When Fridays are now reserved for her, I could only mention to others in silence, that I might be faithful to her face. Yet, I fucked up the face I am supposed to trace on wood. And fat boy laughed at me for talking to my reflection. The rest left the table, and it took me four days to write about the half an hour between two strangers: questions, answers, pauses, and long silence. I just can’t record it as a conversation. The silence broken by what you saw in the sky, but I couldn’t see the patch of seven colours - a patch, not an arc or bow like the origin of your surname. I didn’t tell you I am colour blind, why the flowers are painted grey, how your air steward boyfriend could hurt you, and how I contrasted the colours to the patch of rainbow he would leave on your face.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
Because of this Modest Style By Ramón López Velarde
Because of this Modest Style
Translated By Michael Schmidt
September 14, 1915
It's how she spreads, without a sound, her scent
of orange blossom on the dark of me,
it is the way she shrouds in mourning black
her mother-of-pearl and ivory, the way
she wears the lace ruff at her throat, and how
she turns her face, quite voiceless, self-possessed,
because she takes the language straight to heart,
is thrifty with the words she speaks.
It's how
she is so reticent yet welcoming
when she comes out to face my panegyrics,
the way she says my name
mocking and mimicking, makes gentle fun,
yet she's aware that my unspoken drama
is really of the heart, though a little silly;
it's how, when night is deep and at its darkest,
we linger after dinner, vaguely talking
and her laughing smile grows fainter and then falls
gently on the tablecloth; it's the teasing way
she won't give me her arm and then allows
deep feeling to come with us when we walk out,
promenading on the hot colonial boulevard. . .
Because of this, your sighing, modest style
of love, I worship you, my faithful star
who like to cloud yourself about in mourning,
generous, hidden blossom; kindly
mellowness who have presided over
my thirty years with the self-denying singleness
a vase has, whose half-blown roses wreathe with scent
the headboard of a convalescent man;
cautious nurse, shy
serving maid, dear friend who trembles
with the trembling of a child when you revise
the reading that we share; apprehensive, always timid
guest at the feast I give; my ally,
humble dove that coos when it is morning
in a minor key, a key that's wholly yours.
May you be blessed, modest, magnificent;
you have possessed the highest summit of my heart,
you who are at once the artist
of lowly and most lofty things, who bear in your hands
my life as if it was your work of art!
O star and orange blossom, may you dwindle
gently rocked in an unwedded peace,
and may you fade out like a morning star
which the lightening greenness of a meadow darkens
or like a flower that finds transfiguration
on the blue west, as it might on a simple bed.
Translated By Michael Schmidt
September 14, 1915
It's how she spreads, without a sound, her scent
of orange blossom on the dark of me,
it is the way she shrouds in mourning black
her mother-of-pearl and ivory, the way
she wears the lace ruff at her throat, and how
she turns her face, quite voiceless, self-possessed,
because she takes the language straight to heart,
is thrifty with the words she speaks.
It's how
she is so reticent yet welcoming
when she comes out to face my panegyrics,
the way she says my name
mocking and mimicking, makes gentle fun,
yet she's aware that my unspoken drama
is really of the heart, though a little silly;
it's how, when night is deep and at its darkest,
we linger after dinner, vaguely talking
and her laughing smile grows fainter and then falls
gently on the tablecloth; it's the teasing way
she won't give me her arm and then allows
deep feeling to come with us when we walk out,
promenading on the hot colonial boulevard. . .
Because of this, your sighing, modest style
of love, I worship you, my faithful star
who like to cloud yourself about in mourning,
generous, hidden blossom; kindly
mellowness who have presided over
my thirty years with the self-denying singleness
a vase has, whose half-blown roses wreathe with scent
the headboard of a convalescent man;
cautious nurse, shy
serving maid, dear friend who trembles
with the trembling of a child when you revise
the reading that we share; apprehensive, always timid
guest at the feast I give; my ally,
humble dove that coos when it is morning
in a minor key, a key that's wholly yours.
