I lowered the lamp to raise a shadow

I lowered the lamp to raise a shadow

If you really think you are a poet, send her not poems but money. Read about somewhere – pretend to forget where – that celebrates epistolary relationships. Not in the past, seventeen, nineteenth, eighteen, but the future utopia, twenty, twenty. People who use scientific jargons to depict childish ideas are no different from the decadent writings in French of frivolous thoughts in sombre and literary tone. 

If you think you are a writer, write not words but numbers and decimals on your notebook, incomes and liabilities, surplus and deficits, plus minus. Write from the back, from recto to verso, like how a Chinese book should be read. Stop singing, stop irritating those walking or working next to you, stop telling people that there is always a book reference for every day-today issue, for every thought in their head.

If you think you are a painter, paint not on canvas. Paint on walls not pictures but an even colour. Paint on furniture, unstable tables your friend made. Use enamel, emulsion, and lacquer not oil or acrylic. Paint drips on your boots like a worker, not an artist.  Draw on a sketchbook so that it is easy to keep but almost impossible to exhibit.

Art Education

Art Education

It was the age I learned to hug.*

The police walked like a gangster

the gangster talked about business

the businessman was a teacher

and the teacher is a lecher.

Everything was actually, or trying to be like, something else than itself.

Every inch of the land is developed.

But the uneven brain development is reflected on the pasty faces with vacuous expressions.

And the peasant stock degenerates further with the belief that they are middle-class property owners and started to buy paintings for their empty walls.

It was the age I learned to fuck.

In the morning, my friend drew me a diagram on the studio cubicle wall to show me the position of the clitoris.

The position was wrong.

I discovered this in bed, at night - not during live drawing lessons.

The police officer talks to me like a hooligan

the gangster walks into a political rally

the politician is a businessman

but the teacher remains a lecher:

Neo-liberal forever.

Now I priced my drawings according to the price of cheeseburger in McDonald’s.

Now I am being paid by schools the rate of a bar hostess for answering cuntish questions like

-          Why is Van Gogh’s Sunflowers significant?

-          Why must we apply rule of thirds for composition?

-          Why is reading modernist manifesto important to my art practice?

Tertiary institutions are like day care centres for bored old children to be entertained with events and non-curricular activities.

The teachers are like salesmen with some discount books and equipment to sell to the students.

In the evening, I went to a music lounge with a friend and returned all the money I was paid to a hostess whose country had betrayed the Third World Congress.

Endangered Predators - Cassius Song

'Stop eating Shark's fin' - or 'finished with fin'
- contra, incidental, on individuals harmed by sharks.
- thought about all the endangered predators, i.e., bears, tigers... in this age. the emergence of our sympathy for these fierce predators..
- predators used to consumed, we want to save ourselves from them, from the encounter.
- the power of  late capitalism, the apex of consumerism is that the absolute consumers (predators) are being consumed as well, preying on predators, the predators are preys themselves,
- an image of a shark, the open jaws of tiger, whatever, open to swallow itself.

The Photographer; An executioner's assistant

photograph of a camera
picture of an execution
photo of a photographer
shooting a picture

shutter speed and dropping blade

late 18th or 19th century

the same pose when one gets fucked in the ass

motherfuckers
kill motherfuckers

bed bench and bend

Panzer Delete

The wind,
imitating a night in Jena,
has blown
and flipped
back to three pages ago.
The page just read
- read but remember nothing.
You don’t remember anything as well
when you blew your mind and memory
but feel the wind blowing the hair has aged
hazy weather or head
when you are next to the old window.

English, language of imperialism - Lecercle

Since this formulation has a slightly provocative, if not insulting, aspect to it
(but my starting-point prompts strong reactions), I shall begin by explaining
the position I am speaking from. I am an Anglicist and have devoted my life
to the English language, which I love with a passion (I take the title of Milner’s
L’amour de la langue seriously).2 I am not only an Anglophile but an Anglomaniac.
And loving the English language entails a passionate attraction to the grammar
of this language, its sounds, its history, the literature that it sustains, the
culture that is inscribed and sedimented in it. In short, I think I can claim
that I am not an Anglophobe. However, it is clear that English has become
the global language and the language of globalisation because it is the language
of empire, whose practices are ever more explicitly imperialist. [...]The issue is controversial, but it preoccupies all those who are interested in English as the language of globalisation.5 For the language of
empire is not only in a position of strength, but also in a position of weakness

A Marxist Philosophy of Language, p. 7

Cassius Song - Instruction # 9 - of films I did not understand

One year of watching films I have seen, when I was a child, but did not understand, but fail to comprehend, once again.