Tuesday, July 17, 2012

The Homolithic: The Stone that Remains

The space of human being opens onto the geological, inscribing strata of geological time into the very arche-writing of the elemental. Human being follows the being of the stone. We track the stone as that which remains anterior to the chronological, as that which enciphers the very possibility of human time. The stone, whose legibility renders human being as time possible, de-scribes the space of human being as legible in the first place. In writing upon the surface of these environments, we necessarily unwrite nature's narratology. But nature--as that which precedes as well as that which will proceed from human being--in surviving the Anthropocene, opens up the very futurity of human illegibility: unremembered memorials, de-installed installations. The stone remains stone in its stony and stonied mode of being, and the human world returns to being all but invisible in the very possibility of the stone that remains.

Monday, July 2, 2012


During the holiday fireworks over the weekend he remembered his grandfather who lost his sight in the early days of World War II. Every Fourth of July his grandparents would take him and his siblings and cousin to watch the fireworks show near the lake at the edge of their sleepy retirement village in the Ozarks. His eldest sister would sit on her grandfather's lap or kneel at his feet in order to describe the colors and patterns that preceded every boom and thunder. He suspects that those descriptions were merely the form of their conversation and not its true content. He always wondered just how well his grandfather could see, but he never felt comfortable asking such a direct question. He knows that there were a few situations when his grandfather's blindness was called upon to restore proper decorum. He knows that even if he were only partially blind, his grandfather maintained an activity level not seen in any of his children and few of his grandchildren: building furniture out of limbs cut from the forest behind their home, cataloging hundreds of LPs so that he knew exactly where in his finished-out basement den the Jerry Lee Lewis or the Tennessee Ernie Ford collections were, playing his steel guitar upon request. Music was the one thing he had in common with his grandfather, but it remained something rarely shared between the two. Music and a certain patriotism: his cultivated by a childhood mania for the Bicentennial  and his grandfather's from service and sacrifice--all remembered over the weekend during a few minutes of fireworks celebrating America.