tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42978680267803834772024-03-12T20:22:32.685-07:00Observing SilenceArtist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.comBlogger1037125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-72820467771366186712017-09-07T08:05:00.002-07:002017-09-07T08:05:32.203-07:00...of Lovethe day (or night)<br /><br />is green<br />she plays upon a blue guitar<br /><br />she does not play things as they are<br />hearing in the air messages un<br />emitted unadmitted mean<br /><br />inventing your desire with La belle si tu voulais (bis)<br />Nous dormirions ensemble o-la (bis)<br /><br />and answering it unspoken with<br /><br />No vale la pena el llanto or l’amor è un<br />atalena or love is just a four-letter word and<br />more: love is a bore, a soap op<br />era a telephone that doesn’t ring<br /><br />in many languages from Lucan to Lacan<br />she fills the air as well with<br />syntagmatic silence - from Phaedrus to Freud<br />Homer to Husserl and Locke to the Li Ki<br />effortlessly displacing notions with a diachronic chord.<br /><br />[<i>Thru</i>, Brooke-Rose, C.]<br />Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-87058251180800062042017-09-07T08:04:00.003-07:002017-09-07T08:04:22.924-07:00...of a narratorThe axis of desire uniting them authorises a semidyliic interpretation of the two actants as a virtuoso performer subject and an object instituted by itself as valuelessness of the subject performer. Thus the narrative utterance:<br /><br />NU = F : transfer (E -> o -> R)<br /><br />The transfer can then be interpreted at the same time as a privation or as a distinction (depending on the level) or as an attribution or as a conjunction (depending on the level) thus representing the circulation of value-objects topologically as an identification of the deictic transfers with the terms of a taxinomic model, each isotopic place (where the performances occur) consisting of two deixes that are conjunctive but equivalent, at the fundamental level, to the contradictory terms out of Oriental and Celtic mists that nobody utters these days, or, if somebody does, can only be met by syntagmatic silence although words are urgently demanded and the demand can only degenerate into useless chatter. She who explains herself is lost.<br /><br />[<i>Thru</i>, Brooke-Rose, C.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-91036695231507941262017-09-07T08:03:00.002-07:002017-09-07T08:03:33.127-07:00...of the absent authorThere has occurred however the telescoping of the flute-player into a stereotyped foreshortened faun piping right to left on the rectangle of days with weeks and even years in an implicit depth, days that do not see themselves or the four lies reflected in the retrovisor, looking at nothing on or in the brow that Scheherezade thinks too low beneath the mat of khaki crinkly hair perhaps Etruscan or hiding behind a discourse from which the subjects vanish piecemeal, the one giving no references and other too many thus having a mouth removed and other organs when all that is signifiable in her is struck with latency as soon as raised to the function of signifier which initiates this raising by its original disappearance, the show within the show.<br />For the idyll reopens out into the other idyll of Armel who is not like that at all and Veronica true icon iconoclasted before the introduction of the pistol, raising antinomies by reaction that overtakes the subjective idea, rendering it objective, here on the ocean edge, and irresistible, Aphrodite emerging from memory and beckoning, naked, sprayed with flowery foam.<br />For you are not qualcosa as narrated by either yourself or some other who talks like a book and wants to be read like an algebraic grammar of narrative, the punishment in final position never falling on the euphoric term, only on the dyseptic, the moving finger piercing through the the pregnant plenitude from idyll to castratrophy thus bringing about the end of discourse. Nor have you acted out the dialogue spun by the silent narrator who is yourself perhaps making yourself articulate and wise, quick on the uptake gentle cruelonlytobekind with brief mean brushstrokes for objectivity and her semelic wild moon detached and gazing at the earth, tide-driven and helpless so that you can save her and if that is what you want that is how it will be for you always get your way in the end by transforming the passive silence of undecidability into the undecidable. Whoever invented it is the absent narrator or you in love with the unrelaible narrator who is in love with the implied author who is in love with himself and therefore absent in the nature of things through doors opening on doors, mirrors on mirrors in an eternal game of vinciperdi with the presence and absence of signifiers that characterises the practice of language. A head in a pool on a platter in a textured cloth, the head detached to re-present the word, a disembodied voice. <br /><br />[<i>Thru</i>, Brooke-Rose, C.