A friend is rereading Gaston Bachelard. She tells me by telephone. I picture revery as satellite transmissions. Oh Gaston, who wrote: “Daydream transports the dreamer outside the immediate world to a world that bears the mark of infinity.”
Oh to be transported each moment, so your house is never static but always in support of being.
And to be done with preparation and the politics of appearance.
Oh Gaston! “Toujours, imaginer sera plus grand que vivre.”
John Lennon said: “I’d sooner be Zappa.” I say, “I’d sooner be Bachelard.”
Which is the point of course. We’re all Gaston Bachelard. We’re all arriving, just now, just here, with the intimations of star-feathers and ancestral eyelashes blinking with spring, as this is all springs, and the heart is every heart and let’s be clear our hearts are dream houses with the windows wide open.
We’re all Gaston Bachelard. “A word is a bud attempting to become a twig. How can one not dream while writing? It is the pen which dreams. The blank page gives the right to dream.”
I even love his jokes: “Two half philosophers will probably never a whole metaphysician make.”
Some mornings we tinker at the edges of the page. Our houses are not yet warm with sun though light is coming up. We drink coffee. Listen to the old plumbing inside walls. Peel an orange. Remember even a minor event in life is an event of the world.