May you be blessed, modest, magnificent;
you have possessed the highest summit of my heart,
you who are at once the artist
of lowly and most lofty things, who bear in your hands
my life as if it was your work of art!
O star and orange blossom, may you dwindle
gently rocked in an unwedded peace,
and may you fade out like a morning star
which the lightening greenness of a meadow darkens
or like a flower that finds transfiguration
on the blue west, as it might on a simple bed.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
[ ] - Theodor Storm
You bit your lips till they were sore and bleeding,
You wanted this, I know it well, because my lips once covered them.
You let your fair hair be bleached by burning sun and rain:
You wanted it because my hand had once caressed it.
You stand all day over the stove in the heat and smoke.
You delicate hands are all raw.
You want it thus, I know it well, because my eyes once lingered on them.
You wanted this, I know it well, because my lips once covered them.
You let your fair hair be bleached by burning sun and rain:
You wanted it because my hand had once caressed it.
You stand all day over the stove in the heat and smoke.
You delicate hands are all raw.
You want it thus, I know it well, because my eyes once lingered on them.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
IN FACT I WAS PREPARING MYSELF
For delivering two speeches for a lack of one
Like a good disciple of Macedonio Fernandez
Like a good disciple of Macedonio Fernandez
April 22 - Chien Swee-Teng
Please remember
you are not the reincarnation of Lenin from the future.
Lenin is the reincarnation of you from the past.
But all in all nothing materialist at all in this statement,
spiritual, metaphysical reincarnation shit.
you are not the reincarnation of Lenin from the future.
Lenin is the reincarnation of you from the past.
But all in all nothing materialist at all in this statement,
spiritual, metaphysical reincarnation shit.
LITERAL WORDS
Whoever may have thoroughly studied
The real world
Cannot help but become a communist
Whoever may have thoroughly studied
The communist party
Cannot help but become an anarchist
Believe me
Not to be an idealist at 20
is not to have a heart
To go on being one at forty
Is not to have a head
The real world
Cannot help but become a communist
Whoever may have thoroughly studied
The communist party
Cannot help but become an anarchist
Believe me
Not to be an idealist at 20
is not to have a heart
To go on being one at forty
Is not to have a head
NOT TO CONDEMN VIOLENCE AHEAD OF TIME - Nicanor Parra
Determine first
What kind of violence is involved
Just or unjust
Because when the violence is just
What do you want me to say my friend:
The violence is simply just
What kind of violence is involved
Just or unjust
Because when the violence is just
What do you want me to say my friend:
The violence is simply just
Euthanasian (安乐死者) – Chien Swee-Teng
Euthanasian (安乐死者) – Chien Swee-Teng
You were driving us around Jalan Besar. The sun was terrible, like we are stuck in an eternal tropical noon. You were driving us to look for a wood supplier, and the weather is driving us mad. Along the way, I pointed to you all kinds of people we should knock down randomly: the roadwork sign, the Indian workers, the orange vests and yellow helmets, knock a few and miss a few, like bowling pins, and drive into the ditch they have dug. Why are they always digging, pumping and drilling? The kid and her foreign maid after school, crossing the road, when green man is flashing, you have the powerful machine to knock and drag the bodies under the wheel for another few metres before you stop. The delivery man who just got out of the van and glanced into your car, sole breadwinner raising his family with a meagre salary, it is to supply the same old story to the local tabloid about why he shouldn’t die, the sick wife and children are now helpless. The Chinese man with crew cut cycling, I want blood on his oil stained white polo T-shirt, the shirt with the logo of a restaurant printed on it. Those students out on excursion, talking loudly, giggling, knock onto the pillar of the heritage site, let the roof, maintained with high conservation standards, collapse on them. The more they are innocent the better. You once said, it is sad to see ‘old clerks’, which you defined as balding middle aged man in short sleeve shirt from department store, a silver pen tucked in the shirt breast pocket, synthetic leather shoes with rubber soles, carrying a folder… but nobody calls themselves clerks anymore, we don’t know if he is really a clerk. Now he might not be wearing Montagut, Alain Delon, Pierre Cardin or Goldlion anymore, there are other cheaper brands that sound like other brands. You