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-53895284398209965302017-09-07T08:02:00.004-07:002017-09-07T08:02:34.555-07:00...of that underneathOn hot July days, the wall opposite cast a brilliant, harsh light into the damp little courtyard. <br />Underneath this heat there was a great void, silence, everything seemed in suspense: the only thing to be heard, aggressive, strident, was the creaking of a chair being dragged across the tiles, the slamming of a door. In this heat, in this silence, it was a sudden coldness, a rending.<br />And she remained motionless on the edge of her bed, occupying the least possible space, tense, as though waiting for something to burst, to crash down upon her in the threatening silence.<br />At times the shrill notes of locusts in a meadow petrified by the sun and as though dead, induce this sensation of cold, of solitude, of abandonment in a hostile universe in which something anguishing is impending.<br />In the silence, penetrating the length of the old blue-striped wallpaper in the hall, the length of the dingy paint, she heard the little click of the key in the front door. She heard the study door close.<br />She remained there hunched up, waiting, doing nothing. <br />The slightest act, such as going to the bathroom to wash her hands, letting the water run from the tap, seemed like a provocation, a sudden leap into the void, an extremely daring action. In the suspended silence, the sudden sound of water would be like a signal, like an appeal directed towards them; it would be like some horrible contact, like touching a jellyfish with the end of a stick and then waiting with loathing for it suddenly to shudder, rise up and fall back down again.<br /><br />[<i>Tropisms</i>, Sarraute, N.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-86514156869235583472017-09-07T08:01:00.004-07:002017-09-07T08:01:30.299-07:00...of latent rageIn the morning she leapt from her bed early, dashed about the apartment, tart, tense, bursting with shouts and gestures, with gasps of anger, with “scenes.” She went from room to room, nosed about in the kitchen, banged furiously on the door of the bathroom which someone was occupying, and she wanted to break in, to manage, to give them a shaking, to ask them if they were going to stay in there for an hour, or remind them that it was late, that they were going to miss the car or the train, it was too late, that they had already missed something because of their carelessness, their negligence, or that they their breakfast was ready, that it was cold, that it had been waiting for two hours, that it was stone-cold… And it seemed that from her viewpoint there was nothing uglier, more contemptible, more stupid, more hateful, that there was no more obvious sign of inferiority, of weakness, than to let one’s breakfast grow cold, than to come late for breakfast.<br />Those who were in the secret, the children, came running. The others, who were careless and negligent towards things, being unaware of their power in this house, answered politely in a perfectly natural, gentle manner: “Thank you very much, don’t bother, I rather like coffee that’s a little cold.” To these persons, these outsiders, she did not dare say anything, and because of this one statement, because of this little polite sentence with which they rebuffed her gently, negligently, with a flick of the hand, without even taking her into consideration, without pausing to give her a moment’s thought, for this alone she began to hate them.<br /><br />[<i>Tropisms</i>, Sarraute, N.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-55097897445289290012017-09-07T08:00:00.002-07:002017-09-07T08:00:46.087-07:00...of planets‘Come with me, let’s go have a look at the Southern Cross,’ he says.<br />He walks out in front of us all the way to the end of the alley, over by the chalta tree. In order to be able to see the Southern Cross you need to be far from the lights of the house. We look up at the sky, almost without breathing. I immediately pinpoint ‘The Followers’ high up in the sky at the tail end of Centaurus. To the right, the Cross hovers palely, slightly tilted, like the sail of a pirogue. Laure and I spot it at the same time, but we don’t need to say anything. We gaze up at the Cross without speaking. Mam comes out to join us and she doesn’t say a word to our father. We just stand there and it seems as if we’re listening to the sound of the planets in the night. It’s so beautiful, there’s no need to say anything. But I can feel that pain in my chest and throat growing tighter, because something has changed on this night, something says that it must all come to an end. Maybe it’s written in the stars - that’s what I think - maybe what needs to be done to keep things from changing and save us is also written in the stars.