The rain taps, large drops shy on the tiles of the roof, attic of the house here in wazemmes. Neil Young improvises on a cd bought second hand, he improvises on the images of Dead Man ... images evoked in my head, here, attic ... I plan to ship it, and listen during the descent, canoe, see my augmented reality. On film images. Of words read. William Blake & Co. ...
Yesterday I put a first coat of varnish, "The Tonkinese," the canoe. Sanding, 280 grit, light. Clean. The cracks between the slats disjointed by time absordent thick liquid. Heat, drying, will fill the void. Troublesome pores. We act like that to go forward? Drag on the surface of things. Intersect.
"When I speak, I offend
Then I'm silent and passive and lose Every friend" Johnny Depp
talking in my head, his mouth come the words of Blake, William Blake.
A boat glides over the smooth surface of my mind. It is multiple. Sepia, it is William Blake (English poet of the same name played by Johnny Depp in Dead Man). Colored oil, it is The Lady of Shalott (poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson, as shown on tables Pre-Raphaelites of the nineteenth ... poem that I will embark on paper to learn by heart during the descent, and burn the paper after learned ... but I have little memory for long tirades ... "The River side is EACH binding, long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe Meet the sky and Wold ..." "I'm half sick of shadows" saith the Lady of Shalott ... these are the bits that I carry with me, and ordered those accessible in words posed, evocative ...) The third boat is too colorful, but potographique holders, letters, red, in the moat of the castle Escquelbecq, seeking to lay in the mud (bastard mix of water and soil in suspension, neither solid as terra firma, not really liquid like water ... when I tried to embed my letters (as in the text of Thoreau that I would have found ... on writing landscape ...). The vessel alone is not a carrier, not that day to plant my letters as in the earth. Rest in peace. I had to redo a submarine dock pallets (landscape painter), and the word put my foot met a shard forgotten in the mud. Suttures. With the landscape. "Trunks on the horizon, sewing Landscape" (Snapshot Printer, 2002).
The paddle comes from a hardware store located on the lower side of a road to Pornic. I noticed the origin of paddles with a photo. A dead tree on the Pointe Saint Gildas. One evening. Dead but still speaking of wind, bowing. And next to me, from. The tree no longer remembers, he got noticed? The camera caught me. Timer. 12 seconds. Programmed. But unsure about the development. Mobile. Is it about taking paddle that is the subject, or the tree, unless it is the blade of grass in the foreground that matter? And what is important? In
me.
I looked ... it matters to me what?
The paddle is raised with me on the tar river boats carrying along with the scents of fossil fuels, plants formerly living there long. It burns the time, millions of years trapped in a barrel in the middle of a piece of coal ...
The paddle will penetrate into the liquid flow of the stream, and rely on the water where nobody steps without falling. Rely on the movement. On the other hand, the bottom. To push the ship up there, the surface waves that ride the wind blowing.
As the trip progresses, I cut my written words. There are movements that are done in the language. Buoyed by words. The first real first step into the world (my bodies moving through the power of words he produced) back to perhaps twenty years. A stapler, a copier, a paper with a purple wheel parts for coverage banker: "Phrases Balms Balls Balls". A dozen aphorisms on silence ... A meeting with Boris Novak, Slovene poet who in his corner, did the same. Contact with Ales Steger, "send him what you do, you never know ..." Received an invitation to a festival of European poetry at the Slovenian border in the vineyards of Medan. Fed, housed, bleached red for having written a dozen aphorisms. The power of writing. I was gone Lille, with over my cardboard sign, a dozen names, cities, my trip down Ljublana. These are my words that had invited me there, what else are words on a marker board that brought me there. Someone recognized himself in this word recorded, this city where he went, and stopped, carried me to this city ...
I remember an aphorism of Boris Novak:
"The poet is the gardener of silence"
And my answer ...
How in the garden of silence
not do otherwise than
laborer
noisy
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