In this year, a year belonging wholly to itself… which is to say, a year unlike any other, in the manner in which no year is like any other.
In this year, when the sky fell and we wept for the hole that it left; not only in the sky, but in our hearts.
In this year, when so much was taken, both from within and from without.
In this year, that we have numbered, as we do all others, so as to give it a place in the procession of time.
In this year, of sorrow and discontent, in this assembly of months so fleeting and so endless.
In this year, of truth in which we could no longer hide from hideous reason.
In this year, where we sought and still are seeking some meaning that still eludes us.
We must resolve to keep on seeking, as the thirsty seek for water.
We must hunger for the sustenance that we have not yet found.
We must hope, if only for a moment, in order to let that light in.
That trembling flame, so easily extinguished by the darkness that surrounds us.
We must cherish that light, which has burned in us for all eternity.
A brightness unexpected and absurd when compared against the vastness of the dark.
Let us endure and confess that light, despite the winds that might disturb it.
So that others might see and recognise that it yet burns inside them, also.
And together, a thousand lights, a million, might shine bright enough.
To show the way out of the darkness, not just for one, but for all.
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Category: Philosophy
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This Year
Posted at 9:36 pm , on December 31, 2021
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Blue Skies
Posted at 9:00 am , on September 1, 2021
The weather is full of unfulfilled promises.
Would that bad things only happened when the weather is stark and grey and dreary. Would that every heartbreak be acknowledged by the sudden downpouring of rain. Would that every agony of mankind be reflected by the weather, such that the sky became forever turgid with the endless suffering of humanity.
Nothing is as depressing to me as a sunny day and a blue sky.
We are supposed to relish the sunlight. When flowers bloom and seedlings pop their ignorant heads above the soil. Sunny days are here again, they say, and people drink and dance. This is the world—so warm and shining and brilliant. This is happiness: a child sitting with a melting ice-cream in a cone, a dog cheerfully bounding across a sea of grass with a stick in its mouth.
But tragedy is not afraid of the sun, or the flowers, or the misbegotten optimism of the sun-worshippers in their temples. Tragedy occurs no matter the weather.
The weather is unflinching. It does not care. The bumblebee picks at the heart of a flower, gathering pollen. A child sits, crying, with a melting ice-cream in a cone; a stick remains in the grass because there is no dog to fetch it.
These are the unspoken agonies of every sunny day. This is a funeral procession without dark clouds to accompany it. This is the horrible, horrendous blue sky.
For me, that vast blue nothing does not conjure hope, or calm, or peace. Rather it is a vast, unbounded horror. And the sun on the leaves. And the sun on the cement. And the smells in the air.
Ah, such beautiful tapestry does the sun weave. And yet the soldiers still march. Bombs still explode. And in a room somewhere that the light does not reach a hand touches another hand—leathery now, close to death now, and another life slips away.
And it is sunny outside. And people are cheerful and rambunctious. And they raise toasts to the idiot glorification of a sun that persists even when it is cloudy, an ever-explosion of nuclear light in the sky that blinds our eyes and brands our skin.
I hate it. Let the sky pour with the rain of our tears. Let the heavens lament all that we have lost. Let the ground rumble with the articulation of our collective rage.
In the cold and the wet and the grey.
In the pounding of the rain and the cold bite of the wind.
There, I find solace.
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05082021
Posted at 9:46 am , on August 5, 2021
Fire in the sky. Fire in the sky.
Why do I always dream of aeroplanes exploding?
Tragedy unfolded is a cube net; is a sequence of flat paper squares that when folded resembles a cube that is both and is not.
It might take me a while to get my thoughts in order.
It might take me a lifetime to get my thoughts in order.
Unreel, unreal, drag the bucket up from the well. But the rope is far longer now than it’s supposed to be and it just keeps coming.
We pull on the rope for so long that we forget there ever was a bucket. We forget there even was a well.
Oh well.
And so with blistered hands we wonder just why we are holding this rope at all (at all) and decide, perhaps, the most common-sense recourse is to just let the bucket fall.
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Work on a Cosmology
Posted at 8:44 am , on December 15, 2020
I recently began working on a speculative cosmology. My strongest influence, so far, is the philosophy of Empedocles and his concept of the four classical elements (Air, Earth, Water, Fire) as well as the dualistic/opposed forces of Love and Strife. It is also influenced by Einstein’s theory of relativity and scientific theories of spacetime.
This cosmology is, very much, a work in progress and these words and images are intended to be foundational rather than explanatory.
Image one displays reality separated into three distinct layers. These layers may be described as follows (from top to bottom):
Layer 1: The Grid
This is the world of matter which “the living” inhabit. It is a structured, deterministic system of inconceivable complexity that arises from the existence of the lower layers of non-matter. This is primarily the domain of the four classical elements and the reality we see arises out of the combination of these forces in the form of chemical reactions.Layer 2: Styx
This is the domain of darkness and death. This is primarily the domain of Strife. The souls of the dead arrive here after departing from The Grid, into ankle-deep water and soft sand. Many wander in this realm for an eternity until all their Self is absorbed into the waters of the Styx and, eventually, falls as ashes into the layer below. Others–those who Remember–will journey through the Styx towards the pillar of light at the centre: there the Styx becomes a Maelstrom of Memory as it rises to re-join the Grid. In this way, Knowing Reincarnation is possible and the memories of the past give literal rise to the future.Layer 3: Love
This is the region of the Amplituhedron and of Love as an intangible force made tangible. I have depicted this region as a ruined and overgrown garden at the centre of which the Amplituhedron beats like the heart of all reality. It is impossible to reach the region of Love, except through total disintegration of the Self in the waters of the Styx; this process is also known as Forgetting. The falling ashes of those who have Forgotten maintain the growth of the garden–for although memories can fade Love never does: it is the ultimate, indestructible force. The garden feeds the Amplituhedron (heart) of this realm and through the very existence of Love, undying, the Column of Cause pierces through the Styx where it gives eternal (re)birth to the fundamental structure(s) of the Grid.
In this alternate depiction: the forces of Love and Strife entwine themselves both around (and through) each other but also around the four classical elements. In this depiction it could rightly be assumed that the interior of the sphere is the reality that we know–the Grid and the exterior are the warped, incomprehensible regions of Love and Strife respectively.
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The Stone That Saw Me
Posted at 9:00 am , on October 29, 2020
Nothing is true.
Everything is permitted.
Something makes me want to dance.
Anything can happen if you just believe.
From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.
In the end, neither was selected.
Both are guilty.
Either will do.
All is lost. -
Bad Painting of a Desert
Posted at 9:32 am , on May 6, 2020
Sometimes I think it’s important to share a bad painting. It doesn’t have to be a painting, of course, it can be a poem or a story or whatever. Sometimes it’s good to soften the focus around what we consider to be “good” in order to let “okay” into the frame, or “interesting” or, as is the case with this painting of a desert–even “bad”.
There are several reasons I think this important: the first being that a simple scale of good and bad when applied to artistic endeavours is generally unhelpful. There are, of course, matters of technical aptitude that can be applied to art (in any form) and yet even these rules break down as we switch through mediums and styles, reminding us that art is not a set of rules that cleanly differentiates between what is good and what is bad.
I might add that art is not “the opposite” of such rules, but rather: it exists distinctly apart from them: art cannot be bound by any system of rules or standards, it is an ever-changing living communion between the artist and the world; it is nature and nurture and it is neither of those things. It is the breathless voice of the wind.
Another reason that I feel like it’s important to share “bad” art: although, as artists, we may claim to exist beyond these rules and suppositions mentioned above, we are undoubtedly cowed by them. It is easy to feel obligated to exist within these arbitrary scales and it is no secret that the artist is the harshest (and often cruellest) judge of their own work. However, the simple fact is this, and it’s such an important fact that I’m putting it in a quote block:
You can never trust an artists’ own opinion of their work: this includes your own.
Thirdly, distinct and yet related to the points I have already made–we live in such a society where the much of what we see has been highly calibrated to appear “perfect”.
What we don’t see is that even when something appears perfect it is actually a composite: built from the effort of years, built from practice, built from dozens of rough drafts. For every “perfect” painting perhaps ten bad ones must precede it. For every perfect sentence the same. And still, perfection is such a vacuous concept; if Leonardo DaVinci were alive today would he claim that the Mona Lisa is perfect? Personally I think he’d want to burn the thing, or have another go at painting it. Because that’s what artists do.
By sharing images of the process (which many people do online), or even completed “bad” paintings like my desert, we open ourselves up to learning and we can help others learn. Instead of merely showing the best of myself I also seek to show the imperfections and in doing so, I become more true to myself; I become more real.
My “Bad Painting of a Desert” is a practice piece, it is me messing around with (digital) brushes while the TV is on in the background, it is me studying images of sand dunes and of clouds and of colours and of trying to replicate what I see (or perhaps, even more importantly, what I feel). I consider it a “failed painting” which is to say that I had no intention of ever posting it, but then for the reasons above, I changed my mind.
Maybe, one day, I’ll create “A Mediocre Painting of a Desert”, maybe I won’t. In essence it’s unimportant, because from the very moment I hit publish this work ceases to become a “failed painting” and becomes something else, it becomes exactly what it is and what it always was: it becomes “Bad Painting of a Desert”.
It is art.
And it is not the only “failed painting” I have shared so far. For others, check out Egypt and Shovel; both of which see me experimenting with entirely new mediums. Objectively, neither of them are good paintings and yet, by virtue of their very existence, they are art.
So? Don’t be afraid to make bad art and if you’re brave enough: share it. Because the world needs it. Other artists need it and maybe… you need it too.
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Michael Scott Hand 