Richard and Carlos had opposite views on the subject of trust. Richard believed, and openly said, “trust willingly, at all opportunity, to whomever, wherever, again & again even if things go awry, or betrayal occurs, even repeatedly. Trust & never let go of that trust. Be a vehicle of trust. For what damage occurs take responsibility. If your trust is abused, consume that abuse & grow weak but remain strong in trust. Trust is a given, there is nothing anyone can do to violate your trust, because it is automatic & irrefutable. Always at all times, you leave everything on the line. You accept & will process all consequences however good or bad they may be. Never wavering, you trust in all things, at all times, no matter what happens or happened.” Carlos believed, based on a loose translation from spanish to english, “Trust thyself and no one else, neither no one nor nothing has your trust. It is yours and yours alone. Do not trust in her, in him, in them, in us. Son las nada. You trust in you. In you there will never be any form of betrayal. You cannot betray yourself. You give the same kind of irrefutable trust Richard speaks of, except here you concentrate– all what he stretches out– into you and yourself. No one will betray you–they never had your trust for which to betray. Just as people do not have it, nothing else does nor will either, never. You do not trust the ant walking on your leg. It’s not that you expect it to bite. It’s just that you don’t trust it. You will flick it off if you feel like it.” And to which Richard appreciates the ant line because he understands the views of Carlos. And Richard also sees how differently he would treat the ant on his leg. How his body is a vehicle of trust, “And so let the ant bite if it feels like it. I or we will absorb the pain and carry on,” “Carry on,” Carl says again, as he wavers between the options.
So I’ve been experimenting with Art & Loss over the last year or two. Yesterday I was to write about it, as it’s been on my mind again & again. Because of the new ways I’ve lost. And you know the craziest thing happens: while I am writing about the various ways I’ve lost art I stumble into, somehow, a new form of art loss emerges: “The Art Lost in Translation.” I have no idea how it happened (how the writing became backward), as it was written blind, and I tell you a tiny fraction of me believes I wrote it backwards. And immediately upon completion lost the memory of doing such. Not to say it was written forwards then slowly reworked to be backwards, but that I straight wrote the entire thing backwards. A small part of me believes in that possibility. Just a small part. It is the absolute strangest thing. Universal teachings are infrequently so clear, so obvious, so useful. It is remarkable & I am unable to overstate how confounded I am about it, when I think about Art Lost In Translation, how fucking beautiful & 44 is that! It’s so isolated though. But look here, it CAN be understood, with a little time & a little patience. Manic Dreams Network has a chance after all. My friend told me she was an art history major, & I told her I was going to make art history. I am, & I will, for yes art is lost in many ways but it cannot be lost in translation. Luckily that’s all I ever wanted to do, was translate. We’re good then, “carry on,” Carl says. Thank you Carl.
The last student enters the room. He is pleased to see the professor has not arrived. Yet. He takes the last seat & he unloads some papers from the bookbag he brought. From the front pocket he retrieves a handful of pens. In that handful there was a marker. He puts the marker back into the bookbag. He pulls it out again, “to doodle,” he thinks. Three seats across a beautiful girl in her early twenties, thick dark glasses, long thick curly hair, brushes back her threads to expose full eyesight. She has already begun taking notes. The hallway is quiet. The classroom has whispers and chair readjustements. A spider hides in the corner. The professor walks in, papers are flying. A briefcase not quite closed. A trail of papers. If one were to look down the hallway from where he came one would see a trail of papers stretching back to the room in which he came out from. The Last of The Readjustments. “Good morning class. How are you, how are you feeling? Good. Excellent? Good. Today we will think about this, tangibly somehow with concrete expression: what if we were to be told that opposite states are simultaenous, as in to have one is to have both. For example, if we were to be told, in a sense, there is no such thing as happiness. Neither that nor is there sadness. As in, there is, so to speak, no spectrum of degree between opposites, that if one understands or feels in a state of happiness one also knows, simulatenous, the equal state of opposite in sadness. To be told, in a way, we are better off believing in wholeness at all times. That our “states” will always be 50% of the truth. To say, and this will help, that if one is happy sadness can be had at the ready–it’s not even around the corner, it’s closer than the corner, it’s literally right there–and if one is sad happiness is right there too, And further, we are told, if we were told, thinking of it as a choice is altogether too difficult. That we do not have enough control over the variables to depend on choices. Instead we are asked to think about wholeness. And to be extreme in our happiness , and in our sadness , simultaneous , and be whole , be all things at once…” “Universi,” the pretty girl says slowly while looking up slower still in the opposite direction of her wettening hole down below.