said at this age they are neither here nor there. Here’s one archetype of the old clerk waiting for a bus, he’s wiping his head, face and neck, then cleaning the spectacle frame, the corners around the lens, let’s swerve the car into the bus stop. But you reminded me that you are not driving an armour car or tank. I apologised, and we parked and alighted on Syed Alwi. Then I noticed an old lady. Nothing beats the sight of a petite old lady with slight hunch pushing a trolley filled with a huge stack of cardboards. I heard the noise, the noise of a plastic bag full of drink cans dangling from the handle like an aluminium bell; from the way she is pushing the trolley it seems very heavy. I doubt she is into recycling or environmental issues. Under the merciless sun, looking satisfied, tired but happy, a fruitful a day of collecting, how could one doubt her diligence, sometimes she took the cardboards with permission, someone’s good grace, sometimes minor pilfering when no one is looking. I can’t help it. I shall walk towards her and kick the pile of cardboard, scattering the flattened boxes on the road, she have all the time to pick it up later, I have all the time to laugh at her. She can curse at me all she wants; complain to her children, if she has any. If I am in a bad mood, I would not hesitate to kick her. And if I am carrying a pistol, I would not think twice about shooting her, killing her. I doubt anybody around would give a damn – it would be strange if they did, why not earlier? But I would not use any self-righteous excuses for this murder. It is not about how I can’t bear to see her suffer and so it is better for her to die. It is simply how I can’t suffer the undying sight of her. I am an individual, and individualism is what many artists like to preach. Hence, this is purely for my personal gratification and my esoteric sense of beauty.
You were driving us around Jalan Besar. The sun was terrible, like we are stuck in an eternal tropical noon. You were driving us to look for a wood supplier, and the weather is driving us mad. Along the way, I pointed to you all kinds of people we should knock down randomly: the roadwork sign, the Indian workers, the orange vests and yellow helmets, knock a few and miss a few, like bowling pins, and drive into the ditch they have dug. Why are they always digging, pumping and drilling? The kid and her foreign maid after school, crossing the road, when green man is flashing, you have the powerful machine to knock and drag the bodies under the wheel for another few metres before you stop. The delivery man who just got out of the van and glanced into your car, sole breadwinner raising his family with a meagre salary, it is to supply the same old story to the local tabloid about why he shouldn’t die, the sick wife and children are now helpless. The Chinese man with crew cut cycling, I want blood on his oil stained white polo T-shirt, the shirt with the logo of a restaurant printed on it. Those students out on excursion, talking loudly, giggling, knock onto the pillar of the heritage site, let the roof, maintained with high conservation standards, collapse on them. The more they are innocent the better. You once said, it is sad to see ‘old clerks’, which you defined as balding middle aged man in short sleeve shirt from department store, a silver pen tucked in the shirt breast pocket, synthetic leather shoes with rubber soles, carrying a folder… but nobody calls themselves clerks anymore, we don’t know if he is really a clerk. Now he might not be wearing Montagut, Alain Delon, Pierre Cardin or Goldlion anymore, there are other cheaper brands that sound like other brands. You said at this age they are neither here nor there. Here’s one archetype of the old clerk waiting for a bus, he’s wiping his head, face and neck, then cleaning the spectacle frame, the corners around the lens, let’s swerve the car into the bus stop. But you reminded me that you are not driving an armour car or tank. I apologised, and we parked and alighted on Syed Alwi. Then I noticed an old lady. Nothing beats the sight of a petite old lady with slight hunch pushing a trolley filled with a huge stack of cardboards. I heard the noise, the noise of a plastic bag full of drink cans dangling from the handle like an aluminium bell; from the way she is pushing the trolley it seems very heavy. I doubt she is into recycling or environmental issues. Under the merciless sun, looking satisfied, tired but happy, a fruitful a day of collecting, how could one doubt her diligence, sometimes she took the cardboards with permission, someone’s good grace, sometimes minor pilfering when no one is looking. I can’t help it. I shall walk towards her and kick the pile of cardboard, scattering