His Master's Voice: Poetry overrides Philosophy.

Have been thinking about how making visual art again has been part of the process. Feel deeply that it has, but wondering how? So was thinking about last year when I started making things... and drawing. I wanted to reclaim my drawing skills. Did dozens of gesture and contour drawings of this broken plastic dog. Remembering how my thinking shifted to a visual language without words. Like slipping out of one body into another. For a long time, I stopped writing. Couldn't read for more than a few minutes at a time. In a state of rebellion agaist the constraints of word. Then I thought... oh. That dog, that's the RCA dog. "My Master's Voice." Holy shit! There it is... how often I've recited the lines from Blake's Garden of Love, and never applied them to my own life. Yes! What I've been feeling, my heart so filled with love... the emergent power of homoerotic fantasies... the Master Voice overwhelmed by art and masturbation!

I wrote this--thought the thought walking home from Superfresh in the afternoon. Not a drop of wine since the night before. No excuses. It felt like it meant something--that Master's Voice thing. Still does. Only now it comes home that I don't know what. But then, what would it mean if I did? Ok, I'd tell you... tell myself. Here's what it means, and I'd write something else. So what would that mean, but the stuff I was talking about--the Master's Voice. Everything goes in circles when you try to explain. That's why poetry is better than philosophy. Like this is poetry or something, ya know what I mean? "One does not get better because one remembers. One remembers because one gets better" Lacan