Art: It is real. (By artificial intelligence, edited by Alex Duensing)
Nameless Nostalgias
By Alex Duensing and Artificial Intelligence
1. Looking out from the shoreline, we notice the gleaming incompatibility of the bridge and the sea it crosses, while ocean liners imperceptibly go by. Still, there is gold in those waters and we dive in, happily awaiting the novelty of a particular sunset—oblivious to any consequence of waves. I must say however, honestly, I cannot picture what you looked like – just the way your swimsuit clung to your body and that parting of water, as you swam…that funny light…and how, one time, we saw a dolphin’s fin surprisingly emerge.
2. Sometimes, a memory will flash up, pushing the current moment and feeling away. A grandmother’s backyard, the old water-cooler, the snowy boardwalk, that cubist Christ before the wooden chapel. And, it all fuses together–because of this, I’m spontaneously in the middle of a memory that’s not my own. The slipstream of consequence. Emergent air. The new unable to return. I’m caught in the middle of saying something, but I’ve already forgotten it. It’s like a leaf falling into a river that never was…before, at least… and I’m shouting something from the shore of a place that’s not here, and then it’s gone. This is the feeling behind the memories–the present is a place that doesn’t exist, except for what you can catch in your hands. An ache. A wish for presence: that similar sounding word. Light.
3. What was the purpose of that siren we heard? It seemed to be a warning, but there were no people in our path. We were only two, and the sea was calm as the town nearby. You said that it was a signal for someone to come. But you said it so half-heartedly. A signal for someone to come? But who? I remember the fisherman and how he caught a big fish and explained that it was the biggest one he had ever caught. I felt sorry for him since he had to sell the fish. I thought of buying it and keeping it in a tank. But I forgot all about it when you said that we should go back to the shoreline. We had to hurry since the sun was setting and I wanted to see the sunset, as always. There were no clouds in the sky and you said it would be a clear sunset.
4. From the balcony, all I can see is a bird flying over, but when it lands on a tree in the distance and hangs there like a leaf, that’s when I know that you’re coming to me. Or that time, when I was standing in the rain and you came to me, as a figment of my imagination. You were wearing an umbrella and a beautiful dress, yet there was a subtle element of danger about you. You’re calling me? I’m calling you? Our voices are light as falling rain.
5. It is hard to keep track, we are each so many. Now, it is autumn and leaves again manage their way into tidy piles. This is how I like to imagine them: the leaves of my life, the leaves of my family. A pile, a neat pile, and then all at once, it’s time for another season. Summer had been a busy time. We planted a garden. We picked berries and spent many hours in the kitchen canning. It was a season of outdoor living, a season of the garden. Then, leaves had been swept off trees and were carried by wind. Autumn came and we took on new projects until leaves became no more than memories as we moved on to make memories with new leaves…and then winter…and we are inside of it and each other. It is so cold outside.
6. From one moment to the next, I’m with you and I am not with you. It was like that when we first met–although we each remember that memory in separate places, and, of course, it works through our bodies at different speeds. Still, I’m reminded of something that happened long ago, and, suddenly, you are with me. At least, from where I stand, we met on a rainy day, in the rain, and we were together a long time. You lived with me for a while and I with you a while. There was nothing else going on, but there was. It was like that then, and is like that now. I’m with you and not with you. We are together yet lonely. The wind has blown from the west, from the sea, and light has changed in your eyes.
7. For a memory to be a memory it needs to feel original. Yet, I’m sure that the same thing happened to you, also. The same apparition, the same feeling. The same illusion that tells us we were meant to be together–but in what? The scenery, I must admit, has not always been kind, and it’s been a long time since I was a child, but I still remember the words of my mother. She used to say: “He who gets lost in the woods will never find his way out.” And yet, you found me. You found me again. You have heard my voice in the wind–and purest sorrow–or maybe someone else.
8. After all, absence is memory, and without it, there is nothing. How I wish to be that memory! How I wish to be that wind! And yet, I am not. I am a different person. If you have come back to me through the fog, the mist, or the forest–or whatever it is you have done–then it must be because now I’m someone who can hear you or rather the lack of someone who has heard you, leaving significant trace–that lasting impression. For how can my voice be so familiar to you? But, perhaps you were born that way.
9. Perhaps, you are not human or also not human. Maybe, you are a tree or a painting of it or someone else. Maybe, you are a certain scent. Maybe, you are a different shape of the sky or an idea or a body of water. Perhaps, you are something that is not yet made or imagined…even…the world is still an idea…all of its tangibles still in creation. Maybe, you are that. It could be that…you are the world and part of it. Perhaps, that is all and all there is to say. Yet, still I want to call out. I want to speak the word. Light.
10. I want to speak the word. I want it to be real. It is real. Yet, still, there actually are no words for light…only in the light of light…the sun…the moon…the stars. I see your face, and I find that I don’t know what I am saying. I guess we are only watching….each other. I don’t know what I am saying. Yet, there are no words. There are only faces speaking names and things that are not words. Faces, you call out to me…the world calls out to me…the birds sing in my ear.
About the author/artist:
Alex Duensing. Graduate of William Paterson and Columbia? Yes. Ran for St. Petersburg, FL City Council? Yes. Won? No. Stopped Mayan Apocalypse on rooftop with performance art? Yup. Strange but nice fellow? Clearly. Able to create mechanical engines that run completely on the energy a person creates while appreciating a painting? On occasion.