the flattened boxes on the road, she have all the time to pick it up later, I have all the time to laugh at her. She can curse at me all she wants; complain to her children, if she has any. If I am in a bad mood, I would not hesitate to kick her. And if I am carrying a pistol, I would not think twice about shooting her, killing her. I doubt anybody around would give a damn – it would be strange if they did, why not earlier? But I would not use any self-righteous excuses for this murder. It is not about how I can’t bear to see her suffer and so it is better for her to die. It is simply how I can’t suffer the undying sight of her. I am an individual, and individualism is what many artists like to preach. Hence, this is purely for my personal gratification and my esoteric sense of beauty.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
The Question of Fat Vegetable - Chien Swee-Teng
The Question of Fat Vegetable
“My daughter is very fat. Although this is a fact, I cannot accept anyone saying that. I nearly fought a half-drunk guy at the coffeeshop when I heard him he calling her pui chai (fat vegetable). If not for my drinking buddies… pulling me back, I would have whacked that bugger. She is the only one I love, the only I am left with to love, the little love I am left with in this world. My wife died young, she is my only daughter… I did not remarry… no one suitable. But I always tell my daughter, my relatives and friends that it is for the sake of my daughter. She’s still young, the stepmother might ill-treat her. Actually, I learnt that line from some local drama series, used several times in different shows, to sound like a good father. When there’s a need I visit Petain Road. It is cheaper there. My old primary school classmate works there… he takes care of the girls there. And now he has grown old together with those girls who are old women. Now my daughter is in her late twenties, I am already so old, what’s the point of looking for a companion, a woman to nag at me, to quarrel with me. It is not as if I could get it up anymore, what’s the point? The doctor told me about my condition. It was like announcing to me my death sentence, terminal illness, few months left, like in drama series again. Cheebye, shouldn’t have gone to the health check at the community centre, that time. When I got home in the evening, after cleaning sai kang (toilet bowls), the public toilets at Raffles City have very high standards for cleanliness, need to check every half an hour, that stupid fat estate manager told my supervisor, but the people, they have no standard. No matter how well they dress just cannot aim properly, whether sitting or standing, whether shit, pee or blood at the female toilet. Although there’s also blood in the male toilet too, I don’t know from anal, mouth, nose or when peeing. I even cleaned dry semen stains before, chow cheebye. But phone numbers and vulgarities written with markers are even harder to clean, even if using thinner. That day, when I got home in the evening, I saw my daughter in the living room eating potato chips and ice-cream watching Taiwanese variety programme, so noisy, this TV programme, the people keep laughing. What’s there to laugh about, kannina? I thought about how she will be all alone when I am not around anymore. She doesn’t have many friends, although now she has a stable job in a photocopy shop, at least she has something to do. I thought about what she once told me, that day she was very sad, as sad as that time I brought her to the swimming pool. Some kids who laughed at her when she was learning how to swim. Two of them were her classmates, the cheebye kia’s surname is Liang or Leong, and another one wearing spectacles. I cannot forget the way that fucking kid, Liang laughed. But the good thing I heard is that my daughter saw that guy now, much older also quite fat. She told me nobody will want her, she will never get married. I remember what she once wrote in her diary. Yes, I checked her diary. She wrote about her curiosity towards sex, I thought is not a girl after all, she is a woman now. I thought about how she would die an old virgin. I feel sad for her. I feel responsible for the way she is. Why can’t she enjoy life like the rest? I thought of making a bold suggestion to her, asked if she wants to find a gigolo. But I know she has never had any intimate contact with any man before. I thought about perhaps, I am the only man she’s closest to, when she was a little girl, she sat on my lap when taking the train. I should be the one doing it. I told an old friend about my idea, he told me I am crazy, that I smelt too much urine or detergent at work is it? I don’t care I will go Petain Road, kin jio kar, to buy Viagra.”
