Crowds Surround Us
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by Tom Thompson agile founderings and piecemeal flotations. The crowd constitutes a gravitational field that slaps back at the ground， numbed and maddened by ground‘s constant suckling. The crowd embodies a depression in fabric more than an attraction. Its angled， arteried， fleet fantasias of need sway in a loopy， bobbing dance without strings. It‘s this sense of movement the organism uses to believe in its own existence， the palpable presence of an intangible parade， uncertain planetary marches， a supernumerary of stars. In its mania for artifice the crowd has sewn the sky with these shiny extras. Embodied adoration， they snap the organism shut before tickling it open again with reedy gestures. Breathe. The crowd‘s louche body clings and parts in place， an ovation rigid and adrift， alive. It is the sea that sweeps the sea. Broom tight with inner bickering. A mortal scour. Meaning， how the crowd hates the crowd. Outwardly. It admits you or me as an enormous lidless eye admits glittering beams. Endless watching， washing us in. The crowd‘s object， its point， is always vanishing into its own mass. It is a sea with no concern for us， even as it scores. |
