E.D. A Love Scene. 2009 Acrylic on canvas, 50x60"
I look at the familiar face to see unfamiliar. The person behind the
face is unknown. Facial features, facial expressions don’t reveal anything
about the person behind the face, but there is also no such thing as behind.
The person is the face.
I look at my face in the mirror to see unfamiliar. Behind the face I
am unknown. Facial features, facial expressions don’t reveal anything, but
there is also no such thing as behind. I am the face.
Religion teaches that god knows me; teology teaches that god cannot be
known. I cannot know the god who knows me. So what do I do? I fall in love. If
I am too old to fall, I just love.
In love I desire to know and to be known. I desire to dissolve
completely in the poor fellow I love.
Sex, of cause, is the most obvious way to pursue this desire, but I am
ultimately unsuccessful in it. I am tempted to buy every magazine
in supermarket promising to reveal the secret of successful sex.
But recently I realized that successful sex is in the way of
thinking.
Leave the preoccupied consciousness behind to enter the realms of unconscious. There everything is the successful sex!
The greatest pleasure comes from the experience
of oneness, like in a mother and a baby. Starting to engage in
efforts of self-assertion, we have lost it forever. Blame the prefrontal lobe whose uncontrollable
growth gives the mature consciousness superiority over poor infantile unconscious,
like eating an apple from the tree, like the original sin.
Ovaries and testicles ripen at the same time giving an impression that sin is in the sex.
How confusing! Sex helps to overcome separateness and connect the
mature human non-animals with the world, whereas consciousness triggers
self-conscious, ambitious and egotistic, and prevents people from kissing each
other.
There is nothing left for poor non-beasts but to wait for the death's eternal kiss, the one that brings back the lost infantile experience of oneness. It comes in the aroma of final dissolution of our ever-unfamiliar faces, like paradise, like shit.
There is nothing left for poor non-beasts but to wait for the death's eternal kiss, the one that brings back the lost infantile experience of oneness. It comes in the aroma of final dissolution of our ever-unfamiliar faces, like paradise, like shit.
