"The DVD spins, and the room vibrates with Wagner. We see a series of surreal images that combine violence with eerie placidity, like a Kubrick film. Robic's spotlit figure rides through the dark in the driving rain. Robic gasps come unheard plea to a stone-faced man in fatigues who's identified as his crew chief. Robic curls fetuslike on the pavement of a Pyrenean mountain road, having fallen asleep and simply tipped off his bike. Robic stalks the crossroads of a nameless French village at midnight, flailing his arms, screaming as his support crew. A baffled gendarmes hurries to the scene, asking, Quel est le probleme? I glance a Robic, and he's staring at the screen, too. "In race, everything inside me comes out," he says, shrugging. "Good, bad, everything. My mind, it begins to do things on its own. I do not like it, but this is the way I must go to win the race." "-Daniel Coyle, "That Which Does Not Kill Me Makes Me Stranger"
there is no existentialism in the creation a work of art, there is only suspension.
in order to not see something, that some thing must exist. i have not yet seen you.
blindness is no condition if no one can see, it is only a definition inside a thousand thousand dictionary pages.
are you the bluesplattered paint and burberry picnic basket, or all the things underneath?
all greenbilled cap and black worn overcoat and cracked leather rucksack going to some nowhere place and to be covered up in orange.
or are you the telephone poles ringing down the road with a blueline horizon never getting closer?
or the dirtworn blacktop of a road with no cars and only an actor playing a splatteredblue hitch-hiker and a going-somewhere photographer documenting the supposed plight of our storied vfw's.
are you the barbedwire fence or the wheat ready for harvest or tin metal roof five miles off or the clouds covering up all the sky or just the one speck of blue paint, set alone by the flick of an old white man's wrist?
"i am none of these things, i am alive."
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