In the approved film version, the father was found dead in the toilet from an overdosed of illegal sex drugs, and construed simply as the death of another dirty old man. The alternate ending, for the DVD version, is the sex scene between the old father and fat daughter which is neither grotesque nor perversely erotic but melancholic, like a depressing family drama. It was more or less a successful attempt by the scriptwriter and director, as some viewers were moved to tears, despite the apparently incestuous plot. A critic has related this to a Japanese film by Beat Takeshi, where the spirit of the mother, who died in an accident, possesses the daughter to live with her husband for another few weeks, and the Fritzl case, where the Austrian man raped, abused and imprisoned his daughter.
“My daughter is very fat. Although this is a fact, I cannot accept anyone saying that. I nearly fought a half-drunk guy at the coffeeshop when I heard him he calling her pui chai (fat vegetable). If not for my drinking buddies… pulling me back, I would have whacked that bugger. She is the only one I love, the only I am left with to love, the little love I am left with in this world. My wife died young, she is my only daughter… I did not remarry… no one suitable. But I always tell my daughter, my relatives and friends that it is for the sake of my daughter. She’s still young, the stepmother might ill-treat her. Actually, I learnt that line from some local drama series, used several times in different shows, to sound like a good father. When there’s a need I visit Petain Road. It is cheaper there. My old primary school classmate works there… he takes care of the girls there. And now he has grown old together with those girls who are old women. Now my daughter is in her late twenties, I am already so old, what’s the point of looking for a companion, a woman to nag at me, to quarrel with me. It is not as if I could get it up anymore, what’s the point? The doctor told me about my condition. It was like announcing to me my death sentence, terminal illness, few months left, like in drama series again. Cheebye, shouldn’t have gone to the health check at the community centre, that time. When I got home in the evening, after cleaning sai kang (toilet bowls), the public toilets at Raffles City have very high standards for cleanliness, need to check every half an hour, that stupid fat estate manager told my supervisor, but the people, they have no standard. No matter how well they dress just cannot aim properly, whether sitting or standing, whether shit, pee or blood at the female toilet. Although there’s also blood in the male toilet too, I don’t know from anal, mouth, nose or when peeing. I even cleaned dry semen stains before, chow cheebye. But phone numbers and vulgarities written with markers are even harder to clean, even if using thinner. That day, when I got home in the evening, I saw my daughter in the living room eating potato chips and ice-cream watching Taiwanese variety programme, so noisy, this TV programme, the people keep laughing. What’s there to laugh about, kannina? I thought about how she will be all alone when I am not around anymore. She doesn’t have many friends, although now she has a stable job in a photocopy shop, at least she has something to do. I thought about what she once told me, that day she was very sad, as sad as that time I brought her to the swimming pool. Some kids who laughed at her when she was learning how to swim. Two of them were her classmates, the cheebye kia’s surname is Liang or Leong, and another one wearing spectacles. I cannot forget the way that fucking kid, Liang laughed. But the good thing I heard is that my daughter saw that guy now, much older also quite fat. She told me nobody will want her, she will never get married. I remember what she once wrote in her diary. Yes, I checked her diary. She wrote about her curiosity towards sex, I thought is not a girl after all, she is a woman now. I thought about how she would die an old virgin. I feel sad for her. I feel responsible for the way she is. Why can’t she enjoy life like the rest? I thought of making a bold suggestion to her, asked if she wants to find a gigolo. But I know she has never had any intimate contact with any man before. I thought about perhaps, I am the only man she’s closest to, when she was a little girl, she sat on my lap when taking the train. I should be the one doing it. I told an old friend about my idea, he told me I am crazy, that I smelt too much urine or detergent at work is it? I don’t care I will go Petain Road, kin jio kar, to buy Viagra.”
In the approved film version, the father was found dead in the toilet from an overdosed of illegal sex drugs, and construed simply as the death of another dirty old man. The alternate ending, for the DVD version, is the sex scene between the old father and fat daughter which is neither grotesque nor perversely erotic but melancholic, like a depressing family drama. It was more or less a successful attempt by the scriptwriter and director, as some viewers were moved to tears, despite the apparently incestuous plot. A critic has related this to a Japanese film by Beat Takeshi, where the spirit of the mother, who died in an accident, possesses the daughter to live with her husband for another few weeks, and the Fritzl case, where the Austrian man raped, abused and imprisoned his daughter.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Dialectic
To him, the thoughts within his brain were not the more or less abstract pictures of actual things and processes, but, conversely, things and their evolution were only the realized pictures of the "Idea", existing somewhere from eternity before the world was. This way of thinking turned everything upside down, and completely reversed the actual connection of things in the world.
