, it's just that the impulse has died inside me. Turned to plaque, to cellulite. I repeat, fixate disgust, constantly surprised by the bags below my eyes I wear dark circles like a cowards' war paint, occupying space and time that damn sure do not belong to me. I am so much entitlement and so much entity- absorbent, lacklustre, saturated with adjectives, losing at wordplay, clinging to verbs in lieu of action. Still I have my youth which I'm wasting, my health which I'm squandering, A mouthful of teeth and halitosis, and I keep my fingernails short For one hand clapping. |