Saturday, August 29, 2020

#442 The Secret of the Clouds

It is daytime. The unlit moon
comes across as just another
cloud as it mixes in with them.
Except these clouds don't look
like those clouds — or those /
these, depending on what your
viewing point is. Nothing secretive
about the ones above my head:

meteorologists have long since been
able to define, decline them. These others?
Okay, it's obviously a shitty day, but the
only secret I can posit they contain is
which of asemic notebook, extrusion, or
tangled spaghetti do they spring from.

Monday, August 24, 2020

#441 The Homunculus of Frank O'Hara

I no longer take the homunculus of Frank O'Hara onto the plane with me. Have grown tired of having to place it in the perspex tray along with my lighter, cigarettes, keys, watch, wallet, spectacles – yes, I know there's three-quarters of a racially stereotypical joke in there; but having no desire to irradiate my gonads I have never taken off my testicles to complete the punchline.

The homunculus traveled peacefully enough most times. But every so often, especially when the flight was delayed, he'd be set off by the X-ray machine, would suddenly exclaim "my quietness has a man in it" in a voice that most definitely contradicted the words; & then I'd be up against the wall being searched for stowaways.

Before him I'd taken Bach with me. He'd mainly hum. The machines would gradually pick up the theme & purr along in perfect counterpoint. Caught up by the harmony all around even the security guards would display a courtesy & politeness that was exemplary. Never a problem until the day J.S.B. got asked to remove his periwig & promptly launched into a performance of his Toccata & Fugue in D Minor that shook the terminal. Then came the Brandenburgs, & planes started falling from the sky.

Magritte has been my companion on the last few flights. So far nothing to report. He is the perfect gentleman. Takes off his overcoat & lays it flat on the belt, followed by his bowler hat which he places in such a way it completes the outline of a man. Then we walk through the metal detector together, quietly, each eating an apple picked from a favorite painting.

Friday, August 21, 2020

#440 Les sommet du regard

After his death, the executors
came to take an inventory of
the familiar items. He was there
for most of it, was able to clear
up some of the uncertainties,
took pains to point out that most
of the items here did not exist.

"Can you truly believe that
things found within the various
strata of a painting that contains
a painting that also contains a
painting would have physical
form? The perspective is all wrong
to allow that to happen. I made

them visible only for the length
of time it took me to paint the
painting that surrounds the others.
Now I too have passed; & no one
is left to say if that is a swarm of
locusts in the background, or
smoke coming from a forest fire."

Thursday, August 13, 2020

#439 Le Goût de l’Invisible (1964)

Ceci n'est pas un masque
. It is an apple,
put there to prevent
the perfume of the

abyss from seeping in.
I am standing on its
edge, looking into
it, then I slowly turn

away. It's reverse
psychology. If I can't
see it then I am in-
visible. It can still

taste me, though. My
fear gives me away.

#438 Le Goût de l’Invisible (1927)

There's a McDonald's near where
I live; so, when I grow tired of
exploring fermentation at cooking
school, I set off in search of treats
of divers & sundry matters. There
is a heightened level of threat now
that baby green snakes are on their
way to where I later pause in the
Louvre contemplating the secretive
nature of Le Prieuré de Sion. I think it
has something to with string theory,
as in stringing one along, along the
lines of McDonald's has a Michelin
star, The Priory has a secret cellar
beneath the Louvre. Everything
exudes an unseen aspect behind the
visible, whose nearness I can taste
even if I cannot see it. A framework
of scented gardens for the blind.

Saturday, August 01, 2020

#437 The Secret Life I

By day he was the stereo-
typically mild-mannered
man, un petit bourgeois from
curve of bowler hat to the
wingtips down below. Too
immersed in Max Weber to
consider Nietzsche as a role
model, but still had dreams

to find a life in the theater.
Finally achieved; but too
shaped by bureaucracy to
even be a lowly spear carrier.
Instead is typecast, stage dec-
oration, a mute piece of wood.