It has been a frustrating week and this letter is perhaps an opportunity to sort out why that is. The feeling is of forgetfulness, almost a mundane amnesia, like an everyday fog that slowly settles back down upon the firmament of my mind to obscure all of the clarity of vision and reticulated thought I have labored to achieve on previous days. Sometimes it appears as though all of my human energy is nil and for naught if its not encased within a material container of some kind, a thought rooted in a very old epiphany that led me to become an artist in the first place. On other occasions it seems essential to let life "be," to leave it alone in all of its frailty. Like pure salty water from a glassy sapphire ocean splashed upon the sizzling slate plate of the mind, it bubbles and hisses in mesmerizing aleatoric symphonies, through dreams and wakeful contemplation, speaking only of heat and liquidity. liquidity. Its the feeling of the consonance and dissonance produced my the mixing elements that fills the air with meaning and it shouldn't matter if its documented in a recording, or even further, it detracts from the experience of the steam bath to try to capture its essence. Isn't this the nature of distraction, and isn't art therefore the greatest distraction from a life being lived, a life coming into realization of its own becoming? When this feeling settles into my lap it becomes impossible to make anything as I cannot remove myself from the present moment. The problem is one of satisfaction, relating to a sense of accomplishment in producing something, and also of satiation of my appetite for sensual pleasure and cerebral expansiveness, but mostly its a problem of memory. If I remain in this moment I am always already forgetting everything which came before, yet if I dedicate myself to the task of unraveling a nostalgic tangent or drawing a trajectory though a particular historical architecture I begin to become dislodged from the present-being driving the mechanisms of inquiry. I often wonder if there isn't enough of my self to go around, to be dispersed in all of the competing attentions that I would like to apply myself to, and if the secret to a satisfied existence isn't giving up on the juggling of variables in order to bury one's head in the sand of a single temporal dimension.

Of course that's ridiculous, to live such a flat life, to settle for anything less than the full range of human experience even if it means perpetual terror, suffering, angst, or ennui. Or (to spare the dramaturgical flavor) at least of forgetfulness, which you must admit is its own breed of psychological horror. So I keep working, however I can, experimenting with different methods of thinking and thinking about thinking and also sometimes not thinking in favor of pure unadulterated experience, although it is often difficult to decipher the work from the life regardless of the method. Every morning is a fresh start and every evening is a new opportunity to evaluate my efforts towards devising a strategy to relentlessly attack the encroaching unknown. I'm so fascinated by the idea of liberating myself from this system of temporal cycles - through the ingestion of psychotropic substances, or rigorous self-liquidation such as can be observed in the arts of Zen, or any other paradigm, be it pragmatic indoctrination or mystical hypnosis, which promises liberation - although I must admit that the prospect of being removed from the procession of linear time often seems as terrifying as remaining compartmentalized within it. So what is the ideal that I strive for then? Well, it lies at the interstice (as I always say and as we've discussed). It's the gradient what we construct together, through difference, lying somewhere mostly "outside of ourselves" (what a silly idea) though not completely whole contained within any singular self, and just where is that precisely? This, I believe, is the utopia dreamed of by ancient civilizations. Not a practical utopia of militaristic music, ascetic pedagogy, and strict moral discipline as described by Plato, or its hedonistic-anarchic inversion, but of the place which is no-place expanding in the cracks, that which cannot be pointed to directly. "The which for which there is no whicher."

Right. We have already discussed all this, nothing new except the perpetual struggle of new-ness reconciled with our never-same-old selves. You and I can skip down many merry roads ruminating upon all the intricacies of the golden mnemonic cobblestones flinting sparks of inspiration from our copper clad idiosyncrasies - no problem there, just pure joy. But what about everyone else in the world? What about all the other realities all of these other humans are inhabiting, deeply dug in trenches war-worn with conflict painted in various shades of gray...? Why do I even bother considering them? "Human-all-too-human."

As you know, I am currently here at "the source" (ie: my parents house) to confront the ontologies that created me, to address the perspectives that spawn my own, to attempt once again to tread upon this unstable ground with legs that have ventured out to the far reaches of sanity and back again. I feel pretty well prepared to absorb the tremors, but that doesn't mean that I'm not taking a beating in the process. What I'm witnessing here is a primordial fear buried beneath a vengeful hubris and a vitriolic denial of rigorous thought obscured by the plush blindfold of denial and insecurity. Its painful to see and terrifying to empathize with. I have lived my life in the wake of this dark wave with no epicenter, dispersed throughout the hegemonies of the world, amplified by the most sacred familial bonds, and as such I have struggled my whole life to sever myself from the influences of evil without destroying my very real human relationships. I never said it would be easy, or even possible, but I must try for I cannot perpetuate these terrors, cannot allow myself to repeat the mistakes that are so clearly displayed before me, and in some demented way even believe it to be my responsibility to do so. Yes, I admit that I act selfishly, that I wish to be liberated from this reign of terror and nausea and very much believe that it is possible without resorting to a theoretical escapist utopia, but I am also determined to craft a course of action fueled by compassion for those that I love, not to act as a weak savior or false prophet but to challenge the structures imposed upon us - composing in turn the infrastructures that we can build upon - to prove that there are other ways to live.

Perhaps this all sounds so dramatic, or comedic, and perhaps it is both. This is the stuff that sitcoms are made of. This is the fodder for numerous distractions, at least potentially, and I realize this dangerous potential now, at the cusp of venturing in, before I have truly begun. However, I am confident that I am not interested in dramatizing existence, or in making light of these leaden situations, but am in fact motivated by questions of truth and meaning, driven to depict the functioning fulcrum of reality, and willing to admit that such an endeavor is quintessentially tragic by nature. I'm willing to take on this weight, believing that I can somehow carry the load without my existence becoming irreversibly scarred by the burden. To survive this trial of tribulations I must have confidence in my self and maintain a diligent work ethic so as not to become lost in the morass of perpetually shifting grounds. There is also something else that I sense is needed, something based in intuition, in pure feeling - which is to say not a sensual experience of the body as much as a disembodied propulsion towards truth, an exercise of the will - that seems to approach the taboo of faith. But faith in what, or whom? We have discussed this topic a bit, and will much more I'm sure. Such a concept is inextricably bound to the perceived "weight" of being, as a kind of instrument, a barometer of existential diligence, and I for one am certainly interested in flaying open this etheric body to examine the phosphorescent entrails and see what new stains might be made upon my flickering soul, if there can be said to be one at all over which we will never be sure.

This touches upon yet another topic of grand importance: risk, specifically as it relates to the propulsion to create. There seems a great danger here in impulsive and reckless maneuvers, actions less of science or poetics than sheer idiocy mistaken as bravery, and I must be careful not to be a fool rushing in to an oven too hot to bear. On the other hand, I can see no point in proceeding - through any lived experience or artistic production - without gambling, throwing it all to fate or chance, so long as I can maintain faith in the oracle and not suffer the superstitions. Again, a curvaceous ouroborous biting back to the nadir of faith before the unknowable, which in itself seems to be the greatest risk I can imagine taking and so must proceed, even as (and of course because) it causes such distress. I'm risking everything coming here, in a way, or at least I intend to.

There was an incident with my father this morning. It's difficult to accurately depict the tumultuous psychic states, but I would define the scenario as a tension exacerbated by timbre and amplitude, of internal anxieties manifesting externally through psychically dissonant communication, and a complete lack of tact or poise. It began with a desire to go to a local hiking trail with my mother - her idea in fact - and I decided to extend the invitation to my father. Last night, when I first asked him, his immediate response was that we couldn't use the vehicle on the dirt road leading to the trailhead followed by a discussion concerning our safety, which is absolutely preposterous considering it is a state park area that attracts numerous visitors each day. It isn't the content of the discussion that was problematic - although it betrays some disconcerting anxieties related to his trust in our judgment and abilities - so much as it was the conduct of how it was excitedly exclaimed. My father speaks with high stress, at high volume, at high intensity, and its all fueled by defensiveness. It seems there is no topic too small or banal that will not instigate his fiery tongued furnace of frustration. He says it's "just the way [he] speaks" as though it were an innate sensibility to yell about what we're having for dinner. To witness it is rather perplexing for me, oscillating between empathetic fear, tragi-comic humor, and sheer depression that such a seemingly strong willed individual could be suffering from his own devices in such a manner. Anyways, I held my own ground and defended my mother's integrity by maintaining that safety was certainly not a concern and if he wished to join us his presence would be welcomed. End of discussion, retreat into the silent ambivalence of the poorly made film we were watching (as an aside, it is difficult to find an opportunity to engage with my father when there isn't some propaganda flickering across the screen). This morning, while casually discussing if the weather was appropriate for a brief hike, the subject is immediately attacked for being a terrible idea in consideration of my mother's poor physical state - completely absurd. It is vehemently argued by my father that the car will be damaged through our negligence, my mother will suffer due to her failing health combined with my refusal to stay by her side, and in the end I will merely succeed in achieving much unneeded frustration in attempting to go at all. You must remember that this was not articulated calmly, but tore through the calm gray morning silence like a flash flood in the desert, devastating all the landscape in its wake, completely negligent to any other will save its own momentum, and before I could have my first sip of coffee!

Well, to say the least I snapped and began echoing the tones and temperaments I was hearing in his voice as I responded that if all he aimed to contribute was fear and anxiety then I believe we would all be better off not hearing it. He response was to back pedal into defensiveness, implying that I was not being receptive to his perspective and was to blame for the heightened states, leaving me astonished and speechless. I cannot decide if this emotional manipulation is intentionally applied or merely a naive extension of his own inner turmoil: the prior is certainly a radical accusation - though not completely unfounded - while the later runs counter to my own firm principles that every person must be met upon the grounds that they place themselves. I must meet others as allies until they prove their deceitfulness through actions. This "principle" dictates that I live by example, to hold myself accountable to my own actions and even though I cannot predict how they will be received by others I must share in the responsibility of the affect to the extent that I can claim to be a self-reflexive person living a willful life of meaning and intention in a society of equal peers. This theory can be more clearly articulated through future meditations, but that's the gist of it.

So I left the conversation, abruptly and on a sour note, and I now feel this conflict of responsibility. On one hand I recognize that I play a role in the conversation and that I am solely accountable to directing the exchange towards more fruitful territories, which is to say that I can't defer the responsibility to anyone else. On the other hand, I cannot take responsibility for the negligent behaviors of my father, according to social etiquette as well as my refusal to internalize his fear, so therefore I cannot proceed as though he is at fault or requires changing. On the contrary, I must allow him to act as he will and respond to what is given - I am no psychoanalyst nor other professional of the mind with the authority to say otherwise. I continue to fortify myself from the terrors of the world out of necessity, for sake of survival, in the interest of risk and creation and my own philosophical imperatives. I will not rebuke my own principles and I will not be treated with disrespect: quite a "pickle" as we say here in the states. Truly between a bedrock of my own firmament and the hard place of defiance before my father's follies.

[On a side note, I cannot help but feel this is all a manifestation of some deep-seated male violence to the Other, which really pisses me off. I completely despise intimidation tactics and it truly sickens me to even consider that I may have to endure them at the hands of my own father, whether he is conscious of his effects upon me or not. My own romantic ideal of love is certainly grounded in a longing for a strong minded female counterpart living a life not so dissimilar from my own whom I trust enough to firmly disqualify certain beliefs as pure male foolishness so that perhaps I could be free of them once and for all and move along to more pertinent matters, as unimaginable as they may be as of now.]

My mother is obviously an entirely different psychological situation, as is expected in dealing with an entirely different cogito-personae. We have our differences in perspective and she is haunted by her own equally devastating insecurities, but we at least share in a common recognition of the importance of communicating our inner cosmos for the sake of our relationship health. I have gone through a few stages of experimenting with radical honesty with my parents, revealing deep secrets or admitting certain subjective weaknesses to them with a severe transparency that would make other members of our anxiety-riddled generation crumble at the seams. My motivation was partially selfish, to get this sticky gelatinous psychic residue out of my head so as to unburden my maneuvers through life, but I also firmly believe that I have offered my whole life up as a gift. I struggle with this, fearing that this is perhaps a delusion which makes me out to appear pompous, pretentious, or otherwise absurd. I know we have spoken of this before and I probably speak of it often - this concept of Bataille's potlach that I have inherited and its importance in my human relationships - but the reason I again cite its importance is to illuminate another essential difference between my parental relationships. As much as my mother seems to relish in these divulgences of my self, comforting my perturbations and cooing over my bruises, my father appears to resent them, again and again recoiling into a defensive stance of brutish retaliation that I cannot refrain from considering a fundamental confusion between his self and the ideologies which he has collected. To put it simply, he responds to my own deconstruction as though it's a judgment upon his life. My mother also deals in self-sacrifice - perhaps this is where I inherited this trait, now that I think about it - and has even begun to take on a reputation as a martyr (at worst) or intervention mediator (at best), much to the chagrin of my father for some reason. In all of this, I cannot help but recall the drama-comedy of syndicated American television in all of its banality as well as the infinite barrage of trivial spectacles pouring into the breakfast nook from the omnipresent chattering news channels. Must family dynamics really be so cliché?

No conclusion, not yet at least. After all isn't this supposed to be the first scene of an opera with no end? For now I'm left alone to contemplate choice: the choices I have made serving as a rubric by which to evaluate the choices of others, not to judge so much as to make sense of how others are choosing to live. I maintain that this choice continues to present itself so long as we are sentient persons actively becoming and to this extend we may be infinite beings with limits defined only by our imagination. Even so, I continue to witness an obstinate refusal in others to maintain accountability, all too often succumbing to the horrific delusion that they cannot redirect their lives by action of will or mental determinism, that they are in fact subject to mechanisms beyond their perception, understanding, or control. The tension between these perspectives on choice pervades all my thoughts and creative activities these days. The difficulty of making critical choices, the risk factoring in to making unconscious choices, the petrified nausea of not being able to choose, and the remorse resulting from regret in past choices; all of this speaks to something essential to privileged mundane (and profane) existence stripped of all ritual, mysticism, and humility before an invisible physics greater than ourselves. I think it has much to do with defining certain characteristic of our generation as well and I am looking forward to hearing your perspective on how Norwegians may differ from Americans in this regard. A choice cannot be singular, is rather a tension sustained between multiple factors of potential vibrating in frictive embrace. I wonder how long such a tension may be maintained before all the windows are blown out of this delicate glass house we keep ourselves in. Relationships are their own physics, exploding with momentums all their own. Choice isn't so much about fate than the fragility of our identities and the vulnerability of our comforts, about choosing what is worth considering and what we may choose to disregard, and of course it's never so simple a reduction as just two. Choice is always multiple, perhaps infinite, perhaps indefinite altogether, perhaps a reflexive parallax perpetuating itself in our consciousness. What would life be like without choice? What would our world be like without physics?