In my toilet, Wazemmes, I read a book purchased in the bookstore "Step aside," Bethune. "Stepping aside" to avoid here. In the position the more sedentary possible. Sitting on the network of pipes and tuyateries sinking into the earth, as a continuation of our own intimate esophagus to the station, treatment plant, a few miles away. The trip too.
I sat I read. "On the Run" by Henry David Thoreau. Long dead, earth, somewhere out there in the United States of America, near the grove of Walden, no doubt. My hands, his words. Translated. Passed through the body and the spirit of Thierry Gillyboeuf. And I'm sitting there. With already a ton of mileage, just keep this book.
I opened it at random, and presto. The words arise under my eyes are those that draw easily what is in me, yet informed, or trained here and there, but in another form: it resonates. The book in my hands, echoing the words, it breathes, it transpires, it goes back and forth between the words placed in me and interned. Me and this territory that I travel often. Territory to which a party is a natural park. And therefore, I tarbuste this report to Nature. A
Nature and Nature's Image, Nature Pictorial well. Or Imagined
Nature as Nature, constructed as such. But
built. So
Culture.
Maestro!
Thoreau: "In the march"
"The West of which I speak is nothing but a synonym the word "wild" and what I am about to say is that in the wild is based retrieval system in the world. Every tree sends its fibers to the search for Wildlife. The cities import it at exorbitant prices. Men plow and sail for it. Forestry and Wildlife, come the tonics and barks that invigorate the human race. (...) I believe in the forest, grassland and the night grows corn. There is a difference between eating and drinking in order to draw strength and sheer gluttony. The Hottentots eagerly devour the marrow of raw kudu and other antelope, naturally. Some of our Northern Indians eat raw the marrow of reindeer and polar autrees of parties and that they may have anticipated the master-cooks of Paris. They take what serves usually to feed the fire. It's probably better than stall-fed beef and pork in the slaughterhouse to build a man.
There are gaps in the field of melodious wood thrush, which I would like to emigrate (...)"
In the replay, after one day, I find it a little softer, as if the very substance already had a taste of warm, I'm probably the taste of its crudity struck me, standing, sitting. Except the end, poetic, a jewel ...
"There are gaps in the field of melodic Wood Thrush, which I would like to emigrate "
A reread it, I'm already in the post, in the aftermath of that day at Little Forest, bordering the park.
Far. Far from Nature . Near a sweet Savagery, which alienated man from a direct relationship to the world.
And that made the man, not a man but an image of man.
And that, precisely; Here are some pictures.
The world is ugly but the pictures are beautiful ...
At the same time, the time frame can restore some sense of the world.
