Oumar

Mes veines se dessechent
Tes parfums manquant.
 
Ineffable.
 
A l'aube de mes reves, mon sommeil s'allongeait.:
voyelles, Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes : A O I U E
C'est autour d'Arthur que nous nous sommes rencontres unis avant d'avec ses mots,
dedans nous parcourumes, la nuit de Borges.

Dafa sore. A gauche,fi. Il y a du rab et des tabala qui caressent les sables en siecles, jusqu'a nous.
Des tabelles, mes mabelles et nos descryptions.
Ah les levres suspendues a tes mots sursis, embrassants, riants de songe. Comment puis je ecrire que ce que je ne peux croire est vrai; sang sur elle chair.  

Xol! Sang! Inspires ! A chaque fois que les mots changent de sens et les choses de symboles, les peuples retournent a reapprendre l'histoire et les nouveaux noms.
Une musique t'entend. Je suis triste et dechire, que puis-je apprendre?  Te conter ?  

Puis-je te voir? Te manger , ton coeur ton a venir, m'etouffer a te vivre, te mourir, a danser a Kedougou, a saltimbanquer sur la VDN.
Apparais moi. Appareillons. Tresailles.xaritophage, ma bouche est saoule de te denombrer  

Verra la morte ed avra i tuoi occhi.  

avec A Rimbaud et A. Kourouma, C. Pavese.

Reflections


Reflections of Hong Kong, New York, and Los Angeles, whose distant shores watch another west, Beyond which is an ocean, which brings us back, after having passed a continent of turpitude now buried. 
Va'a on canoes, Polynesian discovering, we sail in bold horizons and fearful, to the land opposite. Cikanam! 
  
The moon is full, the mirror is uncovered. 
Stupor, the languor, fear brush against 
But I like to simmer, I want to feel. 

New ground again I penetrate you.. 

But where are the lions, and dirty streets? 
Garbage in which we live and the skeletons that walk? 
The leopard which break our neck and these big eyes that get lost in the endless repetition of “help me”? 
Clothes torn and weary, the without stories? 
The monkeys that we mimic and corruption that undermine us? 

Ah! Timbuktu its ruins and monuments as in the West, his books and mysteries religiously maintained. Its trades are reported, documented, unconcerned by its here, but by its there and morrow, we retain traceability, archiving, and its complement, consultation, are possible, the visit. 

The giraffes are also available, not for their writings, or paintings, but by their presence, existence itself. They are observable, can be studied (When the words play, the devils come out interrogating! Are you?), documented. Giraffes live in a self repeating time which is the giraffe time. A giraffe of today equals (almost) a giraffe of yesterday or tomorrow. The giraffes will not begin to tell the story of their parents and different civilizations of the giraffe, for example, birth and decline of the dynasty of Girafaculatae, Girafa reticulata Girafaculata I to Girafaculata IX. 

This is where we see, from Prague, radiant city, for a time, city of Mr. Mozart,for a time, from the heights of the castle remained intact through centuries of vicissitudes, a minister in sahelian pyjamas land in Paris at a five star intercontinental hotel to negotiate the price, in millions of dollars, for a soil of 52 km2 in the country he represents. 
In pyjamas? Yes, that is how the potential buyers have recounted it. I hope it was a garment worth at least 150,000 CFA anyway, that you appreciate or not the quality of the design it elevated that day. A question that the contacts could not give a reply to, who paid little attention to the patterns on the cloth, as they were going to invite a man arriving directly from his bed to a meal with champagne. 

The time spent scrubbing, sweeping, cleaning, back bent, the soils of earth, to make them fresh and rested under the shadow of polished huts, are of another world, they say impossible. The fresh lips of the women whisper the foreign words, squatting, which inhabit the sand winds, their learned plait flying off. The meetings are of this nature. The leopard drops his head to recollect and the cattle grazes. The design of this habitat that I contemplate is now the cover of a coffee table book. the espresso runs alongside it, as strange as that residence that protects it,inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright or Mario Botta, maybe. 
As I breathed this air, peace was expecting me, the distant cities lost. 


But all reasoning find their proof. 
As the young baye fall musician of West Africa, underpaid by his compatriot, who finds himself however in the motley Chinese city to sing for the beautiful eyes of an expatriate who got infatuated.. 
He has ended up there in this urban excess,only to help his mother, he says, but he cant make it. 
What clicks, practices and uses, will still occur, reproduce, repeat what images? Patterns inherited indoctrinated by force or reasons, fears, sufferings and varied cruelties ,aspirations; chablon of thought. 

The dug-outs empty, sailors sag to rest again in the big island near the imagined continent, and will then come the two masts and three masts, terrifying, killing, taking the useful and leaving pyjamas.

Escorted by clouds and stars and other celestial events, 
on the ocean reflected, the clear moon goes into the dark night

Antonioni's desert despair.

Red Monica Vitti's hair,

Blue ocean tinged,

Purple unending cloth of suns

towards mending.

Fulgurances

Il est Paris. Nous devons faire 1969 ou 1970.

