It’s worth announcing two new French books for 2018 (and that will shortly be available in Québec):
To start, the first ever reprint of surrealist poet Pierre Peuchmaurd’s Plus Vivants Que Jamais, (with an introduction by Joël Gayraud) published when he was 20 years old shortly after May ’68:
“Just between two cobblestones passed from one hand to another, amid the swirling of our sweat, we come to understand that what we are doing is serious, that this night is unparalleled, that we have not really lived until now, that we hold the dream between our fingers: it is cubic and gray, it is red and black, it has the necessary weight, it is reality. And it is true, this night, that we have remade the Commune. It’s to the commune that all of our thoughts turn.”
And we should of course mention the new book of aphorisms from Joël Gayraud himself, La Paupière auriculaire:
“Harassed by the noise and cacophony of the media, contemporary man is threatened with mental and emotional deafness. He has the greatest need to interpose a protective eyelid between his ear and the deluge of information that assails him. Only then can he filter what makes sense and deserves to be considered. Practicing this selective listening, the author questions, in the form of fragments ranging from aphorism to small essay, all that, one day at a time, solicits his vigilance or his reverie: among other topics addressed are the meaning of the myth, utopian projection, the passion of love, our relationship to animals and nature, the status of the object, language and the book, artistic expression, from Corot to Street art, from Kafka to Rimbaud , not without some philological and philosophical excursus on the side of Spinoza, Leopardi and Levinas. An ironic and critical drift that targets the increasingly numerous impostures on the market and exalts the opportunities for wonder that unfold in the interstices of a life led under the sign of poetry.”
Joël will be presenting both books on May 5th at the André Breton house in Saint-Cirq La Popie.
L’OUVERTURE DE LA CHASSE
A Jason Abdelhadi
Il n’y a pas qu’en ce pays que les bonshommes de neige
font la courte échelle aux corbeaux
pour qu’ils plantent d’étranges fleurs sur les nuages
et des herbes et des lianes et des cactus et des dents
de loups montées en collier par les gens de Lascaux
J’ai grand souci de l’altitude de là où l’ivresse des cimes
me conduira sur un radeau de bambous parmi ces gens
qui ont apprivoisé mes rêves comme tant d’autres
ont su coucher par écrit leurs dernières volontés
sur une feuille de nénuphar arrachée au calendrier des postes
Mais s’il fallait ne serait-ce qu’un instant jeter l’ancre
parmi ces gens du peuple minéral je la lancerais
de toutes mes forces au-delà de toute mémoire
dans un trou comme il s’en creuse chaque jour
dans les flammes du temps qu’à la suite des reines
embaumées dans le blanc jardin du Luxembourg
les mères du zodiaque habillent d’ivoire et de corne
comme des cibles semblables à des mandalas
– Guy Girard, 9 février 2018
BEGINNING THE HUNT
To Jason Abdelhadi
It is not only in this country that snowmen
give a boost to crows
so they can plant strange flowers on the clouds
and herbs and creepers and cacti and teeth
of wolves mounted on a necklace by the people of Lascaux
I am quite worried about the altitude where the intoxication of the peaks
will lead me on a raft of bamboo among these people
who have tamed my dreams like so many others
who were able to write down their last wishes
on a lily pad torn from the postal calendar
But if it were necessary even for an instant to cast anchor
among these kin of the mineral people I would release it
with all my strength beyond any memory
in a hole as is dug every day
in the flames of time after the queens
embalmed in the white garden of Luxembourg
the mothers of the zodiac dressed in ivory and horn
Like targets resembling mandalas
– Guy Girard, February 9 2018
We are wise. Within our third eye’s basin, we see
our enemies approaching
swinging sticks. See how
the moon slides between the branches, never once
catching her horns. How the crabs restrain the moon
when she is swallowed by the sea.
This is how we curse those who
raise their hand against us:
May the rain pour down on your head
whenever you are eating.
If you look attentively into the face of the moon,
you will see the word: MYSTERY written there.
It is she who causes it to wind. There is
no greater mystery than this.
How can a thing lighter than smoke
without a body
toss us around?
There are those who live without viscera,
heart or brain—
look to the water and wind.
There are those who live without souls
yet flourish–look to the clouds. The crabs–
those children of discombobulation.
We have noticed other creatures are incurious,
whereas we hold the world in the deep well
of our reverence.
We have more words for the moods of the moon
than there are wings in the air.
More ways to say: PAY ATTENTION! than there are stars.
(It is we who invented astrology.)
Once we fell together with a terrible thud.
In that instant knew the moon had betrayed us.
What does a sex act involving no living organisms look like?
CC: The androgynous Chaos locked in eternal masturbation.
JA: A richter scale in action during a seismic event
CW: No one can see sex between the dead without spectral vision goggles and I’ve temporarily misplaced mine somewhere between Sierra Leone and the Atlantic coast of the U.S. It is rumored that the dead can still get pregnant and have babies during the full moon.
SK: Condensation on the lens of a telescope.
How does a jewel make love to a sponge?
CC: Clumsily and unsatisfactorily as the sponge is not impressed by hardness.
JA: By dissolving itself into soap
DC: As they please. Jewel crushes sponge, sponge smothers jewel.
