
A kite can turn the world on its head.
If vertigo were to be a pleasurable experience, it would be attached by a string to the spool that unravels so ceremoniously. Attached to a body that perilously looks down from the top of an anonymous building, before it chooses to make the only choice that turns the body itself into an object. The choice which, from the moment it occurs, turns an instance into an irrevocable eternity.
The philosophers death.
Defenestration.
The death that Deleuze was never able to write about, but must have realized all at once, between his point of departure and his entrance into the departed.
Where the window meats the asphalt.
Where the exit beckons the entrance.
It is this world that the kite can see overturned.
It looks up.
It looks away.
It pulls the pulled.
The sky no longer asks for an answer.
It is there, in its suspension.
Uncertainty charms its spectator.
The kite moves attention away from the mundane, towards the extra-mundane, the over-worldly, towards the space that can never be accurately designated but continues to designate.
The accident of design. The constellations disconnected.
The difference between looking up and looking down is one which finds its temporary resolution in the poetic act, whether written or performed. The kite in flight is Poetry acting upon us. God is indeed dead, but that is only because we spelled his name out. The wind still speaks silently, and the kite still takes this silence as its signal, as its opportunity to react to what poetry turns impossible: defining the limits of desire.
Such limits are felt at the hands of a string taught with Schopenhauer's will to venture further away from the horizon, further above the reality of its invention.
The line of a kite opposes the axis determining the skyline. It does not distinguish between high and low, it calmly cuts through them, towards the sun, towards the locus of all burning, of all desire, of the precondition for all images.
A kite cannot fly in a cave.
Unlike representation, it is not the turn around, but the turning towards, the confrontation of the eye with what makes it function, with what brings representation into existence, with what makes sunflowers rise. To stare at the sun is to go mad, to suffer from an epileptic fit. To stare at a kite flying towards the sun is to recognize your reflection in the mirrorless determinations of experience and art.
Yellow kites fly the closest to such a reflection.










