Work in process and reading "quotes" and "The Richards"

  Work in Progress -  "The Richards."



What we have been Reading.



                               

Speak to me, strange bird of strangeness

                                                     

Instead of necessarily keeping a diary or a journal (such are the or
some of the things he has told me in conversation are valuable, or can be….);
Richard Taylor keeps notebooks so that as he reads ( and sometimes he has
several different books ‘on the go’ – say books on art history, or a novel, or
a book about the sun or cell biology, or sometimes a children’s book): he will
take notes from these books and date them. Richard has said to Richard T. that
some of the ‘entries’ seem either inane, eccentric or pathetic and asks: “who
would want to read these entries or comments or fragments large or small?”…and
Richard 221 feels it is all rather futile but Richard 10 has told me it gives
them a kind of pleasure as if  he
in fact being read already by a large 
(or small) readership. 

It is a kind of
enacting. A kind of talking. A conversation with the universe or with
himselves. (Poor Henry Bones.) 

The resultant ‘mix’ is a kind of record of his
and other’s consciousness or of their creative works and ideas. He doesn’t necessarily
read useful or ‘deep’ or meaningful works. 

Once he read a book about dust. 

A
Lady Bird book gets almost equal status with books on mathematics, or art, 

or a
novel in fact there is, they say, no limit on what they may or may not or will
or 
will not read.

 Their comment is that in some cases it is the texture of the
writing so sedulously or sensuously 

recorded 

(almost always onto paper in a
special note book – the pen in most cases has to be also of  a special kind, Richard 88c indicates that
 
he-they are ambitious for a fountain pen, 

indeed Richard 20990 recall when he
first had an ‘Osmiroid’ and how he loved the feel, action 

and act of that pen, and
indeed its wonderful and mysterious name.)

 But Richard
2553 records that more recently the meaning 

(or perhaps the textual texture) of
what he is reading is also assuming a greater significance


 (Richard 34
expostulates that this is leading to a “twee effect” where by choice bits are
taken out and “exhibited” as in a kind of rather pathetic or weak minded ‘Commonplace
Book’, but in this Richard 240 is quite adamant there is no concern here, as
each being’s “scrawling”, in blue red or green or black ink, is unique 
to his
her or their self or selves…)…

 It has indeed been said that this is a sub-section 

of the 

Infinite Poem 

but Richard 233333333333 maintains that  
every one 
HE knows 
groans and
rolleth in upwards their ball eyes at such bold balderdashing slobber blobber…;
but R 300 feels that the idea that in theory, at least, anything could
be used as, as well as being a ‘conscious’ trace of ‘consciousness traced’ 

and
an “Aspiring to The Infinite” and or 
a total trace of all sentience; or indeed
as being a ‘history or congregation of sentience in part’; 

these fragments
 

(small or large, combined or not, interactive or not, self-talking or not, useful
or not, meaningful or not…) and ‘scrawlings’; 

this huge splitting craquelure
desiring some hint or haunt of God or some transcendence hinted if not arrived
upon, these appendiae, screaming through the gold godless dusk of the ending
start of evening’s sensual turn,


 these indeed can or may be used as elements or
factors in larger ‘Art’ works or projects such as EYELIGHT 

or works or bizzaros
spawned if not spurned from and by the near infinite pseudo-randomly generated “hoo-echo”
 

of the well known Bone Ghost…in case in any in any any in any case Richard 20,211
feeleth quite certitude….that, that, that there is both a therapeutic and a
Creative aspect.

Of course, any pathetic bastard who mutters all day to hiself and holds
forth endlessly in “grand converse” with the drivelling Universe (or even God
Herself) and various of the Elite and indeed the well known Stars, many of whom
 
are Richards friends and have lived at least 200 million million years to
Explode alive: and stupid bastard of such a mien or methodless method is
 
clearly insane.  

 










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     There is one knows not what sweet mystery
about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul
beneath; like those fabled undulations of the Ephesian sod over the buried
evangelist, St. John. And meet it is, that over these sea-pastures,
wide-rolling, watery prairies and Potter’s Fields of all four continents, the
waves should rise and fall, and ebb and flow unceasingly; for here, millions of
mixed shades and shadows, drowned dreams, somnambulisms, reveries; all that we
call lives and souls lie dreaming, dreaming, still; tossing like slumberers in
their beds; the ever-rolling waves but made so by their restlessness.

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          This Plato world of mystical
mathematicism – it appealed to me, I to it. We sat, the Geist and I, looking at
each other…or did we look through each other to an infinite regress of teapots
and inkspots in fervent mirrors?

ions of fabricated life.

  The revelled, and they travelled, and they
flew back…

                  but how did all this begin?

