one:
you. so large i could spend my life trying to swallow that realization.
two:
(i think you forgot.) I Want. Tooallthetimeit'sprobablywaybiggerthanyoursandGoddamndoyouembodytheexpression
Can't See The F o r e s t for The Trees
{watch out}
Saturday
all a.flutter [i wait with baited breath?]
the anticipation of my molecules to yours is enough to slowly feast on for
unforeseeable amounts of time
You.
i see and am Willing.
it's more reality than i may be capable of recognizing now without
one; long; sigh
your hands
when your hands go out,
love, toward mine,
what do they bring me flying?
Why did they stop
at my mouth, suddenly,
why do I recognize them
as if then, before,
I had touched them,
as if before they existed
they had passed over
my forehead, my waist?
Their softness came
flying over time,
over the sea, over the smoke,
over the spring,
and when you placed
your hands on my chest,
I recognized those golden
dove wings,
I recognized that clay
and that color of wheat.
All the years of my life
I walked around looking for them.
I went up the stairs,
I crossed the roads,
trains carried me,
waters brought me,
and in the skin of the grapes
I thought I touched you.
The wood suddenly
brought me your touch,
the almond announced to me
your secret softness,
until your hands
closed on my chest
and there like two wings
they ended their journey.
neruda
(("not capable of being foretold"
unforeseeable amounts of time
You.
i see and am Willing.
it's more reality than i may be capable of recognizing now without
one; long; sigh
your hands
when your hands go out,
love, toward mine,
what do they bring me flying?
Why did they stop
at my mouth, suddenly,
why do I recognize them
as if then, before,
I had touched them,
as if before they existed
they had passed over
my forehead, my waist?
Their softness came
flying over time,
over the sea, over the smoke,
over the spring,
and when you placed
your hands on my chest,
I recognized those golden
dove wings,
I recognized that clay
and that color of wheat.
All the years of my life
I walked around looking for them.
I went up the stairs,
I crossed the roads,
trains carried me,
waters brought me,
and in the skin of the grapes
I thought I touched you.
The wood suddenly
brought me your touch,
the almond announced to me
your secret softness,
until your hands
closed on my chest
and there like two wings
they ended their journey.
neruda
(("not capable of being foretold"
Tuesday
(it was a month ago now)
been gone so long.
for g - l - o - r - i - a
expect the best
For all the hurt I suffered
and all the pain I bore
It didn't make me love less
It made me love even more
We shouldn't hide our feelings
or play childish games
We should give our all and then some
and in faith expect the same.
Gloria E. Sparrow
simple; true; alarmingly elusive--
from the woman who instilled all the people I come from with
the ability to love crazily
...
won't dish the dirt
with the rest of the broads--
that's why the lady is a tramp.
my Grandmother, Gloria, refused to go with the other ladies into the kitchen after a big holiday meal had been finished to do dishes.
she stuck around in the dining room, smokin with the boys.
there was never another like her, and there will never be.
for g - l - o - r - i - a
expect the best
For all the hurt I suffered
and all the pain I bore
It didn't make me love less
It made me love even more
We shouldn't hide our feelings
or play childish games
We should give our all and then some
and in faith expect the same.
Gloria E. Sparrow
simple; true; alarmingly elusive--
from the woman who instilled all the people I come from with
the ability to love crazily
...
won't dish the dirt
with the rest of the broads--
that's why the lady is a tramp.
my Grandmother, Gloria, refused to go with the other ladies into the kitchen after a big holiday meal had been finished to do dishes.
she stuck around in the dining room, smokin with the boys.
there was never another like her, and there will never be.
Sunday
...but i don't know enough about you
from someone scent-obsessed))
get your nose accustomed to this, which i detected on a
stranger recently:
habit rouge de guerlain
it's also very fitting. ("red costume.")
get your nose accustomed to this, which i detected on a
stranger recently:
habit rouge de guerlain
it's also very fitting. ("red costume.")
Wednesday
babybaby it's a wildworld
from a cafewall...
1.women: be brave and go up and talk to men you find interesting.
2.--> no doubt written by a man too afraid to talk to an interesting woman.
3.--> women, be even more brave and light him on fire.
from the adjacent wall:
love isn't a bitch she is a beautiful woman, you just call her a bitch cause she wouldn't let you hit that.
