Talk to me about caves

Cave of Forgotten Dreams by Werner Hertzog. WOW. I started to tear up. I got so many rushes to the words of Anne Carson and Henri Bergson, Maybe also Jean Luc Nancy. The space between things, the inevitability of propelling yourself toward a surface. Traces. Monsters, the driving arrow, forging rivers. The eyes staring back. And the sounds buried within pictures. Always the sounds.

“Let us imagine the unimaginable, the gesture of the first imager. He proceeds neither at random nor according to a project. His hand advances into a void, hollowed out at that very instant, which separates him from himself instead of prolonging his being in his act.But this separation is the act of being. Here he is outside of self even before having been his own self, before having been a self. In truth, this hand that advances opens by itself this void, which it does not fill. It opens the gaping hole of a presence that has just absented itself by advancing its hand.” -Jean Luc Nancy, Painting the Grotto, pg 75

Here I think of Bergson, describing the body at the edge of motion, “the body as an ever advancing boundary between the future and the past, as a pointed end, which our past is continually driving forward into our future.” – Henri Bergson Matter and Memory, pg 78

“A man moves through time. It means nothing except that, like a harpoon, once thrown he will arrive.” – Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red: A Novel in Verse

Inevitability, estrangement. The distance between you and other things. The impenetrable distance, even as close as you can get you can never, truly touch something else, only hover or rest against in millions of a millimetre thicknesses. the space between you and me, between me and a mountain, between the past and my own self; already advancing.

“Time isn’t made of anything. It is an abstraction. Just a meaning that we impose upon motion.”

“Meanwhile music pounded / across hearts opening every valve to the desperate drama of being / a self in a song.” – Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red: A Novel in Verse

Fears are often very ordinary.