Tomas S. Butkus | Antiessay: "." (2003)


a point is the very best beginning. it doesn’t force you to stop and listen as you identify. it is the very best palette of the imagination deep in a  midsummer morning’s blinding dazzle. in the distance you spot a moving thing which could be right here next to you. a dried up midge on a glass pane, a crow on the horizon’s line, or perhaps a tractor chewing up the soil. you can’t say which of them is more real. in open spaces, the smallest bit of nothing gains attraction and becomes the limit of your field of view which erases the storm clouds of thoughts that arrived. It is the perfection of  beauty of the emptiness of an individual of perfect aloneness (from there, yes from there is my entire me) such an unreachable by the changes in environment and the alien steel of the morning which is only an exquisite and innocent reflection of that beauty. it also notices a strange antibody. a white splinter in the sky that is escorted in its trajectory by a steel bird inside of which open up all of the other exceptional surfaces of this point. the ocean’s quivering basalt arms with the hacked out contours of the shoreline beside it – the monotonous mops stuck onto the forest, the chocks of houses and clouds clouds. from beneath, those collections of down are like a seamless shield suppressing the sun’s power that recedes from the sky in a meteor shower of stars. however the clouds, from above, are like thoughts scattered about the entire sky and you walk them attempting to un-stick the town to dig up to listen to spot that which never means anything that which is never more than a beginning and a point. as you are put to sleep, beneath you is industry’s swaying smokestack whose train of cranes hurls you from one picture to another.

a point is people moving in it at the speed of a point. a point is money and all that one can buy and sell with it. at the same time it is a church’s cupola and a dog’s ear drum catching the vibration of the Lord’s ringing in a pupil. even though nearby a sleepless city calmly smoulders in its place name numbers. even though nearby experiences traditions phobias calmly move about. the entire ringing-scene gives off movement even though ringings are a total abyss for those who can’t ever stop ever again. a point is a bed a control stick a torch. a stack pipe that witnesses that the point as it moves is independent of our conception. even of any other kind of conception of that which moves about. a point is the most universal language. without punctuation marks subjects or objects. without communities studying its power of persuasion. without books without dates without a survival story. without all that was created in the name of justifying motives and the footsteps of silence. a point is a small rug. sitting it feels like pricking the ends of fingers on needles. looking it feels like it was touching a hearth with the retina of its eye. vomiting the burned up fire of the past. a point smokes until it burns away. a point bursts into rooms and among the ashes like a girder heated to the point where it glows red and cools right down to the wood-boring beetles and is hammered right down to the stigmas and saws right down to the tree-rings down to the coronas dispersed through that wooden reality. through that entire never-ending space of bedazzlement. a point is close. now it is a seagull flying by its feathers though just a moment ago it was smoke that had lifted from a dune’s crest. tomorrow the point will be that which will make you awaken. that which can cause the worst. but the end marks nothing gives nothing. after that everything is repeated boringly indifferently convincingly. until the developing sweetness of the sun once again spills into the sky above. this half open shell carrying itself towards the pearl that has fallen out.


Translated by Darius Ross

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