....even further away, as i was washing my hands, i spotted:
i had an anxiety attack in this very room tonight. go have fun for me.
and later on in the day, or the next morning, i'm positive i witnessed a girl having a nervous breakdown, the kind that starts with laughing that doesn't stop.
this city.
1.women: be brave and go up and talk to men you find interesting.
2.--> no doubt written by a man too afraid to talk to an interesting woman.
3.--> women, be even more brave and light him on fire.
from the adjacent wall:
love isn't a bitch she is a beautiful woman, you just call her a bitch cause she wouldn't let you hit that.
....even further away, as i was washing my hands, i spotted:
i had an anxiety attack in this very room tonight. go have fun for me.
and later on in the day, or the next morning, i'm positive i witnessed a girl having a nervous breakdown, the kind that starts with laughing that doesn't stop.
this city.
Saturday
i feel lucky
the soeur of my soul, farryl (( http://indieoma.com/commentaries/farryl-violet-the-undead ))
i think it's a little seductive, the love a woman. no, it's definitely engulfing. because women know how to love. i had a conversation with a guy friend of mine who's gay who was saying that he sometimes wishes to be loved by a woman because he feels like a woman would know how to love him. (better, or the way he knows he needs to be loved). hmmmm. are we biologically predisposed to be betters lovers? (not in the sexual but in the holistic sense)
this same friend sometimes wishes he could give birth and feels seriously devastated that he is without the capacity. i am positive that it is this very capacity that somehow forms the lover-ness of women lovers. the involuntary capability to give of oneself to another self in such a blatantly material way--giving forth matter from oneself and never being able to fully gain it back to the self but responsible for it nonetheless--is so enormous. being left. (by that you which you have given to the world)--it's so strange that a woman is made to be a zone of departure.
in that respect, the book i'm reading all about love ( http://www.amazon.com/Natural-History-Love-Diane-Ackerman/dp/0679761837/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1245268424&sr=8-1) talks a lot about how love is actually a biological imperative, since we are one of those species which tends to unintentionally put all our eggs in one basket which necessitates the insane desire to protect our young, because we don't have as many birds in the hand (or the bush) as other species might. at any rate, ackerman was speaking about how an inconceivable amount of a person's identity is formed literally as soon as they leave the womb and then for about a year. in this time irrevocable elements of an individual are formed which affect a person's subsequent love history, as it were. the idea struck a searing chord with me; something so utterly vulnerable--maybe the most vulnerable thing, with all its soft, crumpled embodiment of the Ideal--is dependent upon the arms of another not invulnerable portal. It makes my whole body want to scream "Take. Care." God.
I find this image, the enormity of this concept, to be almost overly-overwhelmingly romantic.
The Original Romance.
complete non sequitur
please check out this out by madscientist maestro John Zurek: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-QrWviZ7sLQ
this is how i responded to him but i'll say it here since i'd like to know what you think:
it's so killer-cool frankensteinianbadtrip-goo monster mash Stan Brakhagey (a teensy); it reminds me of Baz Luhrman too for about two seconds in the beginning....i can imagine him constructing a Zurekian Factory and staging happenings like Warhol did at that one nightclub/theater with this playing and live music happening simultaneously and, I don't know, super fluffy himalayan persian cats on bejeweled leashes.
t t t t t that's all. (folks.)
having friends/inspirer-ers/gurus/collaborators who have artist souls make my molecules hum with awed-nearly-dis-belief.
i think it's a little seductive, the love a woman. no, it's definitely engulfing. because women know how to love. i had a conversation with a guy friend of mine who's gay who was saying that he sometimes wishes to be loved by a woman because he feels like a woman would know how to love him. (better, or the way he knows he needs to be loved). hmmmm. are we biologically predisposed to be betters lovers? (not in the sexual but in the holistic sense)
this same friend sometimes wishes he could give birth and feels seriously devastated that he is without the capacity. i am positive that it is this very capacity that somehow forms the lover-ness of women lovers. the involuntary capability to give of oneself to another self in such a blatantly material way--giving forth matter from oneself and never being able to fully gain it back to the self but responsible for it nonetheless--is so enormous. being left. (by that you which you have given to the world)--it's so strange that a woman is made to be a zone of departure.
