2 hearts in 3/4 time.
Je suis, tu es, il/elle/on est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils/elles sont.
I am, you are, he/she/it is, we are, you are, they are.
But where exactly do we do it? Or where do we are it, maybe?
There’s got to be a reason it’s one of those words that conjugates with such complicity. Perhaps its because it is aware of the changes in perspective.
I know that I am. But, if I go into any depth, I do not know that you are. I only assume that we are (the same).
And as for he/she/it.
Don’t trust them myself. Whatever they say they is.
So maybe that’s a lot of trust.
Cogito Ergo Sum. Therfore I am in thought, right?
Is being conducted in the mind? In the firing of electrons across neurons in my massive chemical head monster? The hectic grey beast that steers my life, apparently.
Is that where I am being?
Where does one be? Where can I am?
I am here. So my medium is a slightly messy living room with a sad (but wonderful) film and a relatively small pile of washing up to be done. Or am I in the gap between here and the beautiful French garden that I’m avoiding so I don’t have to weep too much.
How could I be there? There is film, acted by people and filmed by others, based on a book.
But I feel I am there. My heart is touched by those events.
So am I being in celluloid?
I could fold into myself. Be aware that I have no reasonable proof that anything is real. I could not be being at all. Just an illusion. Random nothingness that can only even be nothing if something attempts to percieve it.
Is that how the world works?
Am I here to witness something?
And where is here?
I can see what it appears to be. A world, a universe (or so I’m told) beyond that world. I am surrounded by matter. By air and objects. These are the things I use.
It’s not ink on paper, but it’s a medium nonetheless.
All we ever do is move matter around. Rearrange what is there into different forms. Tidying up, or causing chaos.
And we try to find order in it.
To conduct the orchestra of everything.
Which is why I started with a musical reference.
When I am, I do so with attention to conduct. Or I like to pretend so.
I like to imagine I am a conductor of my own symphony. That my life is some grand piece of performance art.
And the medium? Life.
It’s not a truth, of course. But it’s a pretty lie.
So I’ll carry on my aritifice. I’ll continue to make marks on the paper in front of me. Or the canvas. Or the block of wood.
Whatever medium I can find.
I think it’s all around me.
Illustration by Adam.