'For everyday purposes, we know and can say, e.g., whether an animal is alive or not. But, upon closer inquiry, we find that his is, in many cases, a very complex question, as the jurists know very well. They have cudgelled their brains in vain to discover a rational limit beyond which the killing of the child in its mother's womb is murder. It is just as impossible to determine absolutely the moment of death, for physiology proves that death is not an instantaneous, momentary phenomenon, but a very protracted process.'
http://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1880/soc-utop/ch02.htm
'For everyday purposes, we know and can say, e.g., whether an animal is alive or not. But, upon closer inquiry, we find that his is, in many cases, a very complex question, as the jurists know very well. They have cudgelled their brains in vain to discover a rational limit beyond which the killing of the child in its mother's womb is murder. It is just as impossible to determine absolutely the moment of death, for physiology proves that death is not an instantaneous, momentary phenomenon, but a very protracted process.'
http://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1880/soc-utop/ch02.htm
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
A Thousand Deaths Plus One
the artist is a pathologist who must preserve the dried-up pieces in the formol-filled flasks of his memory; any other way would be to take on the role of redeemer. They can be stripping the skin off your own mother, your own daughter, but your duty is to register the fact. Perhaps (Castellón would probably say now) after having taken the photograph of the naked body, being neutral consists in seeing one's own self as an object, even at the moment when, before penetrating her, the syphilitic digs around inside a prostitute's vagina with fingers that are moving there to learn something about the sensations of the touching, but as if they were not his own, the artist who may infect another body with his own but does not infect the page or negative.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Instruction#7 - Names - Cassius Song
1. Watch the drama series China 1921 (2011)
The alias Mao Renzi echoing from comrades, lovers and teachers, from Yang Kaihui, Li Dazhao, Chen Duxiu...
2. Read some novels by Ricardo Piglia, remember the protagonist Emilio Renzi, remember Piglia is Ricardo Emilio Piglia Renzi
3. Read Bruno Bosteels 'Ricardo Piglia''s Homage to Roberto Arlt: In the Shadow of Mao'
4. Think about the question: What is your real name?
5. Answer: Which one are you refering to? I have many real names but one assumed name.
The alias Mao Renzi echoing from comrades, lovers and teachers, from Yang Kaihui, Li Dazhao, Chen Duxiu...
2. Read some novels by Ricardo Piglia, remember the protagonist Emilio Renzi, remember Piglia is Ricardo Emilio Piglia Renzi
3. Read Bruno Bosteels 'Ricardo Piglia''s Homage to Roberto Arlt: In the Shadow of Mao'
4. Think about the question: What is your real name?
5. Answer: Which one are you refering to? I have many real names but one assumed name.
Instruction #8 - A Serious Man - Cassius Song
1. A Serious Man could be either a man serious about the subject or a man serious about himself being serious about the subject - in short, takes himself too seriously.
2. The former's devotion and dedication would progress (and at times, charm and impress the others, if not resulting in a form of superior madness) while the latter has the tendency of overshadowing the seriousness of the subject with his/her serious posture, resulting in grand, noble proclamnation: sanctimonious with base introspective self-pitying, slavish ressentiment.
3. The latter cultivates egocentricity and self-righteousness while the former cultivates doubts, self-denial, sefl-criticism and humility.
4. Qn: Is Raskolnikov the former or the latter?
2. The former's devotion and dedication would progress (and at times, charm and impress the others, if not resulting in a form of superior madness) while the latter has the tendency of overshadowing the seriousness of the subject with his/her serious posture, resulting in grand, noble proclamnation: sanctimonious with base introspective self-pitying, slavish ressentiment.
3. The latter cultivates egocentricity and self-righteousness while the former cultivates doubts, self-denial, sefl-criticism and humility.