in that respect, the book i'm reading all about love ( http://www.amazon.com/Natural-History-Love-Diane-Ackerman/dp/0679761837/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1245268424&sr=8-1) talks a lot about how love is actually a biological imperative, since we are one of those species which tends to unintentionally put all our eggs in one basket which necessitates the insane desire to protect our young, because we don't have as many birds in the hand (or the bush) as other species might. at any rate, ackerman was speaking about how an inconceivable amount of a person's identity is formed literally as soon as they leave the womb and then for about a year. in this time irrevocable elements of an individual are formed which affect a person's subsequent love history, as it were. the idea struck a searing chord with me; something so utterly vulnerable--maybe the most vulnerable thing, with all its soft, crumpled embodiment of the Ideal--is dependent upon the arms of another not invulnerable portal. It makes my whole body want to scream "Take. Care." God.
I find this image, the enormity of this concept, to be almost overly-overwhelmingly romantic.
The Original Romance.
complete non sequitur
please check out this out by madscientist maestro John Zurek: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-QrWviZ7sLQ
this is how i responded to him but i'll say it here since i'd like to know what you think:
it's so killer-cool frankensteinianbadtrip-goo monster mash Stan Brakhagey (a teensy); it reminds me of Baz Luhrman too for about two seconds in the beginning....i can imagine him constructing a Zurekian Factory and staging happenings like Warhol did at that one nightclub/theater with this playing and live music happening simultaneously and, I don't know, super fluffy himalayan persian cats on bejeweled leashes.
t t t t t that's all. (folks.)
having friends/inspirer-ers/gurus/collaborators who have artist souls make my molecules hum with awed-nearly-dis-belief.
Wednesday
michelle, my belle
thank you for not taking the knowledge of my enthusiasm and going to town with it.
http://leloveimage.blogspot.com/ via le lil (http://starsintherain.blogspot.com/)
http://leloveimage.blogspot.com/ via le lil (http://starsintherain.blogspot.com/)
Sunday
lovin you is easy cause you're beautiful
you'd like to love an unblemished vessel
(would that you were, o skin, unwritten)
you want unscorched earth b/c you
don't know how to walk without burning
i know you; i know that's how you'd like to think of me
but i can't call myself someone who loves you
and allow this untrue
nonetheless i'd like to
to give you what you seem to see.
don't you ever wanna look up and find someone
seeing you
the more you love people the more varied and beautiful they become. we are so lucky to be capable of witnessing that alchemy. the more you see things, the deeper they swim in you. and. if you let yourself live in your obsessions, take the things you love out of space and get so close you are wearing them...that is how spectacular creatures come to be.
this is not all coming from some place of impermeable naivete, because somewhere is the fear that all that i imagine-love only exists there, in that transitory, ethereal periphery.
i just lit this incense i've had for years that smells of pine trees (o Maine) and looks like someone cut a hunk out of some bark intending to burn it.
isn't it strange to love the smell of things that are bad for you
i always envision myself in the future with an--involuntarily-positioned--cigarette dangling between my fingers
"a sound slumber, and a long good night" lucretius
i put a million flashes out, they twinkle back s.l.o.w.
(would that you were, o skin, unwritten)
you want unscorched earth b/c you
don't know how to walk without burning
i know you; i know that's how you'd like to think of me
but i can't call myself someone who loves you
and allow this untrue
nonetheless i'd like to
to give you what you seem to see.
don't you ever wanna look up and find someone
seeing you
the more you love people the more varied and beautiful they become. we are so lucky to be capable of witnessing that alchemy. the more you see things, the deeper they swim in you. and. if you let yourself live in your obsessions, take the things you love out of space and get so close you are wearing them...that is how spectacular creatures come to be.
this is not all coming from some place of impermeable naivete, because somewhere is the fear that all that i imagine-love only exists there, in that transitory, ethereal periphery.
i just lit this incense i've had for years that smells of pine trees (o Maine) and looks like someone cut a hunk out of some bark intending to burn it.
isn't it strange to love the smell of things that are bad for you
i always envision myself in the future with an--involuntarily-positioned--cigarette dangling between my fingers
"a sound slumber, and a long good night" lucretius
i put a million flashes out, they twinkle back s.l.o.w.
