Gather at the Table for the Tale of the Croquembouche

STOREFRONT FOR ART AND ARCHITECTURE, 2013

This conical sarcophagus embalmed in sauce, a sucrose crust luxurious, embodies iconography of frill and silver dinner self-fulfilling sarcophagic. Acute reflective razor blades and captive senseless magic. Dilemma observational and quantum enigmatic, a silent violent forest if unpopulated could, impossible to calculate the magnitude of solitude inside this croquembouche. All, if any, elements that disappear with interference haven’t any proof.

Scientific limitations on the means of calculation of unreachable expanses let tendentious apparitions and interpretative convictions push the vision of the audience inside at once and back against, collectively experienced, projectively delirious. Oversighted, blinded by the very eyes inside of them. Even when presented with the sensory-consistent and restricted information that a brain attached to optic nerves and eyeballs can perceive, an opaque preoccupation with self-knowledge intervenes, as if behind a mirrored glass the croquembouche is hardly seen. The personal identity is mediated to a pulp and broadcast to the moon. The stoic force of croquembouches ricochets trajectories of consciousness across the room. The limitations herein loom.

The loss of self-identity the paramount defeat, the atemporal emptiness of impotence entreats, as if life licenses lifelessness when making indistinct and issues sickness, something missing, if it isn’t grunting, twisting, in an orgy of conceit, charismatic supersession of the gutted by the glutted, a sardonic cacophonic feast with croquembouche a part of each who dissipates this centerpiece and celebrates by proxy self-destruction and relief. Dismantling the surface, seeking secrets underneath. Piled high identical with additive eventual of caramel as ganglia autono-nomic monoliths in god-honest unanimous afraid of what would happen if the sense of self unzipped, or ripped, or fell through a Cartesian rift, beyond all subjectivity, all painstaking self-history, all epiphenomenal qualia, frame of reference über alles. Un-handcuff, hold submissive will proverbial, it’s early still, I’ve only just come home. I’ll join the protest later. Caramelize indulgently my inside-outside memories, I have to have a history.

And didn’t you that movie see with situation irony, false Polaroids, anterograde amnesia, maybe more than once? If memory is anything it’s anything at all. If absent from profiteroles the pâte à choux, the skin, the shells, they can’t withstand a fall. If hippocampal injury, then write it down empirically and from the world protect yourself as much as someone moving past, progressing, moments lasting, as if memory in any way gives epistemic access to immeasurable facets of its blackness creamy abscess. Stick it full of instruments and measure careful methods with and fact check backwards limitless and upload to consensuses. What fantasies of magnitude and questions of direction are now codified uncertainties and hardcoded corrections. Accommodate sensorial mechanic preconceptions with conventions of collection. Salvage estimates, selections. Repeated with consistency then worshiped as objective, as obsessively reality. History collapses to an untouchable certainty. Memory elapses elevated to the status of the presently precursory. Records and the means with taken closed to reinterpretation, farthest field from observation, yet the most concrete. If inside we can never know then make the outside sweet.

A myth to glimpse intelligence if transitory finds, contrive consolations to bide the frustrations and ancient impatience of grave motivations for making, and breaking, and peeking inside, see the unseen or else eat it alive. Indemnify identity against what will contextual, in birth and death is only still the meaning then accessible, and in between them secrets hide. Sticking sticky fingers into imbricated interstices, desecrating luxury is a constructive action. Install a carnal carnival with croquembouche the mascot.