4. Qn: Is Raskolnikov the former or the latter?
Instruction #2 - War and Peace - Cassius Song
Try to finish War and Peace
during military service, prison, asylum or exile.
Go to a rich kid's or art collector's party.
For a lack of better things to say to the anyone there,
be stupid enough to speak to a Pan-Asian part-time model,
while her club DJ boyfriend is spinning: raising one hand and moving his hips.
ask if she has heard of War and Peace.
If she were to ask, what's that?
Tell her it is a video game you like to play.
Forgive her for not knowing who is Leo or Tolstoy
at least she now has a boy who was previously an older woman's toy.
during military service, prison, asylum or exile.
Go to a rich kid's or art collector's party.
For a lack of better things to say to the anyone there,
be stupid enough to speak to a Pan-Asian part-time model,
while her club DJ boyfriend is spinning: raising one hand and moving his hips.
ask if she has heard of War and Peace.
If she were to ask, what's that?
Tell her it is a video game you like to play.
Forgive her for not knowing who is Leo or Tolstoy
at least she now has a boy who was previously an older woman's toy.
List #6: Eyelessness - Cassius Song
Read
Techniques of the Observer - Jonathan Crary
Read
Downcast Eyes - Martin Jay
Watch the opening of
An Andalusian Dog - Luis Brunel
Laugh when watching
Eyes wide shut - Stankey Kubrick
Read
Story of the Eye - Georges Bataille
Think about the stupid name City of Light
lastly,
Listen to
Eyeless - Slipknot
Techniques of the Observer - Jonathan Crary
Read
Downcast Eyes - Martin Jay
Watch the opening of
An Andalusian Dog - Luis Brunel
Laugh when watching
Eyes wide shut - Stankey Kubrick
Read
Story of the Eye - Georges Bataille
Think about the stupid name City of Light
lastly,
Listen to
Eyeless - Slipknot
List #5: Children - Cassius Song
Read
The Ogre - Michel Tournier
Then read about
Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
Watch
Dogville - Lars Von Trier
Walk past
a kindergarten or childcare centre
Listen again to
Heal the world - Michael Jackson
and puke if you want to
The Ogre - Michel Tournier
Then read about
Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
Watch
Dogville - Lars Von Trier
Walk past
a kindergarten or childcare centre
Listen again to
Heal the world - Michael Jackson
and puke if you want to
List #4: Eternal Recurrence - Cassius Song
Watch
Last Year in Marienbad - Alain Resnais
Read
Pierre Menard - Jorge Luis Borges
Read
Organs without Bodies - Slavoj Zizek
to know the diffrence between return and repetition
Read
page 447 - 50 of The Savage Detectives - Roberto Bolano
Stop thinking about death or finitude
Last Year in Marienbad - Alain Resnais
Read
Pierre Menard - Jorge Luis Borges
Read
Organs without Bodies - Slavoj Zizek
to know the diffrence between return and repetition
Read
page 447 - 50 of The Savage Detectives - Roberto Bolano
Stop thinking about death or finitude
List #3: This is not a List - Cassius Song
Look at
The Treason of Images - Rene Magritte
then read
This is Not A Pipe - Michel Foucalut
while listening to
Strange Fruit or David - The Wave Pictures
Stop complaining it is complex or hard to understand
The Treason of Images - Rene Magritte
then read
This is Not A Pipe - Michel Foucalut
while listening to
Strange Fruit or David - The Wave Pictures
Stop complaining it is complex or hard to understand
st #2: Postal Service - Cassius Song
Watch
Il Postino - Michael Radford
(try to fall asleep or to not cry)
then read
Post Office Charles Bukowski
then read
the story about the female letter carrier with a writer boyfriend in The Savage Detectives - Roberto Bolano
one week later
say, fuck it
and read burn all the letters you have received,
keep the bills and bank statements.
Il Postino - Michael Radford
(try to fall asleep or to not cry)
then read
Post Office Charles Bukowski
then read
the story about the female letter carrier with a writer boyfriend in The Savage Detectives - Roberto Bolano
one week later
say, fuck it
and read burn all the letters you have received,
keep the bills and bank statements.