Je ne sais plus si nous avions, mon ami et moi, écoute Miles Davis et son éclectique, électrique, polisse véhicule ou bien Milford Graves en duo, abstrait flot d'un Bronx sans rues.

Nous étions bien fatigues, je pense; j'en suis certain même, mais insouciants, cela fait un monde, beaucoup de mondes, de différence. Bref, nous étions allé; après nous être concertes longuement. Pas d'argent, pas de logement, au petit bonheur la chance. C'est lors d'une pause, je suppose, que nous rencontrâmes Daniel Caux, critique musical, homme de radio, promoteur, et sa femme.

Avec sympathie il nous invita a prendre un verre chez lui. Nous parlâmes surtout de musique, celle qui nous tient a cœur, et pendant un de ses commentaires il dit que pour lui il n'y avait que trois musiciens qui étaient fulgurants dans leur idées, leur phrase, leur émotion ; qui avaient des fulgurances, comme si elles étaient venues d'un inconnu : Louis Armstrong, Charlie Parker et Alber Ayler ! Non pas que d'autres n'eurent pas été aussi bons, non, mais ces éclairs subits d'une telle profondeur et richesse ne venaient que de ces trois gars la.

Oui, quelque chose comme ça, il y a longtemps, trop longtemps, mais cela est reste dans mon esprit comme si on l'avait évoqué avant-hier.

Fulgurances.

Japan, food and Montaigne

While the reactor rooftop blows up in a third nuclear Fukushima facility and advices seem to vary between just stay put in your flat and get out of there as far as you can  and economic worries inundate people the world over on how to proceed with the day when food is scarce and prospects similar, I am driven to reflection by a Montaigne book review.
Montaigne who ordered his thoughts for readability while opening the field of observation and related experience to all and nothing at all.
Thought conceptualizes not from the distinguished position of its subject but rather from the system or method it derives from any of the subjects it lets itself being flooded by, be it te delicacy of oysters, the corruption of officials or asteroids movements.
Our minds and cognition are larger that our capacities to live.
The integration or reconciliation is the hard part.
The creative imagination or the expanding perception is there, the translation of it poses some kind of head scratching. 

Lorin Stein is the editor of The Paris Review. Sarah Bakewell’s How to Live: A Life of Montaigne in One Question and Twenty Attempts at an Answer is the winner of the 2010 National Book Critics’ Circle Award in Biograph* * *

I wonder whether they still make kids read that Stephen Spender poem, the one that begins “I think continually of those who were truly great.” I never liked that poem, as a kid. Later, as an English teacher, I came to hate it: it so perfectly encapsulates the soft defense of Great Books—that they will somehow teach us to be happy, to feel an “essential delight”: “Never to deny its pleasure in the morning simple light/Nor its grave evening demand for love.” Oh, Spender, go tell it to the Marines. On a bad day, who hasn’t felt closer to the Philip Larkin position? “Get stewed:/Books are a load of crap.”
Yet Spender’s attitude is easier to market. Every few years some new volume promises to make us happier, or at least more effective, by acquainting us with those who were truly great. You can get business tips from Sun Tzu, lessons in leadership from Machiavelli, romantic advice from Marcel Proust—all without reading their books.
In some ways, Sarah Bakewell’s HOW TO LIVE: A LIFE OF MONTAIGNE IN ONE QUESTION AND TWENTY ATTEMPTS AT AN ANSWER (Other Press, $25) fits squarely into this tradition of literary uplift. The tradition, as she points out, is very old indeed, especially in the case of Michel de Montaigne, the inventor of the essay. Within a few years of his death, in 1592, his friend Pierre Charron brought out a digest, La Sagesse, for readers who wanted the benefit of little Michau’s wisdom without having to muddle through the weirdness of his work. Unlike Charron and most other popularizers, Bakewell celebrates the wisdom and the weirdness. Her deceptively breezy survey of Montaigne’s life, writing, and legacy is serious, engaging, and so infectiously in love with its subject that I found myself racing to finish so I could start rereading the Essays themselves. This, clearly, is her intent.
Michel Eyquem de Montaigne was born in 1533 on the border between Perigord and Bordeaux. His father and grandfather were wine producers (Chateau d’Yquem still bears their name). Montaigne had a brilliant, if sometimes reluctant, career in politics and law, becoming mayor of Bordeaux and a close adviser to the kings of France. His fame as a peacemaker and steadying influence during the religious violence of the 1570s and 1580s spread as far as the English court.

But by far the most famous thing Montaigne did was to retire from public life, at the age of thirty-seven, and retreat into the tower where he kept his library. There, over the next two decades, despite many interruptions, he wrote the 107 short speculative works that he called his essais, or attempts. He published the first version in 1580, though he kept writing additions all his life.

