The Dreamer's Pursuit of a Self-Referentiality by SR
"A frenzied reality—I command myself to imagine touching objects, or seeing people, actively transforming what something is into something it is not. A total immolation of the self into something other. Heartbreak reminds us of that.”
Every image conceived in the dream functions as a text to be read. The texts of the unconscious and the letters inscribed on a page each are lined like lacerations, opening as obfuscations, imposing an interminable limit which resists reason's attempts to make sense—one must tear through the tissue towards what is most precious; the repressed, raw and searing heart of the matter.
Oneiric "automatism" does not merely conjure images and ideas in the mind, but becomes punctured, penetrated and conjoined by a heedless convergence of linguistic materialities: word, symbol, object, memory. The task is, in some sense, to carve through the manifest material of the dream to the belly of the muscle, seeking the spot where the navel is knotted, where the fibers of the multifarious strange, terrifying or downright banal forms seen in dreams lead to the adhesions constituting the symptom.
SR's project experiments with control and freneticism, meticulously cataloging her dreams for content to exploit and explode, unleashing their affects through associative and synecodchic strains of logic which conjoins poetry, automatism, the found object and academic extraction in a confessional and messy oneirotic text.
The Book of Distance by Terrin Winkel (Leonard Klossner)
SR, Natalie Odom, Jason Jenkins, Xylon Otterburn, Augustus Brasfield
"Always and again I waste myself for you. So you might adore me in my absence. For you to hold my ashes: not in the urn but in your hands. To watch myself blown by the breeze, and to glimpse your tears, blurred in my periphery, as I leave you behind.”
A book of agony. A book of wishes. The demand to love in the face of impossibility, if not to love impossibility itself. A relentless, perhaps futile search: for oneself and for the other. The Book of Distance is a work of poetics, a meditation on longing, on the structure and process of connection, and a dramatization of the aching pursuit towards a dressing or a healing of a wound that cannot close. More than anything: a wound which unknowingly compels us towards this pursuit.
The distance and dimension of this wound, maybe more than anything, wrenches open the space in which relation becomes possible. Without this incessant pain, there is no possibility for beauty or for love. And maybe desire is the name for this wound whose recurrent bleeding waters the gardens of communion. Is it that pain - could we even ask, at the outmost limit, if death - promises renewal, that death mothers life? These are the questions which haunt this text.
Here are the tongues, a collection of teeth wrenched from many mouths. Here are the gruesome limbs reaching from the mutant body, grasping always elsewhere, seeking fresh skin to sew upon its own. Even now this text is not complete: it will have always awaited your arrival. You are here, and yet it awaits you still. You are here, and yet you are missed already. In some sense, you are already gone. Here, then, is our book of distance.
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