List #1: Young Boy and Cinema - Cassius Song
Watch
Cinema Paradiso - Giuseppe Tornatore (with popcorn)
then
Peeping Tom - Michael Powell (without popcorn)
in succession
Duration: 256 min approx.
Think twice about saying you are a filmmaker.
Cinema Paradiso - Giuseppe Tornatore (with popcorn)
then
Peeping Tom - Michael Powell (without popcorn)
in succession
Duration: 256 min approx.
Think twice about saying you are a filmmaker.
Street of Napoleonic Defeat - Ernst Auer
A story teller,
from where else but Argentina
was ready to tell me a tale
about a man, a person
who walked past a synagogue
with the taste of blood and mud on his tongue,
after eating half a kilo of cockles.
***
I mean, who else would I want to listen to now?
But yet, I have to wait for a translation -
voices from reality do not include subtitles.
***
Thought of Hepatitis,
the Star of David,
behind the gate,
a gentile security stared back.
***
From this end,
the long street seems tapered.
But it would stretch, the width will expand
when he starts walking towards the Chinese temple,
after the Hindu temple, at the other end.
***
The smoke from the cigarette
dangling from the corner of his mouth
won't irritate his eyes.
The smoke from his cigarette will blend
with the smoke from the burning incense.
The words the Argentinian spoke are confused with
the prayers,
the mumbling or whispers
of prostitutes,
hostesses,
lounge singers,
office ladies,
worried housewives
and weak men like us.
***
As a foreigner here,
he shall not make a fuss about the heat
but sure he looks like a madman.
***
Now I prayed only for a bank robbery to end it all,
since there's no war,
but to buy a shotgun or pistol...
I wasn't sure if that's a question.
I walked into a convenience store,
one bullet is enough,
but only noticed condoms and lubricant gels next to the counter,
I noticed the flavours.
I walked out and turned right
towards Bencoolen St
and was reminded of colonization and barricades
all over again.
from where else but Argentina
was ready to tell me a tale
about a man, a person
who walked past a synagogue
with the taste of blood and mud on his tongue,
after eating half a kilo of cockles.
***
I mean, who else would I want to listen to now?
But yet, I have to wait for a translation -
voices from reality do not include subtitles.
***
Thought of Hepatitis,
the Star of David,
behind the gate,
a gentile security stared back.
***
From this end,
the long street seems tapered.
But it would stretch, the width will expand
when he starts walking towards the Chinese temple,
after the Hindu temple, at the other end.
***
The smoke from the cigarette
dangling from the corner of his mouth
won't irritate his eyes.
The smoke from his cigarette will blend
with the smoke from the burning incense.
The words the Argentinian spoke are confused with
the prayers,
the mumbling or whispers
of prostitutes,
hostesses,
lounge singers,
office ladies,
worried housewives
and weak men like us.
***
As a foreigner here,
he shall not make a fuss about the heat
but sure he looks like a madman.
***
Now I prayed only for a bank robbery to end it all,
since there's no war,
but to buy a shotgun or pistol...
I wasn't sure if that's a question.
I walked into a convenience store,
one bullet is enough,
but only noticed condoms and lubricant gels next to the counter,
I noticed the flavours.
I walked out and turned right
towards Bencoolen St
and was reminded of colonization and barricades
all over again.
Thursday
At Berlin, on a thursday
inside a train station now an art museum.
Beuys, Jospeh Beuys
room after room.
Boring videos, coyote, fats and near death,
dead wood, and mystical metal
chalkboard encased,
what's the point of discussion, explanation or debate
talk and talk
photographed the
Shaman, Shaman performs
performs the decomposition of Europe.
inside a train station now an art museum.
Beuys, Jospeh Beuys
room after room.
Boring videos, coyote, fats and near death,
dead wood, and mystical metal
chalkboard encased,
what's the point of discussion, explanation or debate
talk and talk
photographed the
Shaman, Shaman performs
performs the decomposition of Europe.
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