Thursday
the kind of eyes that drive wolves mad
snipette(s)
pardon the omissions it's due to lack of collaborative permission
fumble fumble. unzipping fortitude for
constantly being hungry is an exercise
in ravenousness nest
brushing wildfire fur
...
set paper to the flame was always a favorite
childe game but oh dearie my
furrowing wolf howl
hell, feels like a fresh basket of old ladies' bonnet
bruised ripe raspberry roses
unfurling supposes
...
shiver me timbers but that's a pointed smile you're
wearin don't it hurt ya to have those creases con
stant and glittering when it's true you want a
lip smackin roll in the hay of passersby
but.
instead you're glued like honey
waiting for smokey
toney joes
...
if you smelled the base of my neck i'd be sure you'd
want to marry me
carry me over your back up
the hillside to the trundling site of your
wholesome plantation
...
it's growing, what you carry
you give birth to that hush
dazed, i lie back and let you
i lie back and let you
you lay like a faun; this could break.
but, O; you are so very lovely when you falter.
[[project pending ++ http://blogs.nyu.edu/blogs/km1500/katemonster/]]
...you'd know it about me if you asked.
pardon the omissions it's due to lack of collaborative permission
fumble fumble. unzipping fortitude for
constantly being hungry is an exercise
in ravenousness nest
brushing wildfire fur
...
set paper to the flame was always a favorite
childe game but oh dearie my
furrowing wolf howl
hell, feels like a fresh basket of old ladies' bonnet
bruised ripe raspberry roses
unfurling supposes
...
shiver me timbers but that's a pointed smile you're
wearin don't it hurt ya to have those creases con
stant and glittering when it's true you want a
lip smackin roll in the hay of passersby
but.
instead you're glued like honey
waiting for smokey
toney joes
...
if you smelled the base of my neck i'd be sure you'd
want to marry me
carry me over your back up
the hillside to the trundling site of your
wholesome plantation
...
it's growing, what you carry
you give birth to that hush
dazed, i lie back and let you
i lie back and let you
you lay like a faun; this could break.
but, O; you are so very lovely when you falter.
[[project pending ++ http://blogs.nyu.edu/blogs/km1500/katemonster/]]
...you'd know it about me if you asked.
cards down.get down//on the table
people don't place blame for the wreckage of falling (enamorados).
who used to sit by watchfires for people who were coming home? how long did they wait. did they wait alone.
love feeds and it burns? no one minds that flicker.
sometimes you can be in love with the invented place more than the flesh you own/the flesh that plants itself all around you--
je pense en nutella crepes, le musee rodin, et la cinematheque francaise. LESIGH.
"lovers were expected to be catburglars, masked by nighttime, their flesh illuminated by the occasional shaft of moonlight." Mmmmmm. Delicious.
What is life, what is joy without golden Aphrodite?
May I die when these things no longer move me--
hidden love affairs, sweet nothings & bed.
via:: diane ackerman "a natural history of love" [do read this]
I met a boy, he wore a seatbelt
He kissed my cheek in the back seat. (cocorosie) via:: na tal ia, http://natalalala.tumblr.com/<3
(((still) RENDERing.
who used to sit by watchfires for people who were coming home? how long did they wait. did they wait alone.
love feeds and it burns? no one minds that flicker.
sometimes you can be in love with the invented place more than the flesh you own/the flesh that plants itself all around you--
je pense en nutella crepes, le musee rodin, et la cinematheque francaise. LESIGH.
"lovers were expected to be catburglars, masked by nighttime, their flesh illuminated by the occasional shaft of moonlight." Mmmmmm. Delicious.
What is life, what is joy without golden Aphrodite?
May I die when these things no longer move me--
hidden love affairs, sweet nothings & bed.
via:: diane ackerman "a natural history of love" [do read this]
I met a boy, he wore a seatbelt
He kissed my cheek in the back seat. (cocorosie) via:: na tal ia, http://natalalala.tumblr.com/<3
(((still) RENDERing.
Saturday
gypsies tramps and thieves
i had a dream about you last night. you hugged me for a long, long time. one of those lingering ones. i don't know why you thought i needed it. or why i did or might.
i pulled down a branch today and collected some lilacs and couldn't stop pressing them to my face. the most overtaking scent.
the people i long for deeply are always wrong ones. i mean the longing can only burn out alone.
did i already say that i read somewhere that 'innocent'actually means 'i do no harm,' which is interesting b/c eeeveryone does harm, regardless of intention, and speaking of intention, this definition says nothng about one's intention.
