This then, a translation: the first 33 pages of derek beaulieu’s Local Colour as he ghost writes Paul Auster as he writes Ghosts after.
There is no colour. There are no notes. There is no story. Here then only local ghosts of colour, notes, story.
Blue watches Black. Mr. Blue watches Mr. Black. White asked him to. Someone is watching someone else in the auditory cortex.
Pitch is from left to right. Rhythm is vertical. The saxophone is Blue and is watching Black. The page is the glass of an open window.
A ghost. Think global, colour local.
Once there was Ghosts. It is a mute spirit, a colour-pocked spectre. An absent palimpsest. One erasure erasing another’s erasure.
Silence cannot be erased except through time.
The illegible is a song with words, reading a dance, a gumshoe tango.
There is no there there. There is what is not here.
Here then, Local Colour.