task.

theories-of:

Agnes Martin - Untitled

Something about feeling able to look through and past the page into some greater deep; as though we were brighter animals. A cold desert, bad eyesight. Mute and also inbetween. 

I have been trying for a long time to push out of this silence and just noticed that the biggest part of that is pushing out of the constant shame I have for the things I am creating, or trying to create. Resistance to the saving and presentation of thoughts. I have been trying to make smaller the things I grew in school, because in the silencing I thought I saw some kind of desirable softness; and part of me will always want that softness, and will always want to wake up shame-free, guilt-free, with no words to regret. But I am regretting more and more of my words and my actions, all of the few that there are now, all of them except for the running which pushes me into myself and compresses me down to this hard ball of honest muscle and breath. So anyway, I’m going to write about this, and it is not going to be pleasant, and I am not going to feel good about it, not for a long time. 

The other night I found myself trying to have a conversation with someone I barely know, a get-to-know-you conversation, and my belly felt hot and my neck so tense. I was missing all of my marks and sounding so pointless, so lost and sad. And I thought, I barely recognize this. Who am I and why am I speaking this way, so stunted, so jilted and weird. I love a horizon, love a horizon I can’t touch. Going to start barreling through to it, though, full tilt. Expect many more of these horribly written nonsense posts. Expect longform and freeform and insufferable.

(via rerereview)