<br /><br />[<i>The Prospector</i>, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-54812373557144032602017-09-07T07:59:00.004-07:002017-09-07T07:59:47.778-07:00...of friendshipIt’s a dizziness that stems from the sea, like a kind of spell cast by the sun and the reflections that is befuddling me and draining my energy. In spite of the torrid heat I feel cold. Denis’s sister and her fiancé help me stretch out in the bottom of the pirogue, in the shade of the sail that is flapping in the breeze. Denis cups seawater in his hands and wets my face and body. Then, punting with his pole, he steers the pirogue over to the shore. A little later we run up on the white beach, near the point of the Morne. There, a few small trees grow - velvet leaf soldierbushes. With Denis’s aid I walk to the shade of one of them. Denis’s sister encourages me to drink a sour substance from a gourd; it burns my tongue and throat and wakes me up. I already want to stand, walk back to the pirogue, but Denis’s sister tells me I must stay in the shade util the sun has begun to go down towards the horizon. The old man has remained in the pirogue, leaning on the pole. Now they’re moving away on the shimmering water to fish some more.<br />Denis has remained sitting next to me. He doesn’t say anything. He’s just here with me in the shade of the small tree, legs covered with patches of white sand. He’s not like those other children who live in grand estates. He doesn’t need to talk. He’s my friend and his silence here beside me is a way of saying so.<br /><br />[<i>The Prospector</i>, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-25400339699482279472017-09-07T07:59:00.001-07:002017-09-07T07:59:05.319-07:00...of a traumatic eventThe mass of labourers moves forwards, then back again in a strange sort of dance while the shouting rises and falls in strident modulation. Men brandish cane knives, scythes, and the women hoes and billhooks. Panic-stricken, I stand frozen to the spot, while the crowd jostles around me, encircles me. I’m suffocating, I’m blinded by the dust. With great difficulty I make my way over the wall of the sugar mill. Just then, without my understanding what is happening, I see the three horsemen start to gallop towards the throng that closes in around them. The withers of the horses are pushing the men and women back and the riders are striking out with their rifle butts. Two horses escape in the direction of the cane fields, pursued by the angry cries of the crowd. They pass so close to me I throw myself to the ground in the dust for fear of being trampled. Then I glimpse a third rider. He’s fallen from his horse and the men and women have grabbed him by the arms, are shoving him around. I recognize his face, despite it being twisted with fear. He’s a relative of Ferdinand’s - a man named Dupont, the husband of one of his cousins - who is a field manager on Uncle Ludovic’s plantations. My father says he’s worse than a sirdar, that he beats the workers with sticks and if they complain about him he steals their pay. Now it’s the field labourers who are mauling him, hitting him, insulting him, making him fall to the ground. For a moment, in the midst of the crowd that is shoving him around, he’s so close to me that I can see the wild look in his eyes, can hear the hoarse sound of his breathing. I’m afraid, because I realize he’s going to die. Nausea rises in my throat, strangles me. My eyes fill with tears, I strike out with my fists at the angry crowd that doesn’t even see me. The men and women in gunny cloth pursue their strange dance, their shouts. When I’m able to get out of the crowd I turn around and see the white man. His clothing is torn to pieces and he is being carried, half-naked, at arm’s length above the crowd over to the bagasse furnace. The man isn’t screaming, isn’t moving. His face is a white blotch of fear as the black people lift him up by the arms and legs and begin to swing him in front of the red door of the furnace. I stand there, petrified, alone in the middle of the dirt road, listening to the voices shouting louder and louder, and now it is like a slow and painful chant punctuating the swinging of the body over the flames. Then there is one movement of the crowd and a great wild cry when the man disappears into the furnace. Then the clamour suddenly ceases and I can once again hear the dull roaring of the flames, the gurgling of cane juice in the large shiny kettles. I can’t tear my eyes away from the flaming mouth of the bagasse furnace into which the black men are now shoveling dried cane as if nothing has happened. Then, slowly, the crowd breaks up. The women in gunny cloth walk through the dust, veiling their faces with their head rags. The men wander off towards the paths in the cane fields, knives in hand. There are no more clamours or noises, only the silence of the wind in the cane leaves as I walk towards the river. The silence is within me, is brimming up inside of me making my head spin, and I know I will never be able to talk to anyone about what I’ve seen today.