The Essays were an instant hit. As Bakewell puts it, they “had that perfect commercial combination: startling originality and easy classification.” To Montaigne’s contemporaries, they looked like an annotated commonplace book, a compilation of classical writings gathered together under helpful headings like “Of Friendship,” “Of Democritus and Heraclitus,” and “Of Names.” But with each new edition, Montaigne’s commentaries wandered further and further from their stated topics and included more and more personal information. By the time of his death, Montaigne had written in detail about his weak memory, his marriage, the deaths of his closest friend and his brother, his own near-death experience, his observations as a diplomat, his love of riding, his hatred of torture, his taste in wine, the size of his penis, his views on armor, and what it’s like to play with (or, be played with by) a cat. He was not the first person to write about himself, but he enjoyed himself, he even enjoyed his failings, in a way that announced a pleasure new to the Christian world.

The title of one essay, “Of the Uncertainty of Judgment,” would have suited any number of them equally well. For me, the most enlightening part of How to Live deals with Montaigne’s skepticism, its roots in classical philosophy, and its profound effect on modern thinkers from Descartes and Pascal to Nietzsche. Readers hailed Montaigne as a latter-day Stoic, and Bakewell shows how he compares with the actual Stoics, for whom the good life was largely a matter of keeping calm in the face of death. In his own essays on mortality, Montaigne perfected a new kind of shrug—his calm looks like theirs, only calmer. He points out that it’s normal to duck when you hear artillery, whether you’re a philosopher or a soldier.

It is hard to imagine a better introduction—or reintroduction—to Montaigne than Bakewell’s book. It is easy to imagine small improvements, however. An editor might have weaned her from the so-called verb “liaise,” reined in one or two anachronistic flights of fancy (e.g., “Montaigne would make a good model for the modern Slow Movement”), and done painlessly away with the ritual attack on postmodern theory. And someone really should have sprung for a better index: such a freewheeling book could use a good one. But these are the nitpicks of an admirer surprised by joy.

Le non des Chais nés

Les maux passants, le rat blet, beau marchait (le rein beau?) vers l'aine du chat au brillant.
Ah! Ah? 

Ha! Ha!.......

Ma belle canelle photographique

Mignonne, allons voir si la photo ce matin s'est développée et si tes yeux infus me reflètent encore.
De toi je me languis au fonds du temps espérant.
Des négatifs aux positifs je sens la foudre qui me secoue.
Mignonne , allons voir si la pose qui ce matin avait déclose nous enrobe de sa pourpre au seul oeil que la nuit espérée révéla d'un clic subit.
Dis allô a mon appel avant que ne se ternissent les temps,
qu'une telle fleur qui nous recueille ne s'estompe.

Image métaphore , amphore, mon sort. Mon adore.

Alors que certains penseront, peut être,
que mon sentiment se perd dans la phrase a part, je soupire.
Ton éveil, quand je te humai et tu fis de même. fut si ouï oui.

Maitre Poisson au Senegre

Au Senegre, pays peu grand de la Ique, mais aux résonances multiples, qui se détend a partir de cotes fustigées par des vents curieux et pourtant souvent visitées au cours d'une histoire jouant a cache cache avec les temps et les époques, les choses ondulent.

De sa période bleue, comme on dirait d'un peintre, je respire avec le poisson maître des pirogues que l'on a du colorer pour lui rendre hommage et honorer son bleuissement, un vide plein d'indigo réfléchi sur ses transparences qui peu a peu s'assombrissent dans les courants océaniques.

Maître poisson, dites moi en quels fonds sont les espadons et les marteaux, les carpes et les soles que je suis a la trace et aussi si vous le permettez les cellules infimes qui nous conçurent, les rêves que les temps ont transmis avec les lézards griots.

Dites moi, je vous en prie, ou s'en furent les ressources d'antan qui nourissairent mes aïeuls dans les tourmentes et leur transmirent la moelle substantifique qui nous fit venir a aujourd'hui.

Oh maître poisson, qui t'effile et longe les espaces de l'amer et du suave, qui sourit de tes yeux habitues aux profondeurs, toi qui te laisse pêcher pour nous maintenir, souverain, toi notre rein ou reine, ou sont les sources des pluies irrémédiables qui nourrissent le miroir plane qui nous reflète dans l'azur et desquelles tu vis.

Les pluies auxquelles le poisson aspire soulevèrent le sable, les sables et dans leur meurtrie pâte naquirent des microbes transmis.

Maître Poisson que peu nous saisissons a toi tous mes remerciements.

Que certains microbes se développent dans les peintures sales et décrépies des maisons soignées pour leurs fauteuils de salons mais non point pour leurs cuisines ou leurs chambres a toucher est une chose, que les routes s'entrecroisent dans le désordre apparemment permanent est une chose, que les revendications se perdent dans les méandres de l'irrationnel et du facilement juge, comme des mouches dérangées par un inattendu évènement est une chose, mais que son œil, regard aguerri, et non pas mouille de pleurs mais d'eaux salées a l'algue verte et chatoyante soit perçu comme déplacé, c'est autre chose, bien autre chose.

Maître, sois pont! Je t'en prie, bien que cela soit toi qui me décide dans cet univers des colores et incolores.

Évapores les humeurs, alors que je plonge dans ta saillie que tu imperméabilises, coquin, canal d'airs éteints réapparaissants de tes nageoires fertiles.

Enfin, je souds vide