In the absence of one sense, the others grow stronger, or so says the old wives’ tale. It’s the kind of claim that almost makes sense intuitively but is misleading. Sorry to say that the blind can not hear everything or smell the great beyond. Whatever that smells like. But deprived of the ability to experience something essential, you will draw upon everything in the periphery, accumulating the collective other and paying attention. Perhaps even for once.
Deprivation comes with it’s own richness, brewed by hunger and drawn from the bare marrow. Most of us will never experience true deprivation in the West but on its periphery comes orphaned experiences, enriched by the marooned souls that clutch them like cowrie charms. In such margins, the raw scraps are gathered, stewed experiences yarned in criss-cross across disparate origins to conjure haunts of deep chills. Pure spirit. Sleep a while, indulge in the jazz of deprivation. Existence in the colorful margin.
More about: Nicole Mitchell
