Strangeness comes and goes. Even familiarity becomes an alien oddity, the self festooned, aloof as odd as others. The fixities of time, the phases of consciousness, the rediscovery of yesterday, the banality of contemporaniety. Strangeness harbours no necessary intent, no contrivance, extrapolation, politics, rhyme nor reason. My life is full of limbs, echoing elbows rooted to ideas, a strange mechanics of doing, existing, praxis. This art of being, doing, fumbling onto feet that claw like Panthera Pardus. Joints fulfil the purpose of ideas, the pivot upon which time is contrived into things and things become a measure of volition. The vagaries of consciousness are its accuracy, its ordinariness its extraordinary prowess that leaves familiarity bewildering, strangeness habitual.
Conciseness becomes indescribable, the indecipherable becomes everyday. Meaning is not only lost, but altered at the very foundations of comprehension. Legs walking, hurried motions towards the scent of a new formation, an idea so odd it becomes, near instantaneously familiar. History, our present, future and past teaches all, something, nothing. At the turn of a new century, doesn't turmoil, change and strangeness throw us into a new terra incognito? At this early point in a new Millennium is it any wonder that technology changes, wars rage, economies collapse, cultures realign and Donald Trump has become one of the most powerful men in the world? If our legs are being taken from beneath us then we may have live from the seat of our pants.
Trump could have said this! Some arcane Americana, wilfully Western expression, verbiage from a clutter of cultures, a meteoric media a cynical trans-communication. Hyperbole, Wikileaks, spying, hypereality, strangeness, unreal and exact via aloof yet familiar images, external/internalised sounds, information as real and ubiquitous as our heart-rate to inspiration, the mind to limbs, eyes to sensation; our distanced yet symbiotic condition.