On a breakwall, the screech of a herring gull. Sea rolls over stones, grey sand; each time not the same. The water persists, offers itself to land, as if it crosses a border; it retreats, leaves a mark in a different place, edge not fixed. The littoral is named, but it is never constant; just as the call of the gull is not the gull, its yellow beak is not the origin of squawk. How a word undoes itself, unable to extend beyond its logic; the way that what shifts and moves on earth is always other than it is at first sight; language entangles itself, and in that enmeshment, collapses, but rather than not being able to explain further, its fall does just the opposite; silence opens the way to notice the sand, the sea, a weathered stone, as what they are, themselves, and in situ; the burden to understand what a stone really is is lifted, the focus broadened to see the picture in its unbrokenness.
From: Vol.10 N.01 – Private: The Transformative Now
How a Word Untangles Itself to More
by
Ion Corcos