I can't help it. I don't know what to do with my self. I can't do homework. I just sit here and bullshit.
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Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Allegory On A Painting
Upon my wall lies a painting. Who its by and what it concerns are no matter. The point is my grandfather gave me this painting with the intention that i could gain all of the human condition, that within its very pixels lie the torment and the despair and the glory that makes us human. He told me i could have this not to study, for it was not a matter of understanding. He told me no one shall know it's secrets. No one. He spoke with a slow lithuanian accent that spoke like the old fields where he harvested hope and drank life from canteens and then he told me slowly "You shall receive this painting with the full understanding and the hope that it may give you the reducto absurdum that garnishes all of mans knowledge and experience in its very brush strokes, not for pain or for pitty, but for rememberance." I dont even look at the painting, for if i do then life as i know it will become meaningless. The painting is dark and the contours of its figures while vibrant are indescrite, whenever you look at it you can make out its secrets but the shapes do not explicitly speak them to you. You must gather, from years of empirical and intellectual knowledge, what the painting truly conveys. However old the truism is that you know what you can see might as well be thrown out the window. I do not know this painting anymore than it knows me. It being animate, not inanimate as i, it containing life force, i containing despair and the human condition, it not containing a breath, a tear, it not containing properties but rather exerting them, for all those eyes who view it to understand its rapture. i do not know this painting anymore than god knows me, i do not know god anymore than this picture knows me. I know this painting is true, but i do not know how it is true. My grandfather told me that this is infact a portrait, that in fact despite its artistic rendition it is in fact true,it happened, i have not yet happend, no one yet knows me, not unlike the intereptation granted to this painting, i am not a painting, rather a complete brush stroke in the shaky hand of life. Waiting but never leaving the canvus, so in many ways i can relate to this painting. When i look at it my eyes burn with all the fury of a million doves scattering from mountains where fire lay, where i lay, and it burns my eyes as if i were it looking in the sun, as if i were the painting looking into the sun of my eyes. What i would like you to know, is that this painting is nothing more than a allegory. You may seek the truth, but you will never know it, it will be pixilated and imperfect, it will be half there and half not, it may be bright or dull but no matter its texture it will not shine like you believe it to shine. The painting does not exist, but i believe in this painting, just like i believe in truth, i can't see it, just like i can't make out the shapes of a painting but i know they are there. Take this knowledge and pass it on.
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