Harshmallow
Kah Bee Chow >

-

By Tahi Moore

Is it enough that an object is different to itself without
knowing what that difference is? Is the difference the
object itself and that’s all he wrote? Something light.
It looks like a lot of the time you have to edit out
nearly everything to be able to see those flimsy little
subtleties that you always notice on some levels but lose
or attach to something else like the singer’s hair. Bruce
Springsteen on the cover of the tunnel of love looks
particularly ordinary. Why do particularly ordinary
things start to get strange when you push them around?
How come objects don’t know what they’re meant to be
doing when you look at them closely?

Why do ordinary objects seem to replicate themselves
in increasingly ugly iterations, transmitting themselves
into our minds, to be replicated later in endless other
places? So many things desperately attempt to be
something else more real and fail terribly. The failures
might be what makes them real more than anything else.
Lucky failures can go along as new visions of truth.

How does one continue into a dead end, going further
and further on, trying to escape one’s own instinctive
schizophrenic impulses to eliminate meaning as if it’s a
false god, searching for a clue to things that can only ever
be clear and immediate, starting again in a slightly different
dead end, pushing for a new false chance that might turn
out to be a real one by accident? What’s the difference
between possibility and ideas of possibility? Sometimes to
talk is to separate myself from what I already know.