                            

                                                  I like ideas, or the feeling of ideas, or the feeling and the excitement
of having an idea…but I cannot resolve anything…well…not much…I am too much
myself…I need a big car…

              

                         

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     The car continued on. I looked around,
discovering the colours and shapes of an unknown city

                       The infinite cave of
memory, immeasurably full of immeasurable things… 

                                           Was it the numbers?

  …pointless to describe

             

                                   surely this
has to lead to something?

                      Will we not ‘reach conclusion’ …

                                    even in a

                                              Conglomerate

                  amenable to subtle shades

 Brave man, woman, child, being – living on
the edges or on the silent dots that once roared or bubbled, sighed or sang; he
comes soon to ending brief as candles – seeking love in the eternal coldness.

We learn as children the
metaphysics of the infinite and infinitesmal calculus, although we are unaware
of what we are learning…One chooses a profession that involves only five and a
half centuries because as a child one day dreamed about the infinitude of vichy
water tins.

         I began rummaging…

       Please understand: these are my writings. I write
with different pens, this one is “uniball”, but you may not feel or see it as I
see or feel it. I must, at this moment write with this
pen. Not the other. You must understand. 

[And remember or note that in the
first instance I will have written this out by hand in notebook and transferred
it here. The very process of writing is one thing I want: the pressure on my
fingers and hand, the nib moving across the page, the ink flowing to the page
and then the appearance of a mark or sign, and the beauty of that meaningless
sign. But it may acquire a semantic power… but it does not require it. We are
limited beings.

The writing becomes mine. But it
is also yours. Hence it is ours. Or it is now “new writing” it is my creative
‘uncreative’ writing. Not as in that by Kenneth Goldsmith who does interesting
projects in “uncreative writing”, but creative to the extent that I place them
on the page n my own way. ..and might fragment them, or play around with fonts
and artwork associated. Of course the base writing was by the writers I have
read –I’m not claiming to have written what they wrote – but I do claim that my
use (and collaging rearranging or using texts in some cases) of these various
works constitutes my own work as we are ating context, or replacement and
organized placement of these signs and lines by myself. Then a reader may or
may not find their way to “reorganize” them as he or she reads.]

                VENEZIA

     IS A PEN WITH A [PICTURE ON IT, AND OIL INSIDE WHICH IS A
BUBBLE AND IN THT BUBBLE A TINY GONDOLA FLOATS DOWN OR UP A (CANAL?) IN MY
PEN.  DAVE  WHO LIVES LOCALLY OFTEN WOULD COME WITH SMALL GIFTS INCLUDING
FOOD ETC AND BORROW MONEY, ALWAYS REPAID, PROBABLY TO FUEL HIS BOOZING. I SOMETIMES TOOK HIM TO THE LOCAL
WHOLESALER. DAVE WAS OR IS  NOT ONE OF
THOSE “LOST” ALCHIES BUT WAS ALMOST ALWAYS HALF CUT WHEN I  SAW HIM. HAVEN’T SEEN HIM FOR A WHILE.

This is me – Richard! The
“reading” is reading what is on my pen.

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                          an ebony table, inlaid

increased, she moved away…and now he was dead and she was…

…it was as if I had died or been
torn apart by  blood  wolves, and           dark energy ideas began to whirl, to spin…I could create, and I

could live forever in language and …but the        the great hope seen 

than (a) broke plate.



 A joke. A broke joker Toby Jug drop
in a rub bin.  I had, a' tha' 'ime, 'ame nofing.

and so on…

                  
                   I had been rummaging among the records…

a consolation for a life of

   So she carefully fastened one of the charms

          The empty and haunted house is a
giant enigma of which the key is lost.

                     What’s missing? Nothing.
But that is everything…in a word – that flower of life Titian and Raphael took
by surprise….The figure presented such a powerful embodiment of reality.

          Thus for the enthusiastic Poussin, the old man had, in a
sudden transfiguration, become art itself, art with its secrets, its passions,
its reveries.

            …by dint of drowning the contours
of my figure in kisses of half-tint, I have contrived to do away with the very
idea of drawing and other artificial methods, and give her the rounded aspect
of nature itself. Come closer…from far it disappears…

  

           … always invisible, even though one
crossed  and recrossed it daily…

                                                                       all those years

                                                                 of
furtive

                                                                              study

                    I thought it fitting that
my

last
hours

                  thought it fitting that my last hours in the town should be spent with

an artist whose work was lost on the world.

             All her journies have begun and ended with this
enormous, quiet country.

 words,
phrases, fragments of language or utterance.

There were weeks when I spoke to
no one on that great estate.

     They are the eyes of a man who has gazed beyond death.

                  

the cathedral bell.

                                          …sheets with no
more than a miniscule scatter of words on them…

                                    ….having understood virtually
nothing…

                         his face bore the ineradicable trace of some

           

                                 As the work went on and ramified.

sudden  spasm

                                                                          he became abstract

                                                                         art

                                                                       he moved

                                                                       he became

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In
loneliness are the fretting voices of the mind, crying, Let us not be silent.
Let us manifest life.

