P is for Pareidolia

I enjoy looking at patterns. The shapes of the woodgrain on the table where I am sitting suggest multiple possibilities. The residue of pint glass’ speak of cosmic orbits. Narratives of potentiality are the transmission of energies, exchanged through reactions which the mind transposes onto our internal world. The deep mottled cracks in the woodgrain are bodily, starlit anuses, propelling us along avenues into the obscene. The furthest beam on this picnic table has been restored and is youthful in its appearance. Its correlation with the whole enables me to imagine the universe – stars and gassy nebulas which appear stable to the eye, as it is furthest from its true reality. 

The cut-blemishes on the table are a battle ground where a war once raged. Imaginary armies fight for territories lost and found. Hard knubs of wood, cracked and blackened in the centre are craters that forgotten factions have been swallowed in. Faces emerge through meaning within their co-ordinates. Distorted smiles and vague grimaces, a body contorts to hold a door – gestures of generosity through my own perception. I see ancient animals crawling through the woodwork – a prehistoric owl soothes me with its wide alien eyes – the obscured face of a fox flickers in the orbital glow of a stand-in sun that returns slowly to the rings of pint glasses. Irises of human eyes cracked in the way a river once flowed through a canyon – meta-natural meanings flower between the recognition of patterns.

I am looking to make sense of my surroundings in a way that appeals to what I do not know. This is a relationship where one has the opportunity to learn something about what we aren't necessarily looking for – and where we once, as children might have peered through an illicit door, we as adults, are able to glimpse inside a void. To think we can see the connecting tissue of forms, in patterns – and now perhaps even events, is our unique ability – and it is this, for better or worse that is shaping our world.  

2020.