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viviparous blenny

Christophe Casamassima

Artist's Statement:

I've been reading jadorowsky's lecture in NYC about el topo. You familiar? He says, something to the effect, "I don't make a sketch of the costume first. We must find the costume in reality and construct it like a sculpture." That is Ore.

Jadorowsky mentions Fellini, that he makes sketches in order to create a model. But Jadorowsky does not find nor make models-he doesn't create them artistically, artificially, from imagination nor does he use the imagination to bring to life, give a thingness to, so to speak, an anima.

So Ore: I didn't use my imagination to make Ore from nothing, my memories and experiences, which are really nothing, if you weigh them, a patchwork of the captured and catalogued, the experiences of real reality but that which passes through the subjective mirror-we are nothing but reflections of our environment, no? Or[e] refractions? Nor did i use my experiences and sensibility of poetry-as-it-stands to fashion a limited and absolute model that follows, basically, all previous models, so is nothing but the model itself, and as itself, it is negated because they are oppositetisoppo. Get it?

So Ore. I had to find Ore from the pieces of real reality, as it stood in reality, as existents, in Heidegger-speak, objects and beings, animate and inanimate. Ore only ever existed always, in parts, and as a whole. In parts, because we westerners divided the whole when we divided our spirits from our bodies, our demons from our gods. In whole because it is without the human mind perfect and central and whole, superior to any kind of organizing structures or constructs because it is formless. And, since formless, already in existence, everything in nothing, everything from nothing, everything and nothing. but it took an enlightened mind, the author, to basically refuse to write this book, to leave it in the milieu and as the milieu, to not act and be still and be ignorant of the thing. And in its ignorance, its stillness, its non-action, the book is written by no one, because it is no one, and known to only one. All of us.

Book Excerpts
9
where we plunge obscure From extremes of sunlight flooding uplands to the drained to be. So that my sight may not grow dim as earth in air or a ditch. These are bitten off at a gasp, a breathing space. Echo, I I linger at the edge of my breath, as on a doorsill the tilled field, on waves working, short and dry, otherwise, today, is beside me. This forehead rising over my head, very briefer, shrunken, now heat, outside, stands such heat, not caring. The road runs on ahead where I break and even farther something like the same stretch almost reaches me. Here is the earth you cross far from any road and freed yields, as well, the true picture its keen edge that I should see, hear, whole sea-surge on a field’s wing our features everywhere floor, such ceiling reveals mist another head, wind’s, seeming over deepens. I write as far as you can go glimmer. Voice with brittle corners. Earth stretched slow-paced together as air, blue, where plow turns, furrows meet. it, straight into air, now I can drop towards day me, spanned. On the new-plowed mould where day evenly The huge earth pours, nothing is lost. ©2010 Christophe Casamassima
26
Do you believe that after you die some part of we choked. So what you were born. The you. The newest witness. Bluish then the rose inside the rose that kept on opening; and then and “from the beginning” (yet further on). Words: always face-down: “it is sown” there is no Past death, past sight, Blood pours from the stone (and in the torchlight, ore and then into the blank in which one is, breakages the eye hardly caught. Lifting the eyes away one sees the whole—a tint with a direction in it— the thing that concerns us most dearly: how we began. go? Maybe it can bend down now and shut its hand now? Listen, I was not saying anything. It was only I knew a man who made signs in the air and they stayed. (that it should have such and does and bend That it is reserved for silence, ©2010 Christophe Casamassima
81
I can rejoin separated lovers, can, a surrogate’s dust, but I never got any, just this My God, how can I speak about love (to someone!) where “reversal” is unthinkable. I reach that hand that pure music is only a useless valve. The poem could be satisfied with one night: Outside ourselves there is that it’s possible to find to slip two fingers through ©2010 Christophe Casamassima

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