Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Seeing




Tomorrow I will have two good eyes. I had a left eye cataract removed in November and tomorrow the cataract in my right eye will be removed.







The Free Wheelin' Bob Dylan



Album Cover by Richard Wilkinson

After a Fine Art degree and brief career as an electronic musician, Richard worked in London as a sound designer which led to commercials production and then motion graphics. In 2006 he returned to his visual roots and as an illustrator has worked with The Telegraph,TBWA, Saatchi & Saatchi and Harper Collins.

To see more of Richard Wilkinson Art



Romeo, I'd do the stars with you any time





A lovestruck Romeo sings a street serenade

Laying everybody low with a lovesong that he made

Finds a convenient streetlight steps out of the shade

Says something like you and me babe how about it?


Juliet says hey it's Romeo you nearly gimme a heart attack

He's underneath the window she's singing hey la my boyfriend's back

You shouldn't come around here singing up at people like that

Anyway what you gonna do about it?


Juliet the dice were loaded from the start

And I bet and you exploded in my heart

And I forget I forget the movie song

When you gonna realise it was just that the time was wrong Juliet?


Come up on different streets they both were streets of shame

Both dirty both mean yes and the dream was just the same

And I dreamed your dream for you and now your dream is real

How can you look at me as if I was just another one of your deals?

 
When you can fall for chains of silver you can fall for chains of gold

You can fall for pretty strangers and the promises they hold

You promised me everything you promised me thick and thin

Now you just say oh Romeo yeah you know I used to have a scene with him


Juliet when we made love you used to cry

You said I love you like the stars above I'll love you till I die

There's a place for us you know the movie song

When you gonna realise it was just that the time was wrong?


I can't do the talk like they talk on TV

And I can't do a love song like the way it's meant to be

I can't do everything but I'd do anything for you

I can't do anything except be in love with you


And all I do is miss you and the way we used to be

All I do is keep the beat and bad company

All I do is kiss you through the bars of a rhyme

Julie I'd do the stars with you any tim

 
Juliet when we made love you used to cry

You said I love you like the stars above I'll love you till I die

And there's a place for us you know the movie song

When you gonna realise it was just that the time was wrong Juliet?


A lovestruck Romeo sings a street serenade

Laying everybody low with a lovesong that he made

Finds a convenient streetlight steps out of the shade

Says something like you and me babe how about it?
 
 

If Not For You






Melencolia ad nauseam ad infinitum





Melencolia I is a 1514 engraving by the German Renaissance master Albrecht Dürer.
The overwhelming nausea has me in its clutches again. I think of Jean Paul Sartre and his novel "Nausea". I bought it hoping it might give me some insight into my own deplorable condition. It did. It does.

A Summery of Nausea by John Paul Sartre:

"Antoine Roquentin, a historian living in Bouville, France, begins a diary to help him explain the strange and sickening sensations that have been bothering him for the previous few days. He is not sure what exactly is wrong with him, often doubting if there is any need to keep a diary at all. Nevertheless, a few days later, he is so overcome with what he calls the Nausea, that he begins to furiously list every insignificant fact, detail, feeling, and impression occurring both inside himself and the outside world. He holds a stone, looks at a glass of beer, and tries to touch a soggy piece of paper in the street--each time sensing a worrisome and overwhelming presence." http://www.sparknotes.com/lit/nausea/summary.html




“I am. I am, I exist, I think, therefore I am; I am because I think, why do I think? I don't want to think any more, I am because I think that I don't want to be, I think that I . . . because . . . ugh!”

“I jump up: it would be much better if I could only stop thinking. Thoughts are the dullest things. Duller than flesh. They stretch out and there's no end to them and they leave a funny taste in the mouth. Then there are words, inside the thoughts, unfinished words, a sketchy sentence which constantly returns: "I have to fi. . . I ex. . . Dead . . . M. de Roll is dead . . . I am not ... I ex. . ." It goes, it goes . . . and there's no end to it. It's worse than the rest because I feel responsible and have complicity in it. For example, this sort of painful rumination: I exist, I am the one who keeps it up. I. The body lives by itself once it has begun. But though I am the one who continues it, unrolls it. I exist. How serpentine is this feeling of existing, I unwind it, slowly. ... If I could keep myself from thinking! I try, and succeed: my head seems to fill with smoke . . . and then it starts again: "Smoke . . . not to think . . . don't want to think ... I think I don't want to think. I mustn't think that I don't want to think. Because that's still a thought." Will there never be an end to it?

My thought is me: that's why I can't stop. I exist because I think . . . and I can't stop myself from thinking. At this very moment, it's frightful, if I exist, it is because I am horrified at existing. I am the one who pulls myself from the nothingness to which I aspire: the hatred, the disgust of existing, there are as many ways to make myself exist, to thrust myself into existence. Thoughts are born at the back of me, like sudden giddiness, I feel them being born behind my head ... if I yield, they're going to come round in front of me, between my eyes, and I always yield, the thought grows and grows and there it is, immense, filling me completely and renewing my existence.”

“I grow warm, I begin to feel happy. There is nothing extraordinary in this, it is a small happiness of Nausea: it spreads at the bottom of the viscous puddle, at the bottom of out time - the time of purple suspenders, and broken chair seats; it is made of white, soft instants, spreading at the edge, like an oil stain. No sooner than born, it is already old, it seems as though I have known it for twenty yea

“I do not think therefore I am a moustache”

“People. You must love people. Men are admirable. I want  to vomit—and suddenly, there it is: the Nausea”

“The Nausea is not inside me: I feel it out there in the wall, in the suspenders, everywhere around me. It makes itself one with the café, I am the one who is within it.”

“I have no taste for work any longer, I can do nothing more except wait for night. 530: Things are bad! Things are very bad: I have it, the filth, the Nausea.”

“Something has happened to me, I can't doubt it any more. It came as an illness does, not like an ordinary certainty, not like anything evident. It came cunningly, little by little; I felt a little strange, a little put out, that's all. Once established it never moved, it stayed quiet, and I was able to persuade myself that nothing was the matter with me, that it was a false alarm. And now, it's blossoming.”

“The Nausea has not left me and I don't believe it will leave me so soon; but I no longer have to bear it, it is no longer an illness or a passing fit: it is I.”

(all quotes above: Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea)



I kissed goodbye the howling beast on the borderline which separated you from me