But the
tree was a seed and a stem before it bore fruit: do we not grudge it the time
of growth.

                       …the form spoke with
the light hissing whispers of serpents. The terns cried aloud, finding no
foothold in the air. They cried and sank…

                 There is no more

Instead of necessarily keeping a diary or a journal (such are the or
some of the things he has told me in conversation are valuable, or can be….);
Richard Taylor keeps notebooks so that as he reads ( and sometimes he has
several different books ‘on the go’ – say books on art history, or a novel, or
a book about the sun or cell biology, or sometimes a children’s book): he will
take notes from these books and date them. Richard has said to Richard T. tha

Wildly optimistic and happy
housewives dance across the surfaces of the work of  Mark Ussher. Referencing N.Z. cultural iconography from the 1950s
and 60s, Ussher’s paintings have a tough enamel shine that…life of a 1950s
housewife…suburban home.

…Ussher appropriates advertisements
of the 1950s and 60s…the simple [   ]
slogans clearly contrast with the more invidious advertising messages of today.

     …inform his art practice…Utilising…and measured markings…
thick industrial enamel paints…to imbue

    …to imbue….                  …to imbue

 vivid gleam……..exudes                        …exudes

                                                                                             

placenta pots) where

such forms are used for ceremonial purposes to keep intact the traditions of
planting the placenta back into the land – feeding our own being with the
earth…

FATHER: Our guilt feelings? Not
so. I have never quieted my guilt feelings with words alone.

STEPDAUGHTER: It took a little
money as well, didn’t it, it took a little dough! Three hundred lire he was
going to pay me ladies and gentlemen!

[Moment of horror among the
Actors.]       

SON: [with contempt towards the
STEPDAUGHTER].

That’s filthy.

…but I assure you he was very
pale, at that moment [To the DIRECTOR]. You must believe me, sir.

DIRECTOR: You lost me some time
ago.

FATHER: Of course! Getting it
thrown at you like that! And never mind the ferocious girl. She’s trying to
heap opprobrium on me by withholding the relevant explanation!

STEPDAUGHTER: This is no place for longwinded
narratives!

FATHER:  I said – explanations.

STEPDAUGHTER: Oh, certainly, those
that suit your turn.

                                                                                     

                             …Already all confusion. Things and
imaginings. As of always. Confusion amounting to nothing. Despite precautions.
If only she could be pure figment. Unalloyed. The old so dying woman. So dead.
In the madhouse of the skull an nowhere else. Where no more precautions to be
taken. No precautions possible. Cooped up in there with the rest. Hovel and
stones. The lot. And the eye. How simple all then. If only all could be pure
figment. Neither be nor been nor by any shift to be. Gently gently. On.
Careful.

[At this point the DIRECTOR
returns to the stage to restore order.]

FATHER: But that’s the whole root
of evil. Words. Each of us has. Inside him, a world of things as they are
inside me, whereas the man who hears them

MOTHER: You ran me out of the
house.

FATHER: If only we only could
forsee all the evil that can result from the good we believe we are doing!

  Nothing now for the staring eye but the chair in its solitude.

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 Getting to the bottom of things mattered a great deal to Ester.
Surfaces, she felt, were a ruse. They couldn’t be trusted. There was so much
more beneath the surface of words and people, beneath everything in fact, and
her secret passion was to plumb these hidden depths.

  …this formlessness of water carried a promise of dissolution… a return
…[full of] possibility.

                                                                       

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                           …loops and circles poised…

                                                              

  “…Facts – The Popular Encyclopedia contains nothing but facts,

the facts of the world, clearly and straightforewardly presented.” Saying this,
he seemed to be sunk in a well of facts, all of which spelled the walled-in
dismal hopelessness of human life. The world’s books were boxes of flesh-eating
worms, crawling sentences that had eaten the universe hollow.”

  He stood baffled, looking about the dining room for some exterior sign
of the fatal alteration with him. There is no God. With a wink of
thought, the universe had been bathed in the pitch-smooth black of utter
hopelessness. Yet no exterior change of colour betrayed the event…three decades
of exposure and ingrained dust: none fo these mute surfaces reflected the
sudden absence of God from the Universe –

                                                                               

 Thompson’s oft-repeated concerns about the growth of philistinism, and
his belief that poetry is as important to human progress¹ as economics, are
more relevant than ever in an era when the market  and the mass media treat works of literature and  art as  com-

 Light had felt its way in under the dry green window shade above
the spines of the radiator and was standing beside here bed when the unhappy
tangle of her dreams fell away and she dared open her eyes. Like a leak in a
great tank of darkness the light had seeped into all the familiar things of her
room.

