Monday, May 11, 2015

from the archive 1

It's May. The lilacs are blooming. So is my Christmas cactus. Things are a bit confused.


There is a certain irony that what follows is (a) ten years old; (b) from what passes for my archive (read: deep in a filing cabinet); and (c) was edited in the present moment as I sit next to my devoted cat (named after my grandfather), (d) on my grandmother's chair.

The piece was from a 1922 essay by André Breton:

Lâchez tout.
Lâchez Dada.
Lâchez votre femme, lâchez votre maîtresse.
Lâchez vos espérances et vos craintes.
Semez vos enfants au coin d’un bois.
Lâchez la proie pour l’ombre.
Lâchez au besoin une vie asiée, ce qu’on vous donne pour une situation d’avenir.
Partez sur les routes.

My rudimentary translation was paired with a 1921 poem by Anna Akmatova, and they were typed (on the 1923 Underwood) and bound in a very pink binding. The translation and the process are above, and the book appears below.

I suppose the moral is that I will probably never, ever master detachment. I will also never, ever master the French language.