freestanding combine

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Musing. Amusing myself with free association, like hunting aimlessly through an antique show. Or wandering from Web page to page.

On my desktop, what an odd array of things (icons metonymic of things) have resulted from recent days, including URL icons of things to be read in the next few days (indexically reaching into the planetary ether), merely belonging in what they have: shared location in a life advancing some proximally incongruous array of interests—interests that are
not primordially incongruous (I claim).

Take a gathering of ideas, points, calling for an unfound coherence,
like a Rauschenbergian heir on his studio floor before a thing is concerted out of the mess that looks like a child’s playroom.

Another week, another life, a temporal point of a species that forgets most everything, a sign of our finitude, at best (or primal vacuity,
at worst). Limited in intelligence and time for understanding,
one archives, anticipating a role for understanding the next thing
in a future architecture.

One can bear only so much that we grant deserves to be understood, someday. Otherwise, one lets go, lets die, not feeling guilty about
the necessity.

Leading notes (emergent from The Inestimable) gravitate
into leading pages, projects in a sense of going on that’s just relative
to my own desire, curiosity, love of provocation, portending
some numinous hybridity, fissions, synergies amid an inestimable array of promising things.

One might regard Rauschenberg as a cliché now, though he’s really monumental in the conceptual evolution of art.

You’ve seen a photo of his 1950s goat with a tire around its middle: “Monogram,” 1955-59. Four years in the genesis?—during which surely much other work was completed, in development, and still developing, when the thing was deemed done. Like the artist (who may bring—“eat” anything into his art), perhaps, “Monogram” is one tired goat.

On the montagial surface on which the tired goat stands, things were emplaced and removed over the years until, finally he lets go: It is that concept of a bricolagic incongruity of his time embodied finally
by the thing that’s a trace of the work, like appreciating that standing
of The Goat’s enabling of Greek-to-Western civilization is a trace
of what enabled Us—the Work of Western humanity troped in an artistry (like any work?: Found Art everywhere?) expressing an estimable mental archive of things pretending to belong to the world intruding on medi-ality (as if all things are hermeneutical), variably asserted by artistry
to belong—as deserving of Art’s pretense as any other happenstantial assemblage called natural or proffered by design—Intended, the artist proclaims, like gods intended by grace of our intending them, released
into being work Done, emblemized by the trace of the sojourn: the thing called the work of art that’s really a metonym, its storied genesis
an allegory of the working that is the real art, no longer the gravity of
his play, like one’s child grown into its ownmost futurity, releasing hiermself into unknown days of which first sense is to be made in light
of vintage conceptions about who lives way beyond.

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