#540 The Art of Conversation V (1950)

Knit & pearl alternately for four 
rows. Underneath it, in white 
wool, long enough to interest, yet 
not long enough to tire, with the 
words written in a clear, legible 

hand, this note: "This is not a dream."
Written from the heart, the simple
eloquence of the words forces the 
ideogram to arrange itself accor-
ding to the laws of a simultaneous 

form. Avoid postscripts, punctuate 
carefully. Render the outline as a 
thin skin that must be pierced in 
order to follow, word for word, the 
outpouring of its internal text. A 

lie is not locked up in a phrase, but 
must exist, if at all, in the mind of 
the writer. In its millennial tradition
the essence of rhetoric is in allegory.
Never point. It is excessively ill-bred.

Sources:
This Is Not a Pipe, by Michel Foucault
The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette (1860), by Florence Hartley

#539 L'Aube à Cayenne (2)

The tree trunk taken, & turned
into a book. Dürer is praying a
miracle may occur — as he has
done for several centuries — & 
the tree become whole again. Yes,
he knows trees reach up to the
sky, but they should have a base
to support them, not be silhou-

etted against the rules of nature.
Now his hands hold a ball of
thread to tether it to the ground
if he can get his magic metal sty-
lus to draw it closer. He has to
hurry, for the candle burns away.

#538 La Magie Noire (1946)

Antarctic winter imitated. I am
living inside a refrigerator
set up in a cold store. Beside me
there is a bird that would
escape if it could. It is my first
Assumption; & I am trying
to keep it by keeping it
as close to suspended animation
as I can. The bird is unhappy.
It is a summer bird. When
I first felt it fluttering
a few ingested pellets of dry ice
were enough to quieten it.
But as it grew
I was forced to move lodgings,
was forced to move
my chilling mode from
solid boulder blocks to
gaseous intake. Now when I exhale
my frozen breath is fuel
that drives rockets to the
moon. It does not wake the bird
but something inside it
awakens. I sense its struggles
as it recognizes flight, is
driven mad by its proximity.

#537 L'Avenir

Everything in the distance seems so
picture perfect — the stars, the hills 
in shadow. & those things up close —
the open window, the pristine bench 
with that loaf so fresh you would 
swear you could smell it — refresh 

that first impression of perfection. 
Then doubts start creeping in. Why 
are there no lights dotting the hillside? 
Why are there no knick knacks around 
the house to indicate some evidence 
of human inhabitation? Who, therefore, 

baked the loaf? Is it really real? Or is 
this image of the future a wry obser-
vation by the painter that life as we
currently know it might eventually 
vanish from the planet because hu-
mankind cannot live by bread alone?

#536 Elseneur

The trees grown up
& shaped to repli-
cate the castle that 

once stood here. The 
place no longer a 
hamlet. Now over-

grown. No longer 
a place for Ham-
let to call Home.

#535 Confiture de Cheval

#534 Le Monde des Images

The window pane cannot
encompass the setting of the
sun. It cracks — obviously not 
double-glazed. & that image,
not on the floor, camera ob-
scura style, but, in a similar
fashion, trapped at a point 
in its pathway, imprinted on 
the glass. Now, on the floor, 
shards of sunset — clouds, 
reflections on the sea, sun.

Later, after he had initiated 
the shattering of the glass, 
Magritte wrote: If what is at 
least possible should truly hap-
pen one day, I would hope that
a poet or philosopher... would
explain to me what these shards 
of reality are supposed to mean.

I leave that in the inexplicable
basket. But, if there is some-
one out there…I'm listening.

#533 L'Ocean

He gets excited when
he's near the ocean. 

She is more reserved, 
thinks of the scallop 

shell she emerged on, 
wonders where it now 

is. It looks at first like 
an unequal relationship; 

but it seems to work.

#532 La Saveur des larmes (1946)

The stalk broken, perhaps
in preparation for pesto or
some similar condiment. Not


used. The flavor unconducive 
for garnish — too much sad-
ness, tastes too much of tears.

#531 La Veillée

A lighted candle & holder cut
from a music score. Papier 
collé, glued paper, evoking
techniques from some decades
before, invoking thoughts of
his brother, a musician, poet.

Laid beside the candle, eggs
in a nest. Though not known
where they were laid. Nor 
known which came first, the
candle or the eggs. Not that
that matters. Take notice of 

the notes, their similarity to 
DNA, the genetic information 
of the music. & the eggs, the 
ongoing vigil waiting for them 
to hatch, to bring more life in
to the world as we hold the 

candle up to illuminate their 
progress. Note the frisson be-
tween them, candle & eggs, the 
magic imparted by being together, 
the dust of dusk accompanying
them, adding to the mystery.

#530 Le Somnambule

It should have been a one-
pipe problem, Watson, but
my sleep patterns have been
irregular lately, have moved
from the no sleep of cocaine 
use to an ersatz sleepwalking,
full of fear, as if the hound of 
the Baskervilles was hard on 

my heels. I wake, immediately 
reach for another pipe. Have 
lost count of how many I’ve 
smoked in the last few weeks. 
& now I’m having visions, 
will suddenly see an owl in my 
chair, my pipe in its mouth; & 
we have moved from Baker 

Street to somewhere in the 
country. & the owl peers at me
through its saucer eyes, takes
the pipe out of its mouth, looks
down at it & says to me: “This is
not a pipe.” & what it means by
that, Watson, is the problem. Is
beyond my sphere of expertise.