Languagey is meledy,
Sensual is driving,
Good sense is drowning.

The history of art is silence.

The art of history is silence.

The silence of art is history.

The art of silence is history.

The silence of history is art.

The history of silence is art.

Dear Hunger and to my fellow Pain,

I do my best. I’ve lived inside the heart, but the cold has crept in. The bones are weak, and the flesh is warm. Tell me how to be the skin. We will be together forever, won’t we?

Dearly, Joseph

Poor Harold Grand Scare Murder Error

Gravy essed along it when if fires meant lost purses,

Mister Tray gone Miss Listen To Me,

Grand scrap mist missed Miss Cinnamon diction Mary,

Millicent morrow armor plateless faces in people places,

Marital instructor miser man in grief

Listlessly listing lavish tea cups meant rivals unraveled

The beastly snickerer smirked, the rivals trusted the nation.

The book is an architecture, i can hardly imagine it any other way, just as a labyrinthine subterranean complex. Rooms open into caverns of bright summer days, farewells at seaports, hotel rooms, and apartments. The corridors are non places non spaces, they are the narrator, perhaps. The narrator walks the corridors opening doors leading the reader through the building.

it is shapeless

it is beyond metaphor

it is like a wind

it slips along a fault line

like a mountain

onto traffic

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Quiet and Night

Just after bath time while your brushing your teeth and pulling on your pajamas Quiet starts getting ready too. Quiet is a shadow of the loud sounds of the day. His job is to fill the whole house, every room, hallway, basement, attic, little boy, little girl, mommy and daddy up, so that with the help of night, which is the day’s shadow everyone can sleep. Night comes just before quiet does. Night flies in gently without a sound to perch on a tree just out side. He is black and once he’s settled you can’t see him unless you catch his eye. He watches you like blackbirds sometimes do, but he, watches longer and more intently as he waits for Quiet to fill your room and fill you up. Then when your asleep Night folds his head under his wing an goes to sleep himself. Once Night falls asleep, Quiet’s work is done, and the house starts to dream and all the rooms in it, mommy and daddy, and you too.

http://13.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_kri9gacGi61qz5njko1_500.jpg

Fertile Ground

In a parking lot next to the highway caught between a merging lane and a retaining wall, topped with a fence, covered by a caged pedestrian overpass, he grips the throttle and clamps the body of the bike between his knees. He idles stubbornly and waits for the police to decide to move on.

The season and place are nothing particular around here, It feels like every other night and place here in the city, mean and bored, senseless and restless. Something has to be done, the people need to keep in motion, even in all directions at once. This soil though, is very fertile. While the subdivision sleeps the parking lot teems, around in back or clumped under the dead lights. The neighbours can't breathe, their hearts are wild, their faces pallid. Their hot houses send them out into the night air.

2010

Sleep

Look at me with gentle eyes and speak to me softly,

night's, sweet, child, sleep.

Comfortable Under The Covers, And A Bonfire Warming Your Frontside (The Land Of Night)

These tiny points of light pass straight through me, they seem to cool the air. The horizon is a mist that drops away as near as I can shout. The whole landscape pulls up close around me, and night holds the faint light close. This tepid light does not set the night to ease, the blackness is a border to the stars.

Shadow Games

To shed our shadow cast before us, we need only step over it.

Melodic Chance

The nascent future, the receding past, the passing of time through the eternal present.

Field of Light

These tiny points of light pass straight through me, they seem to cool the air.

The Diary Of A Writer, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, P.3

“Still worse off is he who, of his own accord, seeks to study and to understand things. Even harder is the lot of him who candidly divulges such an intention. But if he ventures to declare that he has succeeded a bit in grasping something, and that he intends to express his thoughts, he is promptly deserted by everybody. Nothing is left to him but to find some one suitable fellow, or even hire him, in order to converse with him alone; perhaps to publish the magazine for him alone. It is a despicable situation, since it is as if one were speaking to oneself and publishing a periodical for one’s own amusement.”

portrait

Special Qualities of Books

Libraries become a mind after a while, by mere contact the books on the shelves begin to grow together, become linked, start to dream and later to think. Also, it is said that you can get lost in a book, as when you are alone, when it is very quiet, or sometimes not quiet at all. Sometimes reading — can be a waking dream.

Inspiring Thouhts from Fiona Tan's (Island, 2008) at The Vancouver Art Gallery

"Lazing on the pleasant side of boredom"

"...now the air feels cooler and she thinks this place may be becoming her home..."

"When she leaves, she will fold up this place, and put it in her pocket for safe keeping."

"...long long days of endless dusk..."

"Gaining distance is sometimes the only way to get close to what really matters."