It’s spreading, the light – their light. The light that does not see. The light that hides what should be seen.
It’s spreading. The shadows are being lost. The corners. The cracks …
And disappearing itself will disappear. Hiddenness itself will hide. Darkness will no longer be dark. Silence will no longer be silence.
It’s not about illuminating the darkness, but about opening the darkness in the darkness. Opening another dark dimension. It’s about the hidden earth. The deeper earth.
It’s about what’s hidden. About what shows itself only as it retreats, like the hindquarters of God.
Didn’t Blanchot write of the ‘other’ night? Of the elemental deep? Didn’t he write of the night never dark enough? Never dead enough? Of the nocturnal space, in which nothing can abide? Of the night that will not admit us. That will not open to us. To which we belong only as it excludes us.
Work in Progress 