Simon Schama
Rembrandt von Rijn, "The Conspiracy of the Batavians under Claudius Civilis," c.1666 (Oil on canvas)
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
The Power of Art
"This is what drives the greatest art: contempt for ingratiation."
Simon Schama
Rembrandt von Rijn, "The Conspiracy of the Batavians under Claudius Civilis," c.1666 (Oil on canvas)
Simon Schama
Rembrandt von Rijn, "The Conspiracy of the Batavians under Claudius Civilis," c.1666 (Oil on canvas)
Cage Scape
the feeling is round and familiar, resurfacing knots--contorting my muscles and producing water from my empty holes. the tiredness of ache cascades like aquatic notes, what is left of such old news? what hurt can be squeezed from a plum dry as stone? the pit in my stomach tells me you are as real as the slenderness of my fingernails and that you live buried deep in the breaches of my heart. dull pounds and what for? why even document these lonely nights when your ancient and wooden voice lulls me down into quicksand? I sit while you beckon and call to me "lovely" and you make me cry for hours and you never come.
mystery, intrigue, infatuation, have moderate half lives--I have seen them all they are knuckles without girth and I have outgrown them
mystery, intrigue, infatuation, have moderate half lives--I have seen them all they are knuckles without girth and I have outgrown them
"In The Eye," Suzanne Vega
If you were to kill me now right here I would still look you in the eye
And I would burn myself into your memory as long as you were still alive
I would live inside of you I'd make you wear me like a scar
And I would burn myself into your memory and run through everything you are
I would not run I would not turn I would not hide
I would live inside of you I'd make you wear me like a scar
And I would burn myself into your memory and run through everything you are
In the eye
Look me in the eye
And I would burn myself into your memory as long as you were still alive
I would live inside of you I'd make you wear me like a scar
And I would burn myself into your memory and run through everything you are
I would not run I would not turn I would not hide
I would live inside of you I'd make you wear me like a scar
And I would burn myself into your memory and run through everything you are
In the eye
Look me in the eye
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Notes from Double Edge 6/16/11
We are about to enter the kingdom of the Dead--some of us will breathe and some will not; some will have hot blood, some will have no blood at all. My heart grieves for Ajax, the strongest of the few, unjustly called upon for humiliation. A wall of windows--green with envy, blue with despair, red with ire, and ice cold gray for shame.
What are the Dead like? The same minus the soul. And what is a man without a soul? A cavern, dank and all adrip with the tears of old sunlight. What are the eyes like? Windows to nowhere, or to a wasteland. Unconquerable and hungry for the company of neurons. Unrelenting--all the Dead do is look and look. Every image is a feast; this they learn once life has said goodbye, prematurely or otherwise. Strength is no concern. Made of memories, they are broken matter and fade with time.
T.S. Eliot thinks the Dead wear "deliberate disguises" but he is wrong.
Tonight I want to know what it feels like to die; I want to know what it is like to confront my killer who implores me to say "hello, old friend!"; I want to play Persephone's fool--director of fevers and madness.
What does it feel like to have something fly out of you? To have your body burn?
Getting the blood must be a cold climax.
Ah! What does it mean to haunt? Yes, to haunt. I have found it. Tonight, I will get all dressed up to do my haunting at long last.
Distant and solemn eyes like rain, unable to verbally communicate with one another. Speech is a form of life, is it not? The birth of a thought, totally unleashed on the world and able to fulfill any prophecy.
What are the Dead like? The same minus the soul. And what is a man without a soul? A cavern, dank and all adrip with the tears of old sunlight. What are the eyes like? Windows to nowhere, or to a wasteland. Unconquerable and hungry for the company of neurons. Unrelenting--all the Dead do is look and look. Every image is a feast; this they learn once life has said goodbye, prematurely or otherwise. Strength is no concern. Made of memories, they are broken matter and fade with time.
T.S. Eliot thinks the Dead wear "deliberate disguises" but he is wrong.
Tonight I want to know what it feels like to die; I want to know what it is like to confront my killer who implores me to say "hello, old friend!"; I want to play Persephone's fool--director of fevers and madness.
What does it feel like to have something fly out of you? To have your body burn?
Getting the blood must be a cold climax.
Ah! What does it mean to haunt? Yes, to haunt. I have found it. Tonight, I will get all dressed up to do my haunting at long last.
