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 confession which trembles at its confessional surrender, re-veiling what it reveals, The Book of Distance is an exploration of the asymmetry between the self and the other, a meditation on loneliness, and the strange ways in which relation, however clumsy, however frightening, tends to come about.
This is less a text and more a body of work, belonging to myself no more than it belongs to you: reader, viewer, witness. I would never have written anything like this, or anything at all, for myself alone. All of this—what I offer of, from, even for myself—is in large part all for you, devoted to some ill-fitting and unfamiliar collective formed from people and of pieces that will never quite fit: a commune which could never comfort itself to the community it will have formed.
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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