I send these words from a distance (words I’ve been reading with a week’s detachment, those ever unmoored words/actions of the mind) because forces beyond my control STOP these little grams (of icing sugar as used in today’s cookery diversion?) from racing towards that secret, which escapes (Cixous, White Ink) – yet everything did STOP on a page of this book, which came through the letterbox only today, she began enthusing about Goya’s ‘Dog Head Buried in Sand’ and how it never seems to STOP “Do you know that painting? Have you seen it? It’s incredible. It’s vertical, and it’s as if it were the epitome of all of the spirit of painting. So, just part of a dog, and you can’t interpret it. You don’t know whether the dog is coming out of the sand, or on the contrary being buried in the sand. It is the most incredible picture you can see, and it’s so nothing because it’s really only infinites. The sky exchanges with the beach, but the beach… we usually think of beaches as long, wide and extending, whereas here, the beach is vertical. And for me, I could write a book on that.” STOP this is all too much, these should have been my words, how can I make them STOP the painting in question is one more thing to add to my collection on ‘murkiness’ – I hope one day I might write an entry in keeping with Barthes’ lecture notes on the Neutral, but with a Anglophone twist; I’ve noticed it in D.H. Lawrence’s interiors, and during the winter months in Saltaire – but I never find I have time to STOP although I did manage to get to the Yorkshire Sculpture Park to see the works by David Nash and I couldn’t resist purchasing a little hardback book solely about his long-term engagement with the pyramid, sphere and cube, inspired by the Zen monk Sengai’s Circle, Triangle, Square, a speckled figuration of which appears in silhouette on the coarse material cover; each time I go to open this enticing volume something only leads me away to(o) STOP and besides, with my impending trip to the Chicago-based Art Theory Institute, I am supposed to be drowning in a thousand pages or more on the aesthetic/anti-aesthetic and on cue Jay Bernstein’s Against Voluptuous Bodies and Jacques Rancière’s Aesthetics and Its Discontents have made (it to) me STOP in my tracks; both these writers appeal to Adorno’s line ‘there is no system without its residue’ (the epigraph to Bernstein’s book), but here the comparison appears to STOP – how anyone can tell from Rancière’s opaque use of ‘this latter’ and ‘that former’ (as if the aforementioned former/latter had been clear vantage points!) is beyond me – I wish he wouldn’t STOP since these directed readings came under separate cover through the same said letterbox, with one special addition not on the official list, Maurice Senack’s In the Night Kitchen, for which everything had to STOP, but… before you assume this was bedtime reading for those under a certain age STOP! admittedly the little boy’s ‘willy’ prompted much amusement, yet it was my own primal phallus(y) that I couldn’t help STOP searching out this amazing tale of a boy who thinks nothing of shouting out in the dark, whose clothes slip off without any much ado and reappears in a suit of flour, before diving naked into a long, tall milk bottle: ‘I’m in the milk and the milk’s in me … Mickey in the Night Kitchen cried “Cock-a-doodle Doo!” And slid down the side, straight into bed, cakefree and dried’ …and that, if you remember, is how he ‘came’ to STOP the memory of the milk, it relates to my increasingly strong desire to make work, not simply write about it, and for which I have invested in a variety of inks (again appearing in my letterbox this week), including a milky, Sennelier white ink, which I couldn’t quite get over, really I couldn’t STOP myself, having picked up a dusty old hardback of Gombrich’s A Story of Art, I have set about erasing lines in the text (in preparation for the effect of all its ink having just oozed out)  – interestingly, having planned to do this, I really just had to STOP… I wondered if perhaps I ought to buy a second copy, reserved for the purposes of actually reading, which I just can’t help think to do, even though I want to STOP I should probably film the whole process, make that the ‘work’, rather than think it is all somehow going to magically come to STOP I have also now determined Indian ink, whilst an engulfing black, is quite different to Japanese calligraphy ink, prompting wild thoughts of further, grand installations, that only one’s imagination can STOP [gap] …finally evidence that Barthes’ late semiotician, the one who ought paint more than dig, must indeed roll their sleeves up and make their mark was no more apparent than in taking possession of my own bottle of Sennelier Neutral ink; like Barthes ‘I was both punished and disappointed because Neutral spatters and stains (it’s a dull gray-black); disappointed because Neutral is a color like the others, and for sale … the unclassifiable is classified…’ yet even this colours things, despite wanting to STOP the press(ing down of): this ink upon the page reveals not a dull gray-black, but a definite purple (with a satin finish no less) – seemingly a wild mistake to make if purposefully one were to STOP to think, using the ink thinly and letting it dry arguably gives something of a murky gray, yet more dramatically we might reveal Barthes’ indelible decision to look another way or even altogether to not STOP


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