Ithaca (2000)

• 67%
• 2000
• Mike Cartmell

Somehow in silence, I traveled home to here asleep, trying to think, to pull what I'd once felt out of the shadows. I had to make a leap into the not-yet- conscious, into the truth and absolution of images and sounds, toward the countenance of something still nameless. The only means of doing so was to find and found this thing. This nameless thing that emerges, as I do, again and for the first time, into the world, and will never leave it. This thing of love's black sail. This foundered foundling thing. This thing of you. The gusts of wind were very hard and the night very dark, but our little whaleboat glided away like a thing of life.