Artist in Selben Augenblick
There is a robot inside me.
Last night I caught it making love to my wife. Afterward, she said, "Do it again."
She likes repetition.
I hate repetition and prefer difference.
Right v. left, white v. black, round v. square, good v. evil, truth v. error, life v. death, soul v. body, and self v. other.
This last one--self v. other--gets me int
There is a robot inside me.
Last night I caught it making love to my wife. Afterward, she said, "Do it again."
She likes repetition.
I hate repetition and prefer difference.
Right v. left, white v. black, round v. square, good v. evil, truth v. error, life v. death, soul v. body, and self v. other.
This last one--self v. other--gets me into trouble.
In the sixties the mantra was "God is dead." Now it's, "There is no self." I beg to differ.
I cannot deny myself, but when asked to show myself, all I can do is point to myself.
But who is this I that is pointing?
Even within myself I point at myself, who points back at myself. There I am!
It's a repetitive game of tag.
Then I'm no different than my wife.
So, I seek ways to break the cycle of sameness.
I defer to art, which seeks a plane deeper than the surface, a level where language ends and a preverbal realm appears, a more fluid and clearer level where the robot cannot exist and where pure freedom prevails.
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