                                           Here the boundaries of winter and

night mingle, intersect, and fluctuate, making things inseperable.

Comparatively
speaking, the later development of Alison Duff was more private, more
idiosyncratic and consequently less known. Unlike Macalister [Molly] Duff
became reclusive, rarely appearing in public…The Sargeson is a half-length
figure shoing the writer in animation as if engaged in a lively discussion
(Figure 54.)…emphasis on the mental rather than the physical…

                                         …has a broad, blocky
approach to the modeling…

    process rather than product…[emphasis on]

          not everyone accepted the …  convulsions…

        Theoretically anyone could take part.

What was the function of an art
gallery, how did it transform the objects…, how did it… validate certain works
and values while denying others?

                  In the west a red moon

                  And suddenly my memories fit me

                                                                                             

    The materials…

               …long established,,,

    bronze, steel, paint; …

             

                  My images are small and complex…but [x] is about
ideas not the precision splendour of hand-worked material.

 I work in bursts…through change. I use the elements: arms legs, spheres,
bikes, apples, rulers, as building blocks and play out ideas until the products
seem inevitable. I cant plan a work in advance:

                       Its still pliable but looks and behaves in a manner alien to rope.

            

------------------------------------The works are still being made.

 Did you know that you can die from the fumes given off from
melting lead?

                                            
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Instead of necessarily keeping a diary or a journal (such are the or
some of the things he has told me in conversation are valuable, or can be….);
Richard Taylor keeps notebooks so that as he reads ( and sometimes he has
several different books ‘on the go’ – say books on art history, or a novel, or
a book about the sun or cell biology, or sometimes a children’s book): he will
take notes from these books and date them. Richard has said to Richard T. that
some of the ‘entries’ seem either inane, eccentric or pathetic and asks: “who
would want to read these entries or comments or fragments large or small?”…and
Richard 221 feels it is al rather futile but Richard 10 has told me it gives
them a kind of pleasure as if  he
in fact being read already by a large (or small readership). It is a kind of
enacting. A kind of talking. A conversation with the universe or with
himselves. (Poor Henry Bones.) The resultant ‘mix’ is a kind of record of his
and other’s consciousness or of their creative works and ideas. He doesn’t necessarily
read useful or ‘deep’ or meaningful works. Once he read a book about dust. A
Lady Bird book gets almost equal status with books on mathematics, or art, or a
novel in fact there is, they say, no limit on what they may or may not or will
or will not read.

 Their comment is that in some cases it is the texture of the
writing so sedulously or sensuously recorded (almost always onto paper in
special note book – the pen in most cases has to be also of  a special kind, Richard 88c indicates that
he-they are ambitious for a fountain pen, indeed Richard 20990 recall when he
first had an ‘Osmiroid’ and how he loved the feel, action and act of that pen, and
indeed its wonderful and mysterious name.)

 But Richard
2553 records that more recently the meaning (or perhaps the textual texture) of
what he is reading is also assuming a greater significance (Richard 34
expostulates that this is leading to a “twee effect” where by choice bits are
taken out and “exhibited” as in a kind of rather pathetic or weak minded ‘Commonplace
Book’, but in this Richard 240 is quite adamant there is no concern here, as
each being’s “scrawling”, in blue red or green or black ink, is unique to his
her or their self or selves…)…

 It has indeed been said that this is a sub-section of the Infinite
Poem but Richard 233333333333 maintains that every one HE knows groans and
rolleth in upwards their ball eyes at such bold balderdashing slobber blobber…;
but R 300 feels that the idea that in theory, at least, anything could
be used as, as well as being a ‘conscious’ trace of ‘consciousness traced’ and
an “Aspiring to The Infinite” and or a total trace of all sentience; or indeed
as being a ‘history or congregation of sentience in part’; these fragments
(small or large, combined or not, interactive or not, self-talking or not, useful
or not, meaningful or not…) and ‘scrawlings’; this huge splitting craquelure
desiring some hint or haunt of God or some transcendence hinted if not arrived
upon, these appendiae, screaming through the gold godless dusk of the ending
start of evening’s sensual turn, these indeed can or may be used as elements or
factors in larger ‘Art’ works or projects such as EYELIGHT or works or bizzaros
spawned if not spurned fomr and by the near infinite psuedo-randomly generated “hoo-echo”
of the well known Bone Ghost…in case in any in any any in any case Richard 20,211
feeleth quite certitude….that, that, that there is both a therapeutic and a
Creative aspect.

Of course, any pathetic bastard who mutters all day to itself and holds
forth endlessly in “grand converse” with the driveling Universe (or even God
Herself) and various of the Elite and indeed the well known Stars, many of whom
are Richards friends and have lived at least 200 million million years to
Explode alive:  

and any such stupid bastard of such a mien or methodless method is

clearly insane.  

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