Dig The Inbetween
2014, wooden structure, granulated rubber, neon lights, white paint, drawing on paper
A small luminous house.
There’s always a house because every single thought exists in human proportion. Even impossible ones. Even the notion of “impossible”.
A state of inbetween. The state of inbetween. It could also be a place. It usually comes down to places because of the constant need to belong, to have a reference point.
Inbetween is abstract, it’s neither here or there.
A luminous house on a slippery hill, that’s neither here or there.
PRAISE MILK
TRUST FORWARDNESS
MOUTH THE NIGHT
DIG THE INBETWEEN
You know it, I know it, and neither of us knows it.
A house with no walls but that signals presence with light, a child-like symbol of protection.
Unclimbable hills that have been there since forever and that make you feel so small. You are a speck, but a speck that is making up every blade of grass and river and mole borough on that hill. And the hill itself. You never left the comfort of your small room.
Handwriting is so old-school. It makes me feel handicapped. I like it.
I am always (in the) inbetween. This causes the electric eels in my stomach to swim in circles for no reason and makes the concept of “right now” impossible.
As someone with a college degree once said “you’re at peace with the past and excited about the future but you have no present”.
I am a minuscule lamb made of borazon and guts.
To DIG UP something is a physical thing. It’s a clean and earthly process, it takes coordination and strength.
To poetically DIG is to feel something to the point of merging with it. To enjoy by entering, by altering, by forming a nest, by feeling something from within, the hole you made into that certain something and it into you.
What kind of a shovel would one use in order to dig the inbetween?
A graveyard of immaterial holes where almost all of the inbetween has been dug out.
Sitting upon a rock should make things much clearer. SWALLOW THE INBETWEEN
I have a sore index finger that has no intention of healing. I will miss it when it finally goes away.
How come I am sinking when trying to climb? Are you sure this inbetween is not expired? Did you add enough salt?
I think you and I share the same inbetween. The first one to turn right or left or up or down loses.
Today I felt like if the world was going to end right then and there (and I kept setting landmarks that I had to reach in order for it to happen, such as “when I reach that sidewalk” or “when I reach that trash can”, etc.) it would really be ok. Then I realized I was not in the present but in a strange version of an immediate future, whose continuity I would compromise for the beauty of a very slippery yet apocalyptically sublime “right now”. Only now I can realize that all that was was actually me being in the right now or the right then, I mean, actually being here, or there, for once or ever.
The inbetween is when sleep kick’s in but only just, and your body is gone, floating somewhere, relieved of its weight, but your ears are still fixating on the ticking sound the clock makes, right before it becomes hypnotic and is dissolved and the rest of you catches up with your immaterial body.
There’s always a house because every single thought exists in human proportion. Even impossible ones. Even the notion of “impossible”.
A state of inbetween. The state of inbetween. It could also be a place. It usually comes down to places because of the constant need to belong, to have a reference point.
Inbetween is abstract, it’s neither here or there.
A luminous house on a slippery hill, that’s neither here or there.
PRAISE MILK
TRUST FORWARDNESS
MOUTH THE NIGHT
DIG THE INBETWEEN
You know it, I know it, and neither of us knows it.
A house with no walls but that signals presence with light, a child-like symbol of protection.
Unclimbable hills that have been there since forever and that make you feel so small. You are a speck, but a speck that is making up every blade of grass and river and mole borough on that hill. And the hill itself. You never left the comfort of your small room.
Handwriting is so old-school. It makes me feel handicapped. I like it.
I am always (in the) inbetween. This causes the electric eels in my stomach to swim in circles for no reason and makes the concept of “right now” impossible.
As someone with a college degree once said “you’re at peace with the past and excited about the future but you have no present”.
I am a minuscule lamb made of borazon and guts.
To DIG UP something is a physical thing. It’s a clean and earthly process, it takes coordination and strength.
To poetically DIG is to feel something to the point of merging with it. To enjoy by entering, by altering, by forming a nest, by feeling something from within, the hole you made into that certain something and it into you.
What kind of a shovel would one use in order to dig the inbetween?
A graveyard of immaterial holes where almost all of the inbetween has been dug out.
Sitting upon a rock should make things much clearer. SWALLOW THE INBETWEEN
I have a sore index finger that has no intention of healing. I will miss it when it finally goes away.
How come I am sinking when trying to climb? Are you sure this inbetween is not expired? Did you add enough salt?
I think you and I share the same inbetween. The first one to turn right or left or up or down loses.
Today I felt like if the world was going to end right then and there (and I kept setting landmarks that I had to reach in order for it to happen, such as “when I reach that sidewalk” or “when I reach that trash can”, etc.) it would really be ok. Then I realized I was not in the present but in a strange version of an immediate future, whose continuity I would compromise for the beauty of a very slippery yet apocalyptically sublime “right now”. Only now I can realize that all that was was actually me being in the right now or the right then, I mean, actually being here, or there, for once or ever.
The inbetween is when sleep kick’s in but only just, and your body is gone, floating somewhere, relieved of its weight, but your ears are still fixating on the ticking sound the clock makes, right before it becomes hypnotic and is dissolved and the rest of you catches up with your immaterial body.