an image diary

"And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be? ... You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream! If that there King was to wake you'd go out -- bang! -- just like a candle!"

"Hush! You'll be waking him, I'm afraid, if you make so much noise."

"Well it's no use your talking about waking him when you're only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you're not real."

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

. . .


Quiet here but only because I'm feeling contemplative. I'm reading. I'm translating in my head (though I am not the translator) word to word, syntax to syntax, punctuation mark to punctuation mark, paragraph to paragraph, voice to page, Marie-Dominique Philippe's Philosophie de L'art, which I read in little bits of French and transcribe as Brother Nathan translates it aloud in English, often again and again at a click and drag of the mp3 dot. For the sake of accuracy. Which seems absurd. So far, commentaries from Plato, Hegel, Nietzsche, all in the first pages, all translated from Greek and German to French, now turned back again to the language I think in. Write here. Dream, converse, exclaim in. What can I know of this book? Given the layers of thoughtful refraction? The refractory gaps opened up in the process? I've refrained from pulling down my French dictionary. When I do, all will be lost to the divide between where time is infinite. Where no project is completed.


"How can we understand this relationship between the foundation and that which is founded, between experience and inspiration?"


I think this is my first Ash Wednesday. I think so.

So, I'm going to get ashed.




"and what is the use of a book...without pictures or conversations?"

[contact me:]

what o'clock it is


live flowers