"...i never want to be parted from you from this day on."
i pulled down a branch today and collected some lilacs and couldn't stop pressing them to my face. the most overtaking scent.
the people i long for deeply are always wrong ones. i mean the longing can only burn out alone.
did i already say that i read somewhere that 'innocent'actually means 'i do no harm,' which is interesting b/c eeeveryone does harm, regardless of intention, and speaking of intention, this definition says nothng about one's intention.
"...i never want to be parted from you from this day on."
Tuesday
retour
Underground art turns into mere trendiness not because of external factors but because of the people who practice it. They create a desert around themselves, then complain there is no water.
Why don't they try drinking from the wells within their own bodies? They should instead drop a ladder deep into their own bodies and climb down it.
Let them pluck the darkness from within their own bodies and eat it.
But they always seek resolution from outside themselves.
Hijikata Tatsumi
Why don't they try drinking from the wells within their own bodies? They should instead drop a ladder deep into their own bodies and climb down it.
Let them pluck the darkness from within their own bodies and eat it.
But they always seek resolution from outside themselves.
Hijikata Tatsumi
Thursday
love is kinda crazy with a spooky little girl like you
ladytron
You've got me girl on the run around run around
You've got me all around town
You've got me girl on the run around
And it's getting me down, getting me down
Lady if you want to find a lover
Then you look no further
For I'm gonna be your only
Searching at the start of the season
And my only reason
Is that I'll get to you
I'll find some way of connection
Hiding my intention
Then I'll move up close to you
I'll use you and I'll confuse you
And then I'll lose you
But still you won't suspect me
"venus in furs"
Hey little girl is your daddy home
Did he go away and leave you all alone
I got a bad desire
I'm on fire
Tell me now baby is he good to you
Can he do to you the things that I do
I can take you higher
...
Only you can cool my desire
springsteen
What's your name?
(What's your name?)
Who's your daddy?
(Who's your daddy? He rich?)
Is he rich like me?
Has he taken
(Has he taken)
Any time
(Any time to show)
To show you what you need to live?
zombies
"cinema de papa"
who ever said i needed your hand?
who ever said i was gonna be of use?
who ever said you know what it is that's
beating in my chest?
who ever said you got me all figured out?
who ever said i needed you trying to raise me up?
who ever said i needed you to teach me
a damn thing, loverboy.
: from my perpetual Punk Rock Professor, le Katherine. :
When she walks, the revolutions coming
In her hips, there's revolution
When she talks, I hear the revolution
In her kiss, I taste the revolution
Rebel Girl, Rebel Girl
Rebel Girl you are the queen of my world
Rebel Girl, Rebel Girl
I know I wanna take you home
I wanna try on your clothes
I won't play girl to your boy no more, sugaryes yeS yES YESSS Yes.
You've got me girl on the run around run around
You've got me all around town
You've got me girl on the run around
And it's getting me down, getting me down
Lady if you want to find a lover
Then you look no further
For I'm gonna be your only
Searching at the start of the season
And my only reason
Is that I'll get to you
I'll find some way of connection
Hiding my intention
Then I'll move up close to you
I'll use you and I'll confuse you
And then I'll lose you
But still you won't suspect me
"venus in furs"
Hey little girl is your daddy home
Did he go away and leave you all alone
I got a bad desire
I'm on fire
Tell me now baby is he good to you
Can he do to you the things that I do
I can take you higher
...
Only you can cool my desire
springsteen
What's your name?
(What's your name?)
Who's your daddy?
(Who's your daddy? He rich?)
Is he rich like me?
Has he taken
(Has he taken)
Any time
(Any time to show)
To show you what you need to live?
zombies
"cinema de papa"
who ever said i needed your hand?
who ever said i was gonna be of use?
who ever said you know what it is that's
beating in my chest?
who ever said you got me all figured out?
who ever said i needed you trying to raise me up?
who ever said i needed you to teach me
a damn thing, loverboy.
: from my perpetual Punk Rock Professor, le Katherine. :
When she walks, the revolutions coming
In her hips, there's revolution
When she talks, I hear the revolution
In her kiss, I taste the revolution
Rebel Girl, Rebel Girl
Rebel Girl you are the queen of my world
Rebel Girl, Rebel Girl
I know I wanna take you home
I wanna try on your clothes
I won't play girl to your boy no more, sugaryes yeS yES YESSS Yes.
made wine from a lilac tree, put my heart in its recipe
The only way to really make it—anywhere—is to put every bit of your being into the thing that only you can provide. The only angle is the art that you choose, that only you can provide. And to do that, you have to be quiet for a long time and find out what you bring forth. You have to know what's in yourself—all your eccentricities, all your banalities, the full flavor of your woe and your joy. What does it look like? What does it feel like? What makes it different from everybody else's? It's totally subjective. You're just given the task of bringing it up.
