We, we are people of dust. There is no more 'we'. We are no more. Did I say we? I...
The structure, the structure is there, more or less, the barest outline of some previous existence, the way my sad smile traces the same sad smile of my ancestors from all those years ago. For some unknown reasons that look was carried in my eyes, down to the bone. They'll find it one day in my DNA but never know...
He loved art more than he loved people. People were trash, dispensable. They fell, were often evicted from history; they were unreliable, were susceptible to disappearances. He loved ideas, he loved ideas more than anything else in the world.
I do not watch television any more and haven't seen a movie-from start to finish-for a long time now. What's the latest? I have no clue. I live in my room and no-one knows my name or address. I have built myself a hole and live with my testament and my shadows. No record contains me. I think, therefore.
The keeper of the flame, the steward of the trash of the world, the accumulation of false steps, mutations, contagion. That ancient chaos that was there in the heart of the first man, twisted, his eyes glinting with transgression, is here, 360, in this boarded up room that is kept out of the sun's vengeful eye.
"All I wanted was to live with my pictures".
He keeps them close to him, like so many dark memories. All that is not said or shown becomes more real with the passage of time.He will die and live this way.
The pictures survived him, like Paul Celan's bottles tossed into the ocean, suddenly returned from oblivion, inevitable tokens of lives lost and reminders of art's endurance.
The journeys made, the lives lost across the wide ocean. The condemned in their dark chains, the free, thirsty, all at sea. Already, before the mirror my image fades, my hands become heavy. For those without a land must take to the sea...
What shows up? This will make you laugh. A silver dish that could be redeemed for forty pieces of silver, a last act of stealing, to keep your name.
On a morning like this they will find me, a head full of straw. Ah, 'the strawness of straw,' said the poet, this old essence of man.
No comments:
Post a Comment