Landscape (an excerpt)

There was something here about landscape, how it opened up, you could walk through it, and yet not be in it. One chooses to take the long view; to be at that point were everything converges. In the distance someone is painting the landscape. The foreground is black, and you get the impression that it is rotten, that something is not right, out of place. The horizon is littered with various objects: the smoking hull of a Russian tank,conjugal waste land, broken glass, the corpse of a Cyclops, androgynous language, banana peel, the ghost of a moral, a bathing cap, toys, body parts. The ongoing fragments slip away, turn, and become something else. I had decided to paint myself into the scene. Carefully placing my body next to the village idiot, and the grave-digger. I had no master plan. This is as far as I got. But this is how it sometimes goes, you throw a stone at immortality and hope that it sticks or at the very least breaks something. The scene remains unfinished, yet it is ongoing. Sometimes it is someone else’s hand that does the work, sometimes the hand itself makes an entrance. This is called collage. This is called other things. The thing you want to call it is yet to be discovered. ...