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Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
conditions of the photographic
1. there is a world
2. there is a work-world
3. there is a word for the world
4. there is a word for the work-world
5. there is no beyond
2. there is a work-world
3. there is a word for the world
4. there is a word for the work-world
5. there is no beyond
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Notation
In 1742, Rousseau moved to Paris in order to present the Académie des Sciences with a new system of numbered musical notation he believed would make his fortune. His system, intended to be compatible with typography, is based on a single line, displaying numbers representing intervals between notes and dots and commas indicating rhythmic values. Believing the system was impractical, the Academy rejected it, though they praised his mastery of the subject, and urged him to try again.
A Film
I had an idea for a film about Mother Teresa, which would detail her rise to sainthood from a life of crime and petty theft. Unfortunately, I only have the title: From Zero to Nun.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Field Guides
A Field Guide to New Addicts
A Field Guide to Silent Birds
A Field Guide to Inverted Cinema Seats
A Field Guide to Southern Storms
A Field Guide to Wet Pants
A Field Guide to Fatal Diseases
A Field Guide to Vacancies
A Field Guide to Grommets
A Field Guide to Circumcisions
A Field Guide to Rotations Per Second
A Field Guide to Meteorite Fragments
A Field Guide to Civics Classes
A Field Guide to Drafty Rooms
A Field Guide to Stumps
A Field Guide to Abrupt Collisions
A Field Guide to Eager Beavers
A Field Guide to Future Floods
A Field Guide to Silent Birds
A Field Guide to Inverted Cinema Seats
A Field Guide to Southern Storms
A Field Guide to Wet Pants
A Field Guide to Fatal Diseases
A Field Guide to Vacancies
A Field Guide to Grommets
A Field Guide to Circumcisions
A Field Guide to Rotations Per Second
A Field Guide to Meteorite Fragments
A Field Guide to Civics Classes
A Field Guide to Drafty Rooms
A Field Guide to Stumps
A Field Guide to Abrupt Collisions
A Field Guide to Eager Beavers
A Field Guide to Future Floods
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Monday, February 6, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Q:
A:
My grandmother told me a story. When she was a young woman, and bombs were dropping themselves on Europe, food was scarce in Arnem, the Netherlands. The bitter winter had frozen the ground, so that even a shovel couldn’t break the surface of the earth. On a particularly cold morning, a German plane was shot down, and crashed into a field filled with potatoes. The women of Arnem, my grandmother included, ran into the field, newly thawed by the burning wreckage of the plane, and gathered potatoes in the half-light of the evening. Not having shovels, they used sticks and other tools to dig the potatoes out of the earth. Some women used their hands, not having anything more effective at their disposal. This story is true. It is also true that my grandmother is now dead, a part of the story that she would find herself unable to relate. All stories exclude someone from their center.
My grandmother told me a story. When she was a young woman, and bombs were dropping themselves on Europe, food was scarce in Arnem, the Netherlands. The bitter winter had frozen the ground, so that even a shovel couldn’t break the surface of the earth. On a particularly cold morning, a German plane was shot down, and crashed into a field filled with potatoes. The women of Arnem, my grandmother included, ran into the field, newly thawed by the burning wreckage of the plane, and gathered potatoes in the half-light of the evening. Not having shovels, they used sticks and other tools to dig the potatoes out of the earth. Some women used their hands, not having anything more effective at their disposal. This story is true. It is also true that my grandmother is now dead, a part of the story that she would find herself unable to relate. All stories exclude someone from their center.
A:
A talking ape, fluttering its fingers against the bars of the cage.
A talking ape, fluttering its fingers against the bars of the cage.
A:
No one is in the middle.
No one is in the middle.
A:
I don’t remember much about it, though. I remember your hands. Your hands on the wheel, following the lead of my words. I remember your hands. Your hands at your side, emptied. I remember your hands on the table, your hands on the ground. My own hands were damp, and slipped easily into the loose topsoil.
I don’t remember much about it, though. I remember your hands. Your hands on the wheel, following the lead of my words. I remember your hands. Your hands at your side, emptied. I remember your hands on the table, your hands on the ground. My own hands were damp, and slipped easily into the loose topsoil.
from Thomas the Obscure, by Maurice Blanchot
He
nevertheless decided to turn his back to the sea and entered a small
woods where he lay down after taking a few steps. The day was about
to end; scarcely any light remained, but it was still possible to see
certain details of the landscape fairly clearly, in particular the
hill which limited the horizon and which was glowing, unconcerned and
free. What was disturbing to Thomas was the fact that he was lying
there in the grass with the desire to remain there for a long time,
although this position was forbidden to him. As night was falling he
tried to get up, and, pushing against the ground with both hands, got
one knee under him while the other leg dangled; then he made a sudden
lurch and succeeded in placing himself entirely erect. So he was
standing.
Monday, January 16, 2012
found spam poem VI
I was at the country side
and suddenly
saw Massimo Kamscin
putting hand up
till elbow.
Have you ever seen some ...
something ...
like this?
Just take a close look at that picture:
Tell me please,
if you want to follow me,
next time I travel outside the town.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
a warning
I am only
able to give you
this piece of bread
right now, but
be warned
that I have thought
of all of the thoughts
that keep
rising from this
crater at
our right
hand.
able to give you
this piece of bread
right now, but
be warned
that I have thought
of all of the thoughts
that keep
rising from this
crater at
our right
hand.
Friday, December 16, 2011
blue dome
Anselm Kiefer, Everyone Stands Under His Own Dome of Heaven, 1970, watercolor, gouache, and graphite pencil on joined paper, 15 3/4" x 18 7/8". Collection: Metropolitan Museum of Art, NY, Denise and Andrew Saul Fund, 1995.
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Thursday, December 15, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
a victory for art
Esthetics have devolved into rare types of stupidity. Each kind of stupidity may be broken down into categories such as bovine formalism, tired painting, eccentric concentrics or numb structures. All these categories and many others all petrify into a vast banality called the art world which is no world. A nice negativism seems to be spawning. A sweet nihilism is everywhere. Immobility and inertia are what many of the most gifted artists prefer. Vacant at the center, dull at the edge, a few artists are on the true path of stultification. Muddleheaded logic is taking the place of clearheaded illogic, much to nobody's surprise.
-Robert Smithson,
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ON THE OCCASION OF THE ART AND TECHNOLOGY SHOW AT THE ARMORY
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Wednesday, December 7, 2011
types, like blooms
cave song poem
desert, or sand, poem
fur poem
sub, hematoma poem
glottal poem
hand poem
fern spore poem
second lung poem
desert, or sand, poem
fur poem
sub, hematoma poem
glottal poem
hand poem
fern spore poem
second lung poem
from "sea surface full of clouds" by Wallace Stevens
IV In that November off Tehuantepec The night-long slopping of the sea grew still. A mallow morning dozed upon the deck And made one think of musky chocolate And frail umbrellas. A too-fluent green Suggested malice in the dry machine Of ocean, pondering dank stratagem. Who then beheld the figures of the clouds Like blooms secluded in the thick marine? Like blooms? Like damasks that were shaken off From the loosed girdles in the spangling must. C’était ma foi, la nonchalance divine. The nakedness would rise and suddenly turn Salt masks of beard and mouths of bellowing, Would—But more suddenly the heaven rolled Its bluest sea-clouds in the thinking green, And the nakedness became the broadest blooms, Mile-mallows that a mallow sun cajoled.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
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