<br /><br />[<i>The Prospector</i>, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-31737674579644021862017-09-07T07:57:00.005-07:002017-09-07T07:57:39.861-07:00...of an approaching stormI’m up on the Etoile when the rain first comes in.<br />It had been a nice day, the sun was burning my skin through the clothing, the chimneys were smoking far away in the cane fields. I sat gazing at the expanse of dark-blue sea, choppy out beyond the reefs.<br />The rain comes sweeping over the sea, coming from Port Louis, a great grey curtain in a semicircle that is coming straight towards me at top speed. It’s so sudden I don’t think of looking for shelter. I just stand there on the rocky outcrop - heart racing. I love seeing the rain driving in.<br />At first there is no wind. All sounds are suspended, as if the mountains are holding back the breath of air. That’s what’s making my heart pound too, the silence that drains the sky, that makes everything stand still.<br /><br />[<i>The Prospector</i>, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-50827535546928644762017-09-07T07:56:00.005-07:002017-09-07T07:56:53.057-07:00...of the threat of deathWe remain huddled together on the veranda, clinging to one another, warily observing the far end of the garden and the sky where once more large black clouds are gathering. There is that strange silence again, weighing down upon the valley around us as if we were all alone in the world. Cook’s hut is empty. He left for Black River this morning with his wife. In the fields, not a cry, no sound of a carriage to be heard.<br />It’s that silence penetrating deep down inside us, that ominous silence, bearing the threat of death that I’ll never be able to forget. There’s not a bird in the trees, not an insect, not even the sound of the wind in the she-oaks. The silence is more powerful than the sounds, it swallows them up, and everything around us drains away and is annihilated. We stand still on the veranda. I’m shivering in my damp clothes. When we speak our voices ring out strangely in the distance and our words are immediately eclipsed.<br /><br />[<i>The Prospector</i>, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-19237181535607220962017-09-07T07:55:00.006-07:002017-09-07T07:55:58.256-07:00...of a secret locationNow I’m walking through the valley of Roseaux River, not knowing which way to go. From here, the valley seems wide, bordered in the distance by the black hills and the high mountains. The north wind is coming in from the mouth of the river, bearing with it rumours of the sea, giving rise to little whirlwinds of sand, like ashes, that for a moment make me think there are people arriving on horseback. But there’s a strange silence out here, due to all of this light.<br />On the other side of the hills of Venus Point there is the bustling life of Port Mathurin, the marketplace, the coming and going of pirogues in Lascars Bay, And here everything is silent like a desert island. What will I find here? Who is waiting for me?<br />I walk around haphazardly on the valley bottom until the end of the day. I want to understand where I am. I want to understand why I came all the way out here, what had spurred me, alerted me. In the dry sand of the river beach I trace a map of the valley using a twig: the entrance to the bay with large basalt boulders on the east and west. The bed of the Roseaux River leading up in almost a straight line to the south and then making a bend before entering the gorges, between the mountains. I don’t need to compare it with the Corsair’s map as it appears in my father’s documents: I’m obviously in the very spot where the treasure is.<br />Once again I feel light-headed, dizzy. There’s so much silence here, so much solitude! Only the wind blowing through the boulders and the underbrush, bearing along the distant rumbling of the sea on the reefs, but it’s the sound of a world without humans. Clouds scurry across the dazzling sky, puff, disappear behind the hills. I can’t keep the secret to myself any longer! I feel like screaming, as loud as I can, so that I’ll be heard out beyond the hills, even farther out than this island, out on the other side of the sea, all the way out in Forest Side, and my scream will penetrate the walls and deep into Laure’s heart.