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
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