Jeff Buckley
I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.
Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass
all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love....
Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me,
If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me.
We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun,
We found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the daybreak.
My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach,
With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds.
Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself,
It provokes me forever, it says sarcastically,
Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?
Come now I will not be tantalized, you conceive too much of
articulation,
Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are folded?
Waiting in gloom, protected by frost,
The dirt receding before my prophetical screams,
I underlying causes to balance them at last,
My knowledge my live parts, it keeping tally with the meaning of all things,
Happiness, (which whoever hears me let him or her set out in search
of this day.)
My final merit I refuse you, I refuse putting from me what I really am,
Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me,
I crowd your sleekest and best by simply looking toward you.
Writing and talk do not prove me,
I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face,
With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skeptic.
Walt Whitman
I think artmaking, is the pursuit of doubt. I know this because ever since I really flowed into the rabbit's nook-ish hole, I haven't been sure of a damn thing. Except of Love. And how much they and I exist for one another.
My music is like a lowdown dreamy bit of the psyche. It's part quagmire and part structure. The quagmire is important for things to grow in. Do you ever have one of those memories where you think you remember a taste or a feel of something, maybe an object, but the feeling is so bizarre and imperceptible that you just can't quite get a hold of it? It drives you crazy. That's my musical aesthetic, just this imperceptible fleeting memory.
Jeff
When I say "romantic," I mean a sensibility that sees everything, and has to express everything, and still doesn't know what the fuck it is, it hurts that bad. It just madly tries to speak whatever it feels, and that can mean vast things. That sort of mentality can turn a sun-kissed orange into a flaming meteorite, and make it sound like that in a song.
Jeff
http://www.wnyc.org/arts/articles/54050
I hate to feel the love between us die. But it's over.
Just hear this, and then I'll go....
"Last Goodbye"
Jeff Buckley
I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.
Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass
all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love....
Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me,
If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me.
We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun,
We found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the daybreak.
My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach,
With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds.
Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself,
It provokes me forever, it says sarcastically,
Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?
Come now I will not be tantalized, you conceive too much of
articulation,
Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are folded?
Waiting in gloom, protected by frost,
The dirt receding before my prophetical screams,
I underlying causes to balance them at last,
My knowledge my live parts, it keeping tally with the meaning of all things,
Happiness, (which whoever hears me let him or her set out in search
of this day.)
My final merit I refuse you, I refuse putting from me what I really am,
Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me,
I crowd your sleekest and best by simply looking toward you.
Writing and talk do not prove me,
I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face,
With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skeptic.
Walt Whitman
I think artmaking, is the pursuit of doubt. I know this because ever since I really flowed into the rabbit's nook-ish hole, I haven't been sure of a damn thing. Except of Love. And how much they and I exist for one another.
My music is like a lowdown dreamy bit of the psyche. It's part quagmire and part structure. The quagmire is important for things to grow in. Do you ever have one of those memories where you think you remember a taste or a feel of something, maybe an object, but the feeling is so bizarre and imperceptible that you just can't quite get a hold of it? It drives you crazy. That's my musical aesthetic, just this imperceptible fleeting memory.
Jeff
When I say "romantic," I mean a sensibility that sees everything, and has to express everything, and still doesn't know what the fuck it is, it hurts that bad. It just madly tries to speak whatever it feels, and that can mean vast things. That sort of mentality can turn a sun-kissed orange into a flaming meteorite, and make it sound like that in a song.
Jeff
http://www.wnyc.org/arts/articles/54050
I hate to feel the love between us die. But it's over.
Just hear this, and then I'll go....
"Last Goodbye"
Tuesday
and little man, little Lola....wants y o u
THE EUROPE OF THE WOMAN
Enormous room. Ophelia. Her heart is a clock.
