Conor McDonald – This Switch is Fed from Elsewhere 18th May, 2015


“expressed or written in the native language of a place”

What does the human mind experience when a journey is forced upon it,
When this same mind must choose to stay or go and accept death as a high probability?

This place, this native place, leaving, abandoning, fleeing, the native language must be left behind and if death does not subsume the body a new language, a new place will be forcibly absorbed into every cell of being. The container is split after its journey, ready for scrap, divided by its flame ridden incisions. A fire has burnt the corton steel into a palette of burnt umber, Prussian blue and venetian red. The violent cuts allow a striking lightning bolt of sunlight to draw its way in, circulating this rusted cold incubator of death.
Culminating in a corner, inhabited by a pool of still filthy oil ridden water. A blue vibrating magnified light sits on the surface of the pool, reverberating, rejoicing in its detachment from concerns of life and death.

Cón, 2014, Writings on Confinement, Notebook III