Derailing My Train of Thought by Thomas Wightman
Says Thomas about this project: “The final book sculpture of my major project series. Like the previous two sculptures it uses a visual metaphor to convey the emotions of obsessive-compulsive disorder, and embodies my research by visualising an expression used by a sufferer of OCD. The expression was ‘derailing my train of thought’, because the person felt that the rituals they had to perform were disrupting their day. Where the compulsions and worry would side track them from doing everyday activities.
To convey this metaphor the sculpture shows a train travelling on a journey that has become disrupted, leading it to derail from its set path. Typography was used on the tracks for the title of the piece, also type was used for the coal. In the scene it shows the coal cart tipping over where the type has become mixed up to symbolise the mixed emotions during anxiety and panic”.
Fluorite with galena on quartz; Co. Durham, England
The book consists of a series of prose poems, or individuated chunks of poetic prose, interspersed with postage-stamp-sized collages made by Green, who is also a visual artist. Collectively the text bears witness to the 2008 suicide of her husband, the writer David Foster Wallace, and its harrowing aftermath for Green…
Upon first read, Bough Down feels disorienting and surreal — like entering a drugged wormhole of grief, pills, and barely tolerable engrams and emotions, which appear via allegory, hallucination, synecdoche, and blur. Upon rereading, however, the bones of the book’s structure become admirably clear.
I take your parents to the lighthouse, I do. There is nothing but September fog to cover our shame, and your father laughs just like you, at the opacity. I want to eat the laugh, I want to rub it on my chest like camphor, I want to make a sound tattoo. I also want to bash these two small people together and see if a collision of DNA will give me my life back.
In the morning, my wife pointed out our son didn’t have kneecaps yet, and later that night I read this line: “I worry I broke your kneecaps when I cut you down.”
Filed under: my reading year 2013
Jack Kerouac’s 120’-long typewriter scroll manuscript of ON THE ROAD
"Champagne for my real friends and real pain for my sham friends."
Tom Waits (via devilduck)