"One touch of nature makes the whole world kin."
Louvre Museum. The Grande Galerie abandoned during World War II - The Monuments Men by Robert Edsel
Due allowance being made for the sounds of the language, writing aloud is not phonological but phonetic; its aim is not the clarity of messages, the theater of emotions; what it searches for (in a perspective of bliss) are the pulsional incidents, the language lined with flesh, a text where we can hear the grain of the throat, the patina of consonants, the voluptuousness of vowels, a whole carnal stereophony: the articulation of the body, of the tongue, not that of meaning, of language. A certain art of singing can give an idea of this vocal writing; but since melody is dead, we may find it more easily today at the cinema. In fact, it suffices that the cinema capture the sound of speech close up (this is, in fact, the generalized definition of the “grain” of writing) and make us hear in their materiality, their sensuality, the breath, the gutturals, the fleshiness of the lips, a whole presence of the human muzzle (that the voice, that writing, be as fresh, supple, lubricated, delicately granular and vibrant as an animal’s muzzle), to succeed in shifting the signified a great distance and in throwing, so to speak, the anonymous body of the actor into my ear: it granulates, it crackles, it caresses, it grates, it cuts, it comes: that is bliss.
The Pleasure of the Text, Roland Barthes (via man-of-prose)
take no shit 2014
When I awoke things seemed fantastically new
a bird mocking frog, indeed, what a peculiar view
This dream like land is littered with blues
a paradise alive, lost if i choose
Twice haunting eyes watch in a slippery cave
my own demise must be a water filled grave
Theres a spot in this river where the magic runs thicker
with the fireflies abuzz making me sicker
Taunted and badgered by birds all the same
they glow and they bicker calling my name
And the cattails dance singing of sweet sorrow
while moths gloat shining the light they borrow
I grant I may be more lost and a stranger
scared and alone in an everglade danger
There’s a point on the horizon where you can’t seem to see me
but theres a sky in this river where I can see clearly
If this moon’s a mirage, then the birds must be too
I’ll close my eyes tight and then calm will ensue
Why do they tease, why won’t they clear?
will they leave me alone if I admit what I fear?
That the world I once knew is no longer here?
As the stars and the birds watch me below,
I realize I left myself long ago
At least with certain I can avow
there will be no more birds now.
"No More Birds Now" is an 18” x 24” illustration. A very limited edition of hand signed giclee prints is available at www.jamesreadsmerch.com
I feel as if I’m on shrooms.