Distant and solemn eyes like rain, unable to verbally communicate with one another. Speech is a form of life, is it not? The birth of a thought, totally unleashed on the world and able to fulfill any prophecy.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Purple Knots - new song/work in progress
I'm taking a swim in darkened depths
my fingertips and all the rest are
roots and rocks and bulbs and pests
to challenge the ever blinking
dwindling casing of skin that ties me into purple knots
caress my heart and break the fever that has left my brains to rot
the dirt is cool against my weight
mechanical insects abate the
fear that I can't change my fate
or challenge the ever blinking
dwindling casing of skin that ties me into purple knots
caress my heart and break the fever that has left my brains to rot
my fingertips and all the rest are
roots and rocks and bulbs and pests
to challenge the ever blinking
dwindling casing of skin that ties me into purple knots
caress my heart and break the fever that has left my brains to rot
the dirt is cool against my weight
mechanical insects abate the
fear that I can't change my fate
or challenge the ever blinking
dwindling casing of skin that ties me into purple knots
caress my heart and break the fever that has left my brains to rot
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Saturday, July 2, 2011
tug of war
I finger the sand (dust)
it gets in the cracks of the hard dirt
packed firm by the blinding heat of the sun
the dryness helps me
it lessens the damp in my ocean heart
drown or drought
the desert shows my bones
offered up to celestiality
my cracks and holes filled with wind and particles of old
water takes all, a selfish draft
steals the air and floods the shafts of the mind
both hurt, both still
cold and lucid
it gets in the cracks of the hard dirt
packed firm by the blinding heat of the sun
the dryness helps me
it lessens the damp in my ocean heart
drown or drought
the desert shows my bones
offered up to celestiality
my cracks and holes filled with wind and particles of old
water takes all, a selfish draft
steals the air and floods the shafts of the mind
both hurt, both still
cold and lucid
kid
I wish to have the eyes of a child
everything new and nothing quite comfortable
whatever you encounter in any given moment is it
the only true thing
time allowed to touch a woodchip
so light, so able to peel apart
so ready to become a sanctuary
or a boat
or a currency
constant and evolving delight from a single glance
giddy screams, a terror to be sought
the statement of facts--"that is a bird"
relentless reminders of one's own knowledge and worth
a king one morning, a peasant in the afternoon
an eight o'clock cat sipping milk on the kitchen floor
reality and imagination interchangeable and perfectly coexistent
what is loneliness to an inventor or explorer?
all things need gentle aid
tangibility exists in every plane
and nothing is enough
everything new and nothing quite comfortable
whatever you encounter in any given moment is it
the only true thing
time allowed to touch a woodchip
so light, so able to peel apart
so ready to become a sanctuary
or a boat
or a currency
constant and evolving delight from a single glance
giddy screams, a terror to be sought
the statement of facts--"that is a bird"
relentless reminders of one's own knowledge and worth
a king one morning, a peasant in the afternoon
an eight o'clock cat sipping milk on the kitchen floor
reality and imagination interchangeable and perfectly coexistent
what is loneliness to an inventor or explorer?
all things need gentle aid
tangibility exists in every plane
and nothing is enough
the sustaining of cold chords
esthetic is sensation
the right beams of sound
the truest sustain
sustain the full and the hollow
crackles of speed and heat
melt the ecstasies of feel
a glorious drone
to correct the dank thrones of despair
rid the gilded of all shadows
never a flicker or shot
sustain that light air
coating all with sumptuous mind breath
speak old and young with vitals
to sustain is to call on the numinous ruins of holy lands
tear the hand away from the mouth and give up your lungs
a collective motion/sustain
made by tissue that is ever-liminal and transcendent
the right beams of sound
the truest sustain
sustain the full and the hollow
crackles of speed and heat
melt the ecstasies of feel
a glorious drone
to correct the dank thrones of despair
rid the gilded of all shadows
never a flicker or shot
sustain that light air
coating all with sumptuous mind breath
speak old and young with vitals
to sustain is to call on the numinous ruins of holy lands
tear the hand away from the mouth and give up your lungs
a collective motion/sustain
made by tissue that is ever-liminal and transcendent
altitude headaches & everything turbulence
eyes in hand, I remember how my skin is pushed around by intangible neurons. the contact of invisible everythings and the clashing of lightwaves--loud as armageddon--corrode my pride and exhaust my heart.
a swim in the salt of unknown seas
a dance in the arms of unknown air
the calypso of life in and out my ear weighed on my senses. joints crumbled like broken trust and inside my constitution was burning on gallons of eager gasoline. my opals became conduits for Hunger, grew a thousand rows of shark teeth and feasted shamelessly. unabashedly. my tapestry of heartstrings is stained with the best blood. I would risk it all for a walk in such ecstatic purgatory.
a swim in the salt of unknown seas
a dance in the arms of unknown air
the calypso of life in and out my ear weighed on my senses. joints crumbled like broken trust and inside my constitution was burning on gallons of eager gasoline. my opals became conduits for Hunger, grew a thousand rows of shark teeth and feasted shamelessly. unabashedly. my tapestry of heartstrings is stained with the best blood. I would risk it all for a walk in such ecstatic purgatory.
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