OPHELIA [CHORUS/HAMLET]
I am Ophelia. She who the river could not hold. The woman on the gallows The woman
with the slashed arteries The woman with the overdose ON THE LIPS SNOW The
woman with the head in the gas-oven. Yesterday I stopped killing myself. I am alone
with my breasts my thighs my lap. I rip apart the instruments of my imprisonment the
Stool the Table the Bed. I destroy the battlefield that was my Home. I tear the doors off their hinges to let the wind and the cry of the World inside. I smash the Window. With my bleeding hands I tear the photographs of the men who I loved and who used me on the Bed on the Table on the Chair on the Floor. I set fire to my prison. I throw my clothes into the fire. I dig the clock which was my heart out of my breast. I go onto the street, clothed in my blood.
Heiner Mueller
Weird Beast (mad mad mad, you silly little girl)<<
Could I own a piece of you?
Just one to deny madness, delusion, hallucination—
So that some part can be mine
And I can still be haunted by you
(more strongly, maybe):
I want to linger on you
—what if you forget me?—
I would press my fragrance on your jutting collarbone
(for smoldering purposes)
So I could waft through your thought-dials
Could I stain your mind?
With something particularly winning
Cutting, so it scintillates
I might blur
To reflect what you’d need to see in me that’d make you like me
Best
It’s just a tired trance. A version.
And you don’t like her, anyway,
So what’s it gonna take? (“when will you finally understand?”)
Confused as to the reason for all the enthusiasm?
I’ve negotiated your frayed fringes, broken hinges
Before there could be Hesitation
Besides: I Love your Dark. I Love
your fear, your Weird, your limitation.
And I think I could make you safe to come alive.
Does it make you sad that I have written words for you that
You will never see?
I pity that there are pieces that you
miss, Every Time,
until it occurs to me: maybe the more simple answer is you’re just Unimpressed
In which case.
I think I’ll lie down for awhile to stop sleeping.
I fall and I fall and I fall and I don’t know where it leads
I wake up and don’t even know where to begin
They all look blank next to the one I clutch to for comparison
I could touch them and leave them with absolutely no reason, with perfect reasoning:
You bring me down.
But I wait for you
to hold my hand,
take a fucking stand,
graze my cheek again.
I will wear my heart on my sleeve, because I don’t know How Else.
And. (as if I needed further confirmation)
I must be crazy to be in love with you.
you, Oh. You.
it doesn’t change the truth at hand
Theansweris yesTheanswer is yesTheanswerhasalwaysbeen yes.
Oh dear. There she goes again!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CTKII4n3mX0
"Get a grip."
Did you know that Sartre, that great thinker, once referred to the "obscenity" of the "female sex is that of everything which ‘gapes open.’It is an appeal to being as all holes are.” Wow. The tight confines of enlightenment.
The Rabbit Catcher
It was a place of force—
The wind gagging my mouth with my own blown hair,
Tearing off my voice, and the sea
Blinding me with its lights, the lives of the dead
Unreeling in it, spreading like oil.
I tasted the malignity of the gorse,
Its black spikes,
The extreme unction of its yellow candle-flowers.
They had an efficiency, a great beauty,
And were extravagant, like torture.
There was only one place to get to.
Simmering, perfumed,
The paths narrowed into the hollow.
And the snares almost effaced themselves—
Zeros, shutting on nothing,
Set close, like birth pangs.
The absence of shrieks
Made a hole in the hot day, a vacancy.
The glassy light was a clear wall,
The thickets quiet.
I felt a still busyness, an intent.
I felt hands round a tea mug, dull, blunt,
Ringing the white china.
How they awaited him, those little deaths!
They waited like sweethearts. They excited him.
And we, too, had a relationship—
Tight wires between us,
Pegs too deep to uproot, and a mind like a ring
Sliding shut on some quick thing,
The constriction killing me also.
Sylvia
Enormous room. Ophelia. Her heart is a clock.
OPHELIA [CHORUS/HAMLET]
I am Ophelia. She who the river could not hold. The woman on the gallows The woman
with the slashed arteries The woman with the overdose ON THE LIPS SNOW The
woman with the head in the gas-oven. Yesterday I stopped killing myself. I am alone
with my breasts my thighs my lap. I rip apart the instruments of my imprisonment the
Stool the Table the Bed. I destroy the battlefield that was my Home. I tear the doors off their hinges to let the wind and the cry of the World inside. I smash the Window. With my bleeding hands I tear the photographs of the men who I loved and who used me on the Bed on the Table on the Chair on the Floor. I set fire to my prison. I throw my clