Bigtimber

 

Bigtimber at noon. – See? (I asked her). I'll never forget that cup of coffee; under the influence of caffeine, everything stirs, ideas set in motion like an army, and the battle ensues. Memories arrive by assault, like unfurled flags; the light cavalry of comparisons develops in a magnificent gallop; witty phrases arrive like marksmen; figures appear, the DIARY is covered in ink.—I concluded. The bus then continued its journey through rocky hills, ranches, the trees of Yellowstone, through distant canyons and crevices... in the recesses of his intelligence, the poet is an Other, acting under the command of certain circumstances, whose union is always a mystery. The poet belongs to himself, but only as a plaything of the eminently more decisive force of his amplified consciousness. Donner un sens plus pur aux mots de la tribu. Truly reactionary periods are the most fertile for the revolution of artistic consciousness, because they demand a new sensitivity and paradigmatic intensity; We need to better understand the motifs of community in contemporary spiritual and poetic arts, from Baudelaire's "bain de foule" to the ritualistic intentions of Wagner's "Gesamtkuhstwerk" and Mallarmé's "The Book." The "decadent" avant-garde art of the 19th century discerned the inextricability of its problematics through a characteristic fusion of the passion of the barbarian with the love of refinement; it didn't matter whether Doxa was on the side of the left or the right (language is fascist in every way: assertive and repetitive, binary triumphal assertion and stable, uncritical repetition; language is the field in which every ideology seeks to take root as a discourse of truth and alienating stereotype). – Often, the antidote is to “cheat” with language (I said), as Roland Barthes wanted in Fragments of a Lover's Discourse; introducing into language a kind of anarchy, which merely diverts it from its usual functions in search of a superior use of its resources. It is then no longer I who write, but the one who rides the horse, makes puns, drinks, eats, sleeps, writes, and only has the spirit to invent extravagances, a niche of the Ego from which it departs. A word awakens ideas; they are born, grow, and ferment. A tragedy, a chronicle, a painting, a comedy show their daggers, their colors, their contours, their witticisms. Suddenly, all the furnaces of the brain are lit, silence and solitude open doors to the astonishing possibilities of language: and this salutary “cheating,” this vigorous evasion and impressive, these magnificent cross-sections, these magnificent lines of peeking and drifting that allow us to hear the inaudible and see the invisible in the infinitesimal minorization of writing, is the only thing that deserves the name "Literature." The rest is just Doxa, a mechanical reproduction of the system. —I said. We continued on. In Milles City, at night, it was thirty degrees below zero.