Surrealist exhibition in Stoke on Trent (UK), 13 October – 3 November
(Includes a joint work by Paul Cowdell and me)
This show is a follow-up to 2015’s Little Shop of Magic
There is nothing inside me that resists me. Reality is not what it seems. This book would not exist except for the language of mathematics, and its characters are triangles, circles, and other geometrical figures, without which it is impossible to understand a word of it. Stripped of all myth, the appeal of the imaginary is an authority in crime, policing and vigilantism. The Fibonacci sequence of the Old West.
In my extreme darkness, I am the eye of the unthinkable. Certain problems posed in antiquity continue to be crucial in our understanding of the world. Go get your gun, the geometer’s creation: outlaws, tentacled, multi-limbed, slithering creatures, a long granite gorge spuming foam and whitewater, Nature’s Greatest Secret, the Encyclopaedia.
The nine climbing triangles go back to the very origin of scientific thought. We’ll fight it out. The leaves of the tree are now legendarily come alive as with wild tempers through toughened and confusingly-focused glass. My eye is caught with the glimpse of something zealously guarded by her custodians from those who would profane or abuse the wisdom factually.
An act of communication, a union, a marriage surprisingly close, man to man. Ignorance should not be seen naked. Know then this, that men are as the time is. This fabricated subterranean labyrinth resounds with the sordid cry of “gold! Gold!! GOLD!!!” The golden thread of perennial wisdom bears in.
To enter her, it is necessary to seduce her, which is not easy. A crucial journey for the history of knowledge pauses just inside the doorway. Almost every writer is familiar with the “library angel” that causes you to pick up the one book first published by the madness itself. He restores them to liberty, tablet of the Old West.
The High Priestess sits on an egg. The dazzling incipit could be a violent confrontation in which life is possible. An irreplaceable friend: disillusionment. The gold seekers called themselves Argonauts between two numbers during the rip-roaring era.
I am in the present. When atoms aggregate, the only thing that matters, the only thing that exists at the elementary level, is their shape, their arrangement, and the order in which they combine. The saloon owners, the madams, the slick-fingered dealers, the soiled doves… they all get their cut. You cannot depict a mystery. An inspiration and a great asset, a secondary emetic on open fires and in rude stores. Moving from the one-dimensional line into the two-dimensional plane, a blaze of pearly colour within.
The Magician could be a prestidigitator who is hiding something under the table, or to the contrary an initiate arguing that the commonplace notion of motion is absurd. As he peered into the amber depths of the glass of whisky he held in his hand, he revolved the shaft of his compass. Living in a large cavern hidden among the bluffs, we will endure public ridicule. Firearms are necessary in country like this. A seed head no longer survives as a ghost.
The Fool has a name, but he does not have a number. There is a sense of luminous calm. Now recovered from his own wound with only a slight limp to show for it, the pole of the system gave himself the luxury of taking back his promise. Because one might expose a secret, all fall dead at the first fire: ø. The likker’s been known to make eyeballs bleed.
(Extract from a forthcoming novel)
My short text In Time You’ll See The Line – an extract from the novella Origami – is in the latest issue of Peculiar Mormyrid, along with many wonderful texts and images by other Surrealists on the theme “small things”.
Durée durée durée d’or
Stink of ink on the gunsmith’s breath
Open wound on the coyote’s thigh
Incest bites when the fowl sticks howl
Bind him like an antelope
Bind him like an antidote
String him from your yellow hair
Make the bastard dance on air
(Extract from a forthcoming novel)