Today the fields are empty and silent

i want to talk to you like machine written on occasion of IchikawaEdward’s exhibition: Today the fields are empty and silent by daniel ward. the old train on the new rail, as if lightning or the future the time gorgeous metal how you would not operate quite so well if we were not here and here i am inclined to adjust my definition of symbiotic or make a new word for you or perhaps a word that confirms further your mystery and if we are not here with you although we wish to be you would be still and you would be heavy and you would sit more surely as we all do in the illusion of permanency grand flicks between mystery and confirmation and somehow to be unbothered there along the line; a real relic, a statue, a shrine to movement almost how everything acts in complete servitude to a once kinetic all momentum and eventuality as the pretty cool victim of inertia which could also be called life/animated/accelerating/surviving/skating on the rail but now as we do not wish to, or no longer know how to, operate you you are floored, still so extraordinary incredibly so and left out as a site of wonder to become something we instead are left in, like rust but for the viewer and to construct a world from this or rather watch a world construct in pure and illogical adoration and age always age resting heavy in our beautifully flawed memory and out of nervousness comes war and from war comes solid and now unusable things metal and much stone and very tired bodies for war is an incredible exercise in time and objects machines and ideas an incredible structure of mirrors and much smoke; 50 thousand tiny cigarettes lit but all close to death but now in this room for at least a moment it is calm for we are no longer here to louden or lubricate you great machine and so a day begins without the sounds of the suburban train and the bomb sits in the stable safe as a baby the same baby that we wish to be in the world as but are not quite so sure, a little dreamer, but for consciousness now for an image of the self everyone is dreaming when the world is wonderful and welcome and whilst it burns we are dreaming also train sounds remind us of life they also teach us how we mustn’t now blame you big brave metal pulled from your home and cleansed by taste or business or art or violence indeed we should admire your resilience your flexibility and your strength and so as one dances death, with it a maypole is constructed and so the cigarette, which is now machine also, is not the only instrument for learning pleasure the lighter too is a cock and the hand that lights it this you must remember turning and do not be feared of this you find yourself saying turning for this is a mistake of many turning to suggest the object holds within it evil, as if inside the metal or within the hollow parts for when we look at metal which we do now we look within it right now and we look at ourselves which is the most horrifying; to face what is obtainable and what isn’t the always distorted representation; our watery reflection not quite what we are but close, for what we are is the space between desire and regret and this is not a solid space quite like metal over the most correct fire, until fully liquid big metal when you were alive, or perhaps when you were animated by our desires, i would avoid you when i was loose and when interested in my body (which is to only temporarily be distinguished from the mind) for i had understood you as the mascot to my unhappiness you were the market and the goods and the carrier you were what i feared but when you are dead and a shrine i quietly honour you great done thing big jacket, big bolt i mean i could sing for you kneeling to present oneself as in honour of or in celebration to or under and so in vulnerability i could sing water to the always moving and distorted in which one does not simply know themselves but in the mirror, which we know to be like dreaming or water, you are big and scary for in the mirror we see our fear of the future and in the mirror we face the growing regrets of our past and that too is art, but art must also be that which grounds us, here in life water and so the object dies to become our thought and the thoughts die in the body fairly quickly even soonish and they are resting fair and heavy somewhere in the stomach and so life as the big deep learning hello machine that is my body that does terrible things in the world and beautiful things builds its grandest desires and celebrates the greatest balance act you are a life of dreaming you are a life of such pleasant concern of which can be ruptured at any moment by machine through the roof imagine not writing about war and about pain and greed the more i write it the more i think i might fight back but there is unfortunately not one direction to move that is not in replacement of the chaos the longing feeling of falling the learnt obsolescence of you dear reflection of you, other mind and great dancer and we all want to fight somewhere as a kind of chanting or singing but how distracted i am oh sweet reflection infinite star whose death i watch in the sky or the mirror alike oh humble hedonist oh ant of the bulb you have my every attention you have my whole commitment you have the water the water the water today the fields are empty and silent in fact one enormous body like our body, the mirror; the most beautiful weapon we have ever seen and our evil as the great sum of our conversations with the earth of disruptions and patterns, transferring of power back and forth, mowing the lawn and if we stopped killing ourselves we could finally mow the lawn to sculpt a symbol of praise be it to abstinence or humility or chaos for machines exist as many gods shaped like swords and regal adornments many small celebrations and such great explosions and so machines are here in the inbetween, moving as the product of life; between the fundamentals of classical and romantic; the sexiest weapon you have ever seen shining in paradise hands a mirror to the future imaginings of one’s stomach and crotch within the confines of efficiency and precision and logic or understanding or great design as if magnets levitating the grand object of life the great shrine sits between fixing something and honouring its disorder as mythology / as ideas / as events / and eventually patterns: incredibly loud events of killing and theft so many in fact one can assume that the post-apocalyptic aesthetic of it all, of the firearm that we are, was simply to normalise one’s own poverty or speak to its imminent and constant breaking and oh the grandness of our collapse towards infinity the inuterable power, surely, just to stand and look today there is nobody to kill for now in the water holds our spirit the cool shining liquid and we die as our contemplations of missing out or purity or mortality or survival or sport but today, a beautiful day it is birdsong that reminds us of life it is air through dried grass streams running but not seen, life abundant and rotating and we completely silent