CW: The jewel turns itself into liquid and falls upon the sponge to get it all hot and bothered and wet. However long it takes for the sponge to dry out is how long the love making lasts. The jewel returns to its proper shape not long after.
SK: A facet of its face clouds over from beneath.
What are your current thoughts on the birth process, and do you prefer an egg or a live birth for your offspring? What will you do with your placenta?
CC: An egg is infinitely better than live birth except that placenta is delicious, so if there is going to be a live birth, I will definitely eat the placenta.
JA: I would definitely prefer an egg, as the contemplative period of nesting would suit me very well for the reading of a few books I’ve been meaning to get to. Regarding the placenta, I would probably put it under my pillow to see if it has any effect on dreaming.
DC: Live birth is an evolutionary-bureaucratic compromise approximating superior avian, reptilian and insectoid procedures and will be superseded. Both placenta, the navel and breasts must be retained as charming follies. I will prepare my placenta with polenta.
CW: The birth process is a good metaphor for ideas bursting through the top of the skull. I prefer to give birth to an egg because they don’t cry and you always know when the creatures within are about to break through because you can feel the ground shake. There is no placenta.
SK: Birth is the end of death and the opposite, I have a return ticket. Offspring should choose. If I say live birth they will say egg. My placenta has been on holiday, it didn’t send a card.
Describe the characteristics of cosmic semen.
CC: The characteristics of cosmic semen are the characteristics of mankind as an emanation of the unconscious.
JA: Cosmic semen has a remarkable resemblance to a number of things appearing in the Jetsons theme song.
DC: Comets and meteors. The mysterious dark red interstellar traveller that recently passed through our solar system. Space dust that crackles in the mouth.
CW: Cosmic semen tends to fill the void with the consistency of pancake batter poured into a skillet. Within its micro-pores float a thousand varieties of photons, quarks and space dust.
SK: An arc of light in the corner of my eye.
Should we follow the example set by the noble gastropod and become hermaphrodites, replacing our genitalia with new and interchangeable objects of our choosing?
CC: Yes, we should seek to be both male and female. Where our bodies go, our mind will follow and this will help us embody the perfect androgyny of the unconscious.
JA: Absolutely we should. I would personally choose a turkey baster.
DC: Sexual fetishism in all its marvelous forms represents the beginning of this inevitable process.
CW: Should we become hermaphrodites, and should we replace our genitals with new interchangeable objects? Certainly, as long as we have the option to morph back out of those shapes as we desire and to make our genitals as big as a house, as long as a fifty yard dash, and as wide as Lake Superior, or as tiny as the buttocks of an ant.
SK: Calcium daggers are a retrograde step unless you are a Borgia or Medici in which case the slime is essential.
Which word involving some characteristic of the human sex organs do you find the most poetic?
CC: Clitoris has poetic potential, being the same material as the masculine penis, but organized into a feminine form.
DC: Quiff, derived from coiffure. Both suggest the archaic quim.
CW: The genitally related words that are the most poetic would surely include tumescent, turgid, throbbing, hungry, devouring, charging, sliming, spitting, and queefing.
Will pubic hair replace yarn in the crochet of the future?
CC: Being one step ahead of the collective in the crafting game, I have been aware for quite some time, that pubic hair is the finest material available for creating an number of crochet items, such as socks, scarves, blankets, and soft burrito coffins.
JA: Yes, if the necessary legislation is worded just right.
DC: No. Instead it will be cloned and cultured to create humane, luxurious fur coats, mufflers and hats.
CW: Pubic hair is no longer required as a designation of sexual maturity. Instead the genitals themselves will recite a Haiku when they are ready. The yarn of the future will be made from our thoughts alone.
SK: Crochet needles make pubic hair.
Would you prefer pollination by insect over human reproduction in its current incarnation?
CC: I would prefer pollination over human reproduction as long as the insect won’t suddenly demand my obedience.
JA: Yes, so long as it wasn’t a ticklish or stinging insect. Perhaps a slug?
DC: Why stop there? Instead, I propose symbiotic Cronenbergian invaders from within. Facehuggers and chestbursters.
CW: Pollination by insect, human reproduction: These things to us are but one.
SK: The insect shall inherit the earth.The Queue has started,their turn is after our orgy.
It was a truly beautiful and elegant store, oblong and wooden, with giant curved shelves of books stacked high, up and into a painted, domed ceiling. Titles ranged from the universally known to the utterly esoteric, and there were journals and postcards, and travel guides to all of the wonders of the world. There were multi-coloured lights hanging from the ceiling, in red, orange, and the deepest blue, and there was a countertop of solid oak, where purchases were made. The staff had (innocently enough) placed three small candles on the counter, and they glowed with the faintest golden hue, beautifying the store. But something was amiss; the candles were not as they seemed. Suddenly they grew to an enormous size, and colossal, mountainous arms arose from their sides – arms with deep-seated veins, and flesh of an otherworldly rose-purple tinge. With these arms, they grabbed each and every book they could lay their hands on, and they threw the books into their flames, destroying them utterly. They decimated works by Milton and Kerouac, annihilated the postcards and pens, and eviscerated travel guides on Amsterdam and Kolkata. In no time at all, the entire store was in ruins, and the staff were seen walking among the ashes, shocked and horrified. At this point, all faded into blackness, and I realized once again where I was.