Tools sink into extended being: it takes craft and intent to keep them visible. I’m wondering if there’s some connection with Shklovsky’s thoughts on art: that art exists to make perception difficult. Is art, amongst the other things it is, what makes us aware of what is the kernel of us, minus our embedded tools, yet through their use in its creation? Is that some of what art does, and how?
Ink that in five lines
becomes a bunch of nettles,
in the night points one step north; where the colour of water
gets over the road,
over the pearl of the three-quarter moon, gets in
after, before
the first thought
The paleolithic cave painters, on their backs in the long dark, representing.