Sunday evenings, always Sunday evenings…
Peace and stillness, the frenetic beast is in his cage, taming his wild urges is unsettling, I prefer his wildness. But then, it may be better if he learnt the differences between night and day, communication – language and the more agreeable aspects of toilet training.
(And more interestingly; the idea that we can soothe ourselves when unsettled. Remember his first urge is to be close to mothers heart beat when he feels unsettled, the beat, the drum, the inner voice, the primal language, the wonderful beast who is the baby in his cot, he is breathing and we have to keep popping up stairs to look at him, the beat, the drum pounds on)
But where does this civil cultivating of ones child cease? Burroughs speaks of language, spoken language and written language as disease.
“-the other half is the word, the other half is an organism, a separate organism attached to the nervous system, from symbiotic to parasite”
Oscars inner voice is currently symbiotic (the drum?)
“- the flu virus may once of been a healthy lung cell, the word may once been a healthy neural cell. It is now a parasitic organism that invades and damages the central nervous system. Modern man has lost the option of silence. Try halting your sub-vocal speech. Try to achieve even ten seconds of inner silence. You will encounter a resisting organism that forces you to talk. That organism is the word. In the beginning was the word. In the beginning of what exactly?”
In the beginning of civil cultivation of your child. The Fauvist is on fire in his little cot, beast dreams and processing, a world of two dimensional sculptural delights transmitted and dreamed through replayed to help him make seance of it all, a sculptural world in two dimensions; apparently the visual language of a baby.
There’s only one question in life that I have most sincerely wanted to know the answer to:
Where does originality come from?
I have thought about this for many years and when I found out Alice was pregnant was suddenly aware that I might get closer to finding out by observing our little one. So far I think originality stems from choice, and choice in these early days stems from “I like” and “I don’t like” I lay like this because it is the most comfortable way for me, this is my choice, dictated by my body, by the way my muscles and bones react to different positions (so a baby who had a traumatic birth and has stretched muscles or even bones ever-so slightly off kilter will have it’s choice/originality/style/future dictated by the hands of the doctor that ripped him into the world?)
So, in this example the baby finds a way it likes to lay down, this develops and is transmitted into a style which then becomes ‘originality’. Perhaps this idea is a little disappointing? Perhaps I really want to know about its artistic output, his edge, his angle, not effected by his parents views, his very own original view.
Where am I going? Back to the start;
I enjoy Burroughs way of lifting serious ideas, letting them drift into more artistic derivatives and off into the punk chaos of cut and paste.
“-The word is spliced in with the sound of your intestines and breathing with the beating of your heart. The first step is to record the sounds of your body and start splicing them in yourself. Splice in your body sounds with the body sounds of your best friend and see how familiar he gets”
Where am I going? Writing enjoyable sentences out a book for you, how peculiar. Well my rhythm is bent and probably for the best, in between paragraphs the fauvist awoke and screamed blue murder. Could be anything of course; his sack stuck to the side of his thigh itching and driving him mad, a droplet of water from bath time in his ear and driving him mad, an itch, an uncomfortable spot, a headache, growing pains, a dream, nothing at all, the need for milk, the list is endless, I think it’s a good idea we forget the baby years.
So then, Oscar has started up again and the rhythm shifts again. “What is it?” asks Alice and sings, or rather hums ‘don’t worry be happy’ she does it beautifully, Oscar settles, it makes me feel sad that the beauty of the occasion will one day stop. Every day a baby lives he needs his parents less and less.
We have the heart beat, the drum!
SO, let’s explore other avenues…