The Unborn

“I am the brazen child reared in the shadow of heaven. My flesh is prophecy, for I have begotten neither my mother nor my father to be of men. I have carved the prism of my body so as to deliver the nourishing rays of my dawn upon the memory of Earth. The Unborn marks a threshold where embryonic recollection reaches critical mass: a vision of spectral ancestors sifting through their own tombs, shape suspended in crossing over… pools lush with miasma — volatile and weightless.“


The child is an expression that stands for everything produced. This is synthesis, indicating not only creation but also the manner in which it takes place: a point where that which is differentiated in the world coincides (occurring, for example, in the combination of female and male genetic content). This is the form of conception, tellingly also a term for the mind's behavior.

Everything that is synthesized, which is every thing, is always already the object as filtered through the senses, as opposed to what it is independent of its being processed. The conjugal act at a deeper level is between the real without the subject and that subject's sensory apparatus. Experience is acquired as the outside passes through a threshold at which it is fitted to the composition of the observer, which is that of sense — the real is made sense of.

It is in this sense that the child is the limit of what is intelligible. It is the ulterior brink of what is still familiar to the subject. In children dead matter flips over into organic existence, and memory of childhood is where subjective experience borders most closely on death.

As naiveté disconnects one from the rules of life, the position that childhood occupies in relation to the world is one of abstinence. Its freedom of movement across the system is inversely proportional to how tied it is to it. Here are therefore all those liminal spirits that preside over the crossing of boundaries — be they between spaces, seasons or life and death.

Insofar as the world possesses an architecture, this is the cornerstone from which it unfolds: a jewel from the throne of the outermost, plunged into the abyss of still untouched space and time. Walking the tightrope between being and its absence, it acts as a prism, a focal point at which impulse crosses over to disperse on the other side. It is this raying out that marks the original differentiation of phenomena (whose name derives from the Greek for “to shine”), constituting the world as inherently varied. Therefore it is also the mouth that tells the story of the cosmos — an oracle programming the narrative that is experienced as one's common sense of time.

Inherited from this primordial scene of manifestation is the artistic capacity for bringing that which isn't into that which is. Because such creation is founded upon no thing, it is vacuous, irrational, in excess of all categories. Intuition doesn't capture the instinctive decision of a lightning bolt's path cleaving open the night sky: if this imprints an image of god, it is that of a mad one. This is a hint at an order older than that of personal or social utility. Panic is the natural response, because there is definitively no time for that which resources all things that are created in time.