<br /><br />[<i>The Prospector</i>, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-55924628196141469942017-09-07T07:55:00.000-07:002017-09-07T07:55:02.797-07:00...of namesHow many have been killed? How many are still able to fight? After what we’ve seen - that deadly cloud wafting slowly towards us, yellow and golden brown like a sunset - we remain hunkered down in our holes, tirelessly scrutinizing the sky, day and night. We count our ranks, maybe in the hopes of making those who are absent, whose names no longer belong to anyone, reappear: ’Simon, Lenfant, Garadec, Schaffer… and Adrien, and the little redhead - Gordon, that was his name, Gordon … and Pommier, Antoine who was from Joliette, but whose family name I’ve forgotten, and Léon Berre and Raymond, Dubois, Santeuil, Reinert… ‘ Are they really names? Did they really exist? We thought of death differently when we first arrived from so far away: glorious death out in broad daylight, a star of blood on one’s chest. But death is deceitful and insidious, it sneaks up, whisks men away in the night while they’re sleeping, unbeknownst to others. It drowns men in the bogs, in the muddy pools at the bottom of ravines, it smothers them in the earth, it spreads its icy fingers into the bodies of those who are lying in lazarettos, under torn tents, those with livid faces and emaciated chests, wasted from dysentery, from pneumonia, from typhus. Those who die vanish and one day we notice their absence. Where are they? Maybe they’ve been lucky enough to be sent to the rear, maybe they’ve lost an eye, a leg, maybe they’ll never go back to war. But something tells us, something about their absence, about the silence that surrounds their names: they’re dead.<br /><br />[<i>The Prospector,</i> Le Clézio, J. M. G.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-75922363145059070292017-09-07T07:54:00.000-07:002017-09-07T07:54:02.498-07:00... of resisting oblivionHow long has it been since Mam died? Was it yesterday or the day before? I’m not sure any more. During the days and nights that we have stayed by her side, taking turns, me during the day, Laure at night, so that she would constantly have a hand to hold in her thin fingers. Every day I told her the same story, the story of Boucan, where everything is always young and beautiful, where the sky-coloured roof shines. It’s a make-believe land, it only exists for us three. And I think that, from having talked about it so much, a bit of that immortality is within us, unites us against death, which is so near.<br />As for Laure, she doesn’t talk. On the contrary, she’s silent, obstinate, but that’s her way of struggling against oblivion. I brought back a small branch of the chalta tree for her and when I gave it to her I saw she hadn’t forgotten. Her eyes shone with pleasure when she took the branch, which she laid on the nightstand or rather tossed there, as if inadvertently, because that’s the way she acts with objects she loves.<br /><br />[<i>The Prospector</i>, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-28360593664983842852017-07-03T12:16:00.000-07:002017-07-03T12:16:01.437-07:00...of compulsionHis voice grew louder, and he was again addressing people who were not there. Here in Johannesburg it is the mines, he said, everything is the mines. These high buildings, this wonderful City Hall, this beautiful Parktown with its beautiful houses, all this is built with the gold from the mines. This wonderful hospital for Europeans, the biggest hospital south of the Equator, it is built with the gold from the mines.<br />There was a change in voice, it became louder like the voice of a bull or a lion. Go to our hospital, he said, and see our people lying on the floors. They lie so close you cannot step over them. But it is they who dig the gold. For three shillings a day. We come from the Transkei, and from Basutoland, and from Bechuanaland, and from Swaziland, and from Zululand. And from Ndotsheni also. We live in the compounds, we must leave our wives and families behind. And when the new gold is found, it is not we who will get more for our labour. It is the white man’s shares that will rise, you will read it in all the papers. They go mad when new gold is found. They bring more of us to live in the compounds, to dig under the ground for three shillings a day. They do not think, here is a chance to pay more for our labour. They only think, here is a chance to build a bigger house and buy a bigger car. It is important to find gold, they say, for all South Africa is built on the mines.<br />He growled, and his voice grew deep, it was like thunder that was rolling. But it was not built on the mines, he said, it is built on our backs, on our sweat, on our labour. Every factory, every theatre, every beautiful house, they are all built by us. And what does a chief know about that? But here in Johannesburg they know.<br />He stopped, and was silent. And his visitors were silent also, for there was something in this voice that compelled one to be silent. And Stephen Kumalo sat silent, for this was a new brother that he saw.<br /><br />[<i>Cry, the Beloved Country</i>, Paton, A.] Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-26647273891084145882017-07-03T12:15:00.001-07:002017-07-03T12:15:04.480-07:00...of sufferingWith trembling hands she took the tin and opened it. She emptied it out over the table, some old and dirty notes, and a flood of silver and copper.<br />- Count it, he said.<br />She counted it laboriously, turning over the notes and the coins to make sure what they were.<br />- Twelve pounds, five shillings, and seven pence.<br />- I shall take, he said, I shall take eight pounds, and the shillings and pence.<br />- Take it all, Stephen. There may be doctors, hospitals, other troubles. Take it all. And take the Post Office Book - there is ten pounds in it - you must take that also.<br />- I have been saving that for your stove, he said.<br />- That cannot be helped, she said. And that other money, though we saved it for St Chad’s, I had meant it for your new black clothes, and a new black hat, and new white collars.<br />- That cannot be helped either. Let me see, I shall go…<br />- Tomorrow, she said. From Carisbrooke.<br />- I shall write to the Bishop now, and tell him I do not know how long I shall be gone.<br />He rose heavily to his feet, and went and stood before her. I am sorry I hurt you, he said. I shall go and pray in the church.<br />He went out of the door, and she watched him through the little window, walking slowly to the door of the church. Then she sat down at his table, and put her head on it, and was silent, with the patient suffering of black women, with the suffering of oxen, with the suffering of any that are mute.<br /><br />[<i>Cry, the Beloved Country</i>, Paton, A.] Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-22630665836605233682017-07-03T12:14:00.001-07:002017-07-03T12:14:14.172-07:00...of a conversation-stopper‘I read your book,’ Juliana said. ‘In fact I finished it this evening. How did you know all that, about the other world you wrote about?’<br />Hawthorne said nothing; he rubbed his knuckle against his upper lip, staring past her and frowning.<br />‘Did you use the oracle?’ Juliana said.<br />Hawthorne glanced at her.<br />‘I don’t want you to kid or joke,’ Juliana said. ‘Tell me without making something witty out of it.’<br />Chewing his lip, Hawthorne gazed down at the floor; he wrapped his arms about himself, rocked back and forth on his heels. The others in the room near by had become silent, and Juliana noticed that their manner had changed. They were not happy, now, because of what she had said. But she did not try to take it back or disguise it; she did not pretend. It was too important. And she had come too far and done too much to accept anything less than the truth from him.<br />‘That’s - a hard question to answer,’ Abendsen said finally.<br />‘No it isn’t,’ Juliana said.<br />Now everyone in the room had become silent; they all watched Juliana standing with Caroline and Hawthorne Abendsen.<br /><br />[<i>The Man in the High Castle</i>, Dick, P. K.] Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-4287421307655427632017-07-03T12:13:00.000-07:002017-07-03T12:13:05.438-07:00...of a silencerGeneral Tedeki started to speak. But then a tremendous clatter at the office door; he ceased. The door swung open.<br />Two burly white men appeared, both armed with pistols equipped with silencers. They made out Mr Baynes.<br />‘Da ist er,’ one said. They started for Mr Baynes.<br />At his desk, Mr Tagomi pointed his Colt ’44 ancient collector’s item and compressed the trigger. One of the S.D. men fell to the floor. The other whipped his silencer-equipped gun towards Mr Tagomi and returned fire. Mr Tagomi heard no report, saw only a tiny wisp of smoke from the gun, heard the whistle of a slug passing near. With record-eclipsing speed he fanned the hammer of the single action Colt, firing it again and again.<br /><br />[<i>The Man in the High Castle</i>, Dick, P. K.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-54828823242581251772017-07-03T12:12:00.003-07:002017-07-03T12:12:19.449-07:00...of social awkwardnessRobert Childan felt his face flush, and he bent over his new drink to conceal himself from the eyes of his host. What a dreadful beginning he had made. In a foolish and loud manner he had argued politics; he had been rude in his disagreeing, and only the adroit tact of his host had sufficed to save the evening. How much I have to learn, Childan thought. They’re so graceful and polite. And I - the white barbarian. It is true.