Twilight Tongue Rings – Signet Ring Cell Carcinoma Appendix – Gold Diamond Solitaire Engagement Ring.
Twilight Tongue Rings
- the time of day immediately following sunset; “he loved the twilight”; “they finished before the fall of night”
- The soft glowing light from the sky when the sun is below the horizon, caused by the refraction and scattering of the sun’s rays from the atmosphere
- A period or state of obscurity, ambiguity, or gradual decline
- The period of the evening during which this takes place, between daylight and darkness
- dusky: lighted by or as if by twilight; “The dusky night rides down the sky/And ushers in the morn”-Henry Fielding; “the twilight glow of the sky”; “a boat on a twilit river”
- the diffused light from the sky when the sun is below the horizon but its rays are refracted by the atmosphere of the earth
twilight
- An analogous organ in insects, formed from some of the mouthparts and used in feeding
- The fleshy muscular organ in the mouth of a mammal, used for tasting, licking, swallowing, and (in humans) articulating speech
- The equivalent organ in other vertebrates, sometimes used (in snakes) as a scent organ or (in chameleons) for catching food
- articulate by tonguing, as when playing wind instruments
- lick or explore with the tongue
- a mobile mass of muscular tissue covered with mucous membrane and located in the oral cavity
tongue
- A circular band of any material
- A thin band or disk of rock and ice particles around a planet
- (ring) a characteristic sound; “it has the ring of sincerity”
- (ring) sound loudly and sonorously; “the bells rang”
- A small circular band, typically of precious metal and often set with one or more gemstones, worn on a finger as an ornament or a token of marriage, engagement, or authority
- gymnastic apparatus consisting of a pair of heavy metal circles (usually covered with leather) suspended by ropes; used for gymnastic exercises; “the rings require a strong upper body”
rings
Robert Cremean: STUDIO SECTION 1998-2002, Dialogues of The True Cross/The Winter Notebooks
Below is the transcription of the handwritten lines to the right of the figure above:
Critical language, it would seem, is the verbalization of the social necessity for cohesion…the means by which a single person strives to organize the group into a single way of perceiving sensuous stimuli. Through this cohesion, individuals communicate with each other through the establishment of a consensual abstract authority which is always present even in the most intimate situations. It is this triangulation that creates and maintains groups and societies, cultures and civilizations. Those mores and metaphors form the third point on the triangle that defines the group and the individuals contained there-in. We speak not directly but to a third point bearing witness.
As I construct these pages, an image of possibility shimmers up in illustration. Imagine the Michelangelo David constructed not of marble but of the sculptor’s sonnets…a solidification of pure language in a contradiction of linear time. An inseparable union of image and word, emotion and mind. I see this form as religious art where-in the viewer sees not the symbol but the thing itself, the opaque work of art becoming a transparent window to Desire.
Artist, your work is a jealous lover; if you compromise its integrity it will destroy you.
—In childhood, seeds implanted, long fought and then forgotten, have begun to bloom. Bright shocks of prejudice and bitter perfume are suddenly inside me. I lack the will to exorcise. Finally, I am my parents’ child. They have outlived me.
I have emptied myself into bits of paper and pieces of wood, bronze and marble. Bits and pieces. How vulnerable I have become and yet, in a sense, I have won the game. Is this, I wonder, why artists make art? Is this not truly what is meant when we speak of play? Not the frivolity of childhood but, rather, the prescience of death.
After my death, my death will come…in bits and pieces. There will be no pain, only the disappearance of objects. Bit by bit and piece by piece, this transferred life will fade into absence.
Bathed in twilight, with edges and outlines blurred, I live in approximation. Who I am and what I see are contiguous territories of exploration. Only memory prevents the total dissolution of boundaries.
Do not invade me with shoulds. What I am is what I make. There is no other. If what I make has no face in this culture, then my solitude is justified. I do not exist.
Becoming is no longer an active process. What I have become outweighs me, making lead the line of circling footprints. Like a compass pressed too hard, I have scratched and torn the paper thinness of my life.
To be culturally acceptable, does Art require a hierarchy of authority? Some sort of caste system within which the artist occupies the lowest rung? Perhaps in order to be absorbed collectively, the Art object must be transformed into cultural artifact. Perhaps this transformation is necessary to secure stability within the structured frame. If Art is not submitted to an historical line, would chaos corrugate the intellectual plane?
Perhaps what I call Art is really chaos. Perhaps without the control of culture, an expression which is capable of provoking individual response outside of the established frame threatens the collective whole. Is my obsession with Art and disdain for culture-makers based totally on personal feelings of rejection? Have I spent my entire life trying to destroy that which refuses to acknowledge me? This thought disgusts me.
In isolation, the we I speak can only and ever be a distorted I. Why do people listen when I speak? Do they hear words they have always known? Is this the we of me? Do I speak their words with my tongue? Is their loneliness somehow justified by my isolation?
Collection:
Crocker Art Museum
Sacramento, California
Spring Evening !
The Song of Evening
Peace, one and all…
The Song of Evening
The song of evening rings through these green vales,
and the sound of approaching twilight fills the air
with the excited anticipation
of Layla’s heart-rending beauty.
The sunlight turns to golden fire upon the tree tops,
as the world savours the last moments of day,
like a thirsty man thrown into the abundance
of an unexpected oasis.
The sky becomes a shining lake of gold and silver,
almost translucent in its ethereal beauty.
There is magic here, a moving eldritch power:
life in all its dizzying rawness.
And though, Beloved, I do not speak this tongue
of evening grace,
let this coming forth of me be in Love
and let the song of evening fill my heart evermore.
Abdur Rahman
