Utopian Turtletop. Monsieur Croche's BĂȘte Noire. Contact: turtletop [at] hotmail [dot] com

Friday, December 28, 2007

we are born into language -- our mother tongue -- and the language forms our awareness, we pull and stretch at the edges of the words, infinitely pliable, words burst forth from other words, burrow through from somewhere inside their clutchy roots, dirt and hair and stones clumped together, when outblossoms a bud and we drink in our old friend, the deep contentment of branching together, the contentment being the content, edging into the substance, the standing under, the stationary trip verging unto one, wonder, neither won nor lost but given, the present.

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In an argument about aesthetics, I was tempted to call any sincere use of the word "kitsch" inherently kitschy, but that sort of self-reflexive irony is kitschy too, as is this "having-your-cake-and-eating-it-too" usage/non-usage of the term. It's as if I'm trapped in a kitschy hall of mirrors where I neither believe nor disbelieve in the concept of kitsch, when I really (mostly) don't believe.

When I stop wanting to trade insults with my interlocutor, the hall of mirrors disappears, and I'm left on a vacant plain where a sinister amusement park had swirled around me.

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