<br />For a time he contented himself with sipping his drink and keeping on his face an artificial expression of enjoyment. I must follow their leads entirely, he told himself. Agree always.<br />Yet in a panic he thought, My wits scrambled by the drink. And fatigue and nervousness. Can I do it? I will never be invited back anyhow; it is already too late. He felt despair.<br />Betty, having returned from the kitchen, had once more seated herself on the carpet. How attractive, Robert Childan thought again. The slender body. Their figures are so superior; not fat, not bulbous. No bra or girdle needed. I must conceal my longing; that at all costs. And yet now and then he let himself steal a glance at her. Lovely dark colours of her skin, hair, and eyes. We are half-baked compared to them. Allowed out of the kiln before we were fully done. The old aboriginal myth; the truth, there.<br />I must divert my thoughts. Find social item, anything. His eyes strayed about, seeking some topic. The silence resigned heavily, making his tension sizzle. Unbearbable. What the hell to say? Something safe. His eyes made out a book on a low black teak cabinet.<br /><br />[<i>The Man in the High Castle</i>, Dick, P. K.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-85572279618248143962017-07-03T12:11:00.004-07:002017-07-03T12:11:35.908-07:00...of the TaoHis hand opened the tissue paper, showing them the gift. Bit of ivory carved a century ago by by whalers from New England. Tiny ornamented art object, called a scrimshaw. Their faces illuminated with knowledge of the scrimshaws which the old sailors had made in their spare time. No single thing could have summed up old U.S. culture more. Silence.<br />‘Thank you,’ Paul said.<br />Robert Childan bowed.<br />There was peace, then, for a moment, in his heart. This offering, this - as the <i>I Ching</i> put it - libation. It had done what needed to be done. Some of the anxiety and oppression which he had felt lately began to lift from him.<br />From Ray Calvin he had received restitution for the Colt ’44, plus many written assurances of no second recurrence. And yet it had not eased his heart. Only now, in this unrelated situation, had he for a moment lost the sense that things were in the constant process of going askew. The <i>wabi</i> around him, radiations of harmony… that is it, he decided. The proportion. Balance. They are so close to the Tao, these two young Japanese. That is why I reacted to them before. I sensed the Tao through them. Saw a glimpse of it myself.<br />What would it be like, he wondered, to really know the Tao? <i>The Tao is that which first lets in the light, then the dark.</i> Occasions the interplay of the two primal forces so that there is always renewal. It is that which keeps it all from wearing down. The universe will never be extinguished because just when the darkness seems to have smothered all, to be truly transcendant, the new seeds of light are reborn in the very depths. That is the Way. When the seed falls, it falls into the earth, into the soil. And beneath, out of sight, it comes to life.<br /><br />[<i>The Man in the High Castle</i>, Dick, P. K.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-70462202968370429722017-07-03T12:10:00.002-07:002017-07-03T12:10:17.947-07:00...of a cavemanBack in the cave Janet’s made a nice fire.<br />“So what did numbnuts want?” she says. “Are you fired?”<br />I shake my head no.<br />“Is he in love with you?” she says. “Does he want to go out with you?”<br />I shake my head no.<br />“Is he in love with me?” she says. “Does he want to go out with me? Am I fired?”<br />I do not shake my head no.<br />“Wait a minute, wait a minute, go back,” she says. “I’m fired?”<br />I shake my head no.<br />“But I’m in the shit?” she says. “I’m somewhat in the shit?”<br />I shrug.<br />“Will you freaking talk to me?” she says. “This is important. Don’t be a dick for once,”<br />I don’t consider myself a dick and I do not appreciate being called a dick, in the cave, in English, and the truth is, if she would try a little harder not to talk in the cave, she would not be so much in the shit.<br /><br />[<i>Pastoralia</i>, Saunders, G.] Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-52055819722180668782017-07-03T12:09:00.002-07:002017-07-03T12:09:16.341-07:00...of love in the USAThey came silently, and stayed, and left silently, and silently new cars took their place. It was like an automobile show, except it wasn’t lit, so you didn’t get much benefit. I did manage to see something, though, because I secretly crept past some of the cars. In each car, there was a man and a girl getting all tangled up. My father drank gin, and remarked: ‘Love in the USA.’ And there was me thinking they were trying to kill each other. One time an older man got out of his car, but without wanting to go swimming. He just switched off the headlights of his car.<br /><br />[<i>Child of All Nations</i>, Keun, I.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-76369607622829260602017-07-03T12:08:00.002-07:002017-07-03T12:08:33.624-07:00...of nunsOne last time I ran along the beach, further and further. The spidery crabs danced over the sand, the sun shone, the sand glowed. I saw a giant tortoise lying at the water’s edge, stinking, and I saw loads of dead fish.<br />A dark silent mass was approaching the tideline, and I recognised the nuns from St Paul’s Hospital, and they got undressed to bathe in private. I was astonished, because I had always thought nuns only consisted of wimples and robes.<br /><br />[<i>Child of All Nations</i>, Keun, I.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-21140285104909222592017-07-03T12:07:00.004-07:002017-07-03T12:07:47.570-07:00...of a spellMy mother sat bolt upright; I could only see her back, which was like a wall of pink silk. Sometimes a little light flickered into our room, the telephone kept purring next door. Down on the street, a man was whistling a tune. My mother trembled: ‘Did you hear that? Did you hear hat whistling? That was the Horst Wessel Song that someone was whistling in the street - here in Amsterdam.’<br />I don’t know the song she means, but I wonder why it would make my mother so frightened and sad. I couldn’t find her face any more, it was so far away. Then in my mind I changed my mother into a tree, because a tree is calm, a tree is unafraid. A tree doesn’t get hungry, or cry. It doesn’t laugh, it doesn’t talk. I turned her into a tree so that she would stop trembling. After that, I was able to sleep.<br /><br />[<i>Child of All Nations</i>, Keun, I.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-52244010043815969212017-07-03T12:06:00.005-07:002017-07-03T12:06:58.666-07:00…of émigrés ‘There,’ says my father. He locks us into the room. ‘Now either she’ll bring masses of food, or else she’ll be back with the police.’<br />Then we stand there in silence and look at each other. All of a sudden my father looks terribly pale and tired. He sits my mother down on the bed, and then he falls down. His head is on her knees. My mother lays both her hands on his hair.<br />There is silence. The room is small, cold, ugly, with no carpet. On the brown floor are some squeezed-out tubes of paint - blue, green, red. On a tiny wobbly table is a bunch of roses, and everything smells of dust and cellars. Under the roses there are seven little booklets. Hey, those are passports; we’ve got seven passports!<br /><br />[<i>Child of All Nations</i>, Keun, I.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4297868026780383477.post-70613910839589473802017-03-02T12:28:00.003-08:002017-03-02T12:29:13.653-08:00...of imaginationLater, when, glancing over his shoulder, he sees the cave dwelling as nothing more than a rock among many others, the old man begins to sing. He has long since changed direction - what started out as an open plateau has acquired steep walls on all sides. Now he is roaming through a jungle almost all of whose trees are dead - roaming happily, as though triumphing every time he stumbles. He has kept on writing, but now he does it while walking, no longer in his book but in the air, drawing big letters. In a hoarse falsetto voice he sings:<br />
<br />
<i>Into the silence.<br />Alone into the silence.<br />Silence alone.<br />Where are you, silence?<br /><br />You’ve always been good to me, silence.<br />I’ve always been happy in you, silence.<br />Time and again, I’ve become a child with you, silence;<br />through you I came into the world, silence;<br />in you I learned to hear, silence;<br />from you I acquired a soul, silence;<br />by you alone have I let myself be taught, silence;<br />from you alone have I gone as a man among men, silence.<br /><br />Be to me again what you were, silence.<br />Embrace me, silence.<br />Take me under the armpits, silence.<br />Make me silent, silence;<br />and make me receptive, silence -<br />only receptive, silence.<br />I cry out to you, silence.<br />You above all, silence.<br /><br />Silence, source of images.<br />Silence, great image.<br />Silence, imagination’s mother.</i><br />
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[<i>Absence</i>, Handke, P.]Artist Seth Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02273256947008880846noreply@blogger.com0