Finnegans Wake in Comess: Preface: Lost in Finnegans

One night. My monolighted voice.

I remember the night was lovely by the lamplight. I remember the moonligneous and pale blades flogg the black and nasty waters without respite. Surely, garlic acetylene pongged a bit too much for a fishing night. But what do you expect from this latex darknesses of the night? A glittering, a glow? The night was lovely though by the lamplight. A lot of lines, pictures, gumming and black lead blotches are needed to hear the light or slast sounds destroy the twilight silence. Lawless heartbeats and incitements are needed también. We make tracks with our pinpointed ideas in mind or on the white board. It’s a maze, isn’t it? Where’s Minotaur, where’s Theseus, where’s Bobby? Where am i, friend? Our ideas … On and off twin headlights of a Mercury 51 dancing with the twists of Sunset Boulevard. We can slightly accelerate, it stuffs the V8 with explosive mixture. Where’s Ariana? Then suddenly we mess everything up. We flatten. We bust. Obviously, i have to retranslate into French language (because I’m fresh) to unsterstand the text better. The situation is not the same. Under the lamplight, we get bogged down.

Text, images. One must wait and wait, draw and draw, squawk and squawk. The original text is mulched, or más justo is peeled like an onion until touching its fishbone. Ooze nights were needed to try algorithms or exercise principles. These nights spotting animals screaming, a bestiary, herrings, horses, donkeys, salmons and even lice. Here again … i leave for other less tormented skies. I deny this thunder. Other ideas overstrain my neurons. A lull, an anticyclone? An idea? Only one … Rain, water, wet impregnation. More? Light or black, dark, reflection. And i go down into alluviums. Why the Wake, please? A reflexion? No thanks. We still dig, other treasures maybe? Hey, another chord, some music? Difficult to draw music.

Then, at night, a spark, a smut, we are ready, a biface flint, a scraper, to extricate the bones of this story. Marrowbone.

Imagine what we are talking about, emanated roamings or transferts. And i think i am drawing up the Wake madness. Fragments of known things, drawings, paintings are pecked here and there like an alphabet: thou knowest a b c, in French, la si do. I am reading my own plates and i don’t understand anything. I am also playing. Brains and psyches are impacted as a bullet going through souls and arms in Waterloo.

Finally, i declare this enterprise crazy. No way out, no feasibility, no finitude to hope. I try methods to burn out, i lose the style, i change tools, ways and materials. I play with fire. I put incertainty, i put night. I am waiting for the wake. It doesn’t come to tell me “that’s enough.”