Long after, return to bindings of selfhood as otherized manifestations of love and playing thief. I lost to her gimmicking morphed images. Truth made me so proud, that I wished all. My zonal inclinations are the non-morbid self seekers from the street. The street ended no more; rather the obsolete
Deep seated scar of going afar, yet stay within the norms of nominalism. Landscapes are for real, whose tropes suits the elsewhere. Landscape tropes fit the narcotic dreamer. But the story was not so from the beginning. It was love for the places, which bifurcates the daily emission with a
It was a kind of ecstasy. Being the pinch hitter in group of sultry hoodlums. My man was Som and the little crook Sujit. Who’s who of canned lumpency of Hatarpara, just opposite of our school, red and gray, which most of the time represented French arson gallery. All the
Admonishers are welcome to think through the life ad-hocing school selfhood of hundred kilometres north point from the city. Life reckons the beneficiary of being a school guy. Tierra Del Fuego lips were far away from the school childs imagining of Gestapo as the complete other of nuance ridden Zionist
Self nurtures the non-movemental being with for –the-self. Self situates itself in admonishing its forcefully stationed conglomeration. Life march passes it. Codeine inebriation! Looking the Buddha looks. Full –baked cogital interfaces. Substances substantiates being ‘in-itself’, raised to the nether world of objectal otherhood principia. Chief occurrence being stationary self-possessed octopus
Having is not so easy. On how I have hundred kilometres north point from the city, can basically be dropped out as an illusion. Mere merriment of soul, amidst the hazardous stilted life of city. Me and Joydip shared drinks for the first time in life, we were barely fourteen.
Being on its own, begets forgetting account. The transversal of being erupts as soul seeking search at the end of the parchment. Heroine transverses its own self. Who’s who of the area, 23rd lane and Young Mr. R. We were held atop. Life’s reckoning past the obsolete grain against the
Tin jam half baked sausages. No routine of permanence for ad-hoc being’s selfified stasis of motion ‘in-itself’ occurrence. The notional routine being bypassers emblematic adage of recognition. Who’s who of the bakery stole a few junk ridden paisas. Enough for a grass eater. Not for us. I sold the family
Ontical is the necessity. Nature abounds in everyday. It is habit. Ten thousands year old nature’s negation of elliptical curve. Shrill sound of thunder. My windowpane not resolved in nothing. I seek. Post-deconstructive meta distils the thunder as life form. Life’s negation of eliipsis as formation of second status, habit.
Ai Weiwei’s rhizomatic four gallery show (NYC, Fall 2016) may be the perfect opportunity to revisit the post-colonial argument brought to light by Thomas McEvilley’s review of MoMA’s 1984 exhibition “Primitivism” in 20th Century Art. The essence of McEvilley’s inquiry being: By placing an Other in the cannon of contemporary art are