Memory, word and image are reasons why books can hold heritage and electricity can’t. I began to write when I noticed that. I listened to the House of the Rising Sun.
The clouds at dusk in orange and deep blue make less immortal what was this sunny cold day. They are a reclusion embedded in the cycle of night.
The dream inside the dream awaking was sleep.
In examining the architecture of transcultural literature, the construction of its form, the rhetoric of its language, the signification in its imaginary, a cultural architect can begin with a question that carries its own answer:
If so, how is it constructed?
Thunder has been roiling steadily over Canigou mountain. The gutters have been frothing with rain. It catches on the first fallen leaves and spills over the cobble stones.
It is now just performance.
In the Union Hall a mass of elderly Catalans sing shanties from their times and their sea to Jamaica in preparation of the cultural day. The day of well-being in the absence of tourist painters and tribute bands.
Today I drove through Spain to the prison where some of the last viable identity politicians are kept. The rain has not come yet, so I think of the dead. My mother, father, friend, a lover and my sister. The rain of pale faces.
On the windscreen, the day, all I am, is a grey promise reflected thinly in front of a mottled sky.
That is the end of Chapter One of the eight chapters of The Architecture of the Transculture by Richard Rathwell and Harold Rhenisch. Next up is Chapter Two:
See you on the other side.