8.2.14


I'm a big fan of mud, it reminds me of being little on cold springtime days when my cheeks and chin and the tip of my nose would feel cold and detached from the rest of my face, playing in the woods with the bare trees and the little sprouts pushing up the last fall's leaf litter.

Mud represents, also, for me, the decline and fall of biological organization, the subsidence of order and the blurring of distinctions. The breaking down of structure and identity into chaos, which appears not as a disorder but a unity.

I went walking today and found myself in a lot of mud. It maybe also inspired my fascination with wetland ecosystems, which in turn led me to a recent appreciation for grasses. It's probably (for sure) related to my abiding love for water, and who doesn't feel that? Running through a landscape like an emissary from somewhere else, universally dissolving, cohering and adhering, following all the laws of physics in its particular visible way.

In the summer, at work, if you turn on the cold water tap you can feel it cold, then briefly and surprisingly warm, before it comes around to its official temperature. It's like feeling the physical map of the water and the pipes translated into motion and time as it passes by - the cool shadows of the building's interior, then some length of space where it was sitting exposed to the sun, and then wherever  cold darkness it came through before that.

I'm sorry I've been dwelling so much on the past, but it's impossible to get away from where we've come from.




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