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capri0mniOn Sunday, for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
naarmamo, I made a text-based art, with lots and lots of words. Encoded as a jpeg file, it cannot be read by screen readers, and there are far too many words for me to fit in the description space on flick'r. So I'm posting the words, here, and then I will link to it, there (I think that's possible, yes?):
Monsters are on the rise: the abnormal born from the wombs of the normal, portents embodied, warnings made flesh. We do not know their true origin, even though they were born from the very same wombs as their brethren and sistren. Arms, legs, tails, heads, eyes, teeth, all sprout where they should not, as if from seeds hidden beneath their skins. Or perhaps those arms, legs, tails, heads, eyes, and teeth do not sprout where they should: witheld like words unspoken, or secrets we are envious to know. We do not know their reason for being. They are not like us (the normals) they are not made to move through this world that is as comfortable to us as an old blanket we wear around our shoulders for warmth. By their very being, they insist the world must change. Innocent of themselves, we clothe the naked hearts of the mosters in our own wrath, and call them "wrathful." They hunger for the same life we crave, we fill their bellies, instead, with our own fear, and call them "fearful." We do not wish to hear their call for change, the warnings they bring through the chants of their heart beats. And so we cast them out. We lock our village gates against them. We pretend they were never born, never existed among us. We call them each "chimera": wild, fearful, strange, phantasms: impossible mixtures of many beasts, never born from normal wombs like ours, but born, instead, from the mind. They are, we tell ourselves, mere inventions: cobbled together from all the wrong things, all the fearful things we've ever seen, like shadows from nightmares, and just as easily forgotten when we wake in the morning. But the monsters are on the rise. Cast out from the company of "normals," they find company among themselves. Their voices ignored in the city square, they whisper, instead, among themselves. And with each new monster that we cast out, their company grows by one. What we call "comfort" they call "privilege." What we call "good" they call "unjust." What we call "evil" they, simply, call "change." What we call "phantasm" they call "truth." Portents, embodied, cannot be buried forever. Warnings, made flesh, cannot forever be ignored. Comfort and kindness cannot be hoarded by the powerful for long before it turns rancid and sour. Monsters are on the rise. It's the end of the world as we know it. It's the beginning of the world as we dream it.
(And that text repeats once, to fill out the rectangle of the image)
And I just now, noticed two typos -- and yes, I fixed them (I wrote this near midnight, in a state of exhaustion, the day after "Irene", so I think only two typos is pretty good, considering). The word choices were made with as much an eye to keeping it a solid block of text, and keeping the righthand edge nearly straight, as to actual clarity and meaning. It could definitely use some editing, if it wants to be a real essay or poem when it grows up.
And for those who can see it, here's the image / link to Flick'r:
naarmamo, I made a text-based art, with lots and lots of words. Encoded as a jpeg file, it cannot be read by screen readers, and there are far too many words for me to fit in the description space on flick'r. So I'm posting the words, here, and then I will link to it, there (I think that's possible, yes?):Monsters are on the rise: the abnormal born from the wombs of the normal, portents embodied, warnings made flesh. We do not know their true origin, even though they were born from the very same wombs as their brethren and sistren. Arms, legs, tails, heads, eyes, teeth, all sprout where they should not, as if from seeds hidden beneath their skins. Or perhaps those arms, legs, tails, heads, eyes, and teeth do not sprout where they should: witheld like words unspoken, or secrets we are envious to know. We do not know their reason for being. They are not like us (the normals) they are not made to move through this world that is as comfortable to us as an old blanket we wear around our shoulders for warmth. By their very being, they insist the world must change. Innocent of themselves, we clothe the naked hearts of the mosters in our own wrath, and call them "wrathful." They hunger for the same life we crave, we fill their bellies, instead, with our own fear, and call them "fearful." We do not wish to hear their call for change, the warnings they bring through the chants of their heart beats. And so we cast them out. We lock our village gates against them. We pretend they were never born, never existed among us. We call them each "chimera": wild, fearful, strange, phantasms: impossible mixtures of many beasts, never born from normal wombs like ours, but born, instead, from the mind. They are, we tell ourselves, mere inventions: cobbled together from all the wrong things, all the fearful things we've ever seen, like shadows from nightmares, and just as easily forgotten when we wake in the morning. But the monsters are on the rise. Cast out from the company of "normals," they find company among themselves. Their voices ignored in the city square, they whisper, instead, among themselves. And with each new monster that we cast out, their company grows by one. What we call "comfort" they call "privilege." What we call "good" they call "unjust." What we call "evil" they, simply, call "change." What we call "phantasm" they call "truth." Portents, embodied, cannot be buried forever. Warnings, made flesh, cannot forever be ignored. Comfort and kindness cannot be hoarded by the powerful for long before it turns rancid and sour. Monsters are on the rise. It's the end of the world as we know it. It's the beginning of the world as we dream it.
(And that text repeats once, to fill out the rectangle of the image)
And I just now, noticed two typos -- and yes, I fixed them (I wrote this near midnight, in a state of exhaustion, the day after "Irene", so I think only two typos is pretty good, considering). The word choices were made with as much an eye to keeping it a solid block of text, and keeping the righthand edge nearly straight, as to actual clarity and meaning. It could definitely use some editing, if it wants to be a real essay or poem when it grows up.
And for those who can see it, here's the image / link to Flick'r:
