Will Stone

Sell­ing Van Gogh

The London Magazine - - NEWS -

all traf­fic to be di­verted be­fore the Chid­lows turn-off, via Wooroloo, onto the Great East­ern High­way, then back south to the Lakes to hook up with the Great South­ern High­way... I drove down the Great South­ern this morn­ing... three days on the same road I suf­fered a kind of death, sucked into vac­uum by a speed­ing truck, blank­ing out and think­ing hell, I’m caught in some kind of vor­tex, I’m still driv­ing, but driv­ing dead... se­ri­ously, no joke... full moon has meant roos out and the gravel shoul­ders are lit­tered with car­casses caught in that supine pray­ing po­si­tion (there’s no par­ody in this)... I can’t stop think­ing about Paul Ce­lan’s ‘ichten’, and the para­noia that keeps you con­stantly look­ing in the mir­ror, watch­ing out for po­lice traps... looped to­gether in myth, we can’t talk our way out of al­le­gory or cause and ef­fect, as trapped in the body of text is the ar­che­typal flower that pokes its head up to be lopped off: I saw this when the birds un­did the sheep, when the sheep ate the grass and there was noth­ing left.

John Kin­sella

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