02 February 2008

Out Of Body (Annette Andrews)

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Chittapatti (Graveyard Deities)

Writing drags us from our clothes, our fabrications of self, to a death that is naked, gutted, exposed.


A writer dismembers the constructs of self and sets themselves on the side of a road - an accident in search of a witness - while onlookers gasp in horror or joy at the grinding mechanisms of the human condition that render us familiar.

The point where the vanishing thread of the past finds us clinging to the thread of the future is a precarious command post. The writer screams observations, scrambling in a frenzy to spin dangling threads of experience into a cocoon of meaning. Words, a shuttle where an odyssey of awareness is launched anew.


Breathlessly, meaning pushes through, jumping into eyes, burrowing deep to reach the islands of self like so many termite trails munching a weakened construct. The writer dissects himself searching for awareness - and in the process, an offering is made. Consume this space, this place, these understandings and, in return, the artist is freed in the same vanishing moment.

The writer, at their own great feast of liberation, will never be found.

Their words, a skin discovered in a desert; a construct slipped-out of in one bright moment of recognition; bones left behind for others to discover, stroke, and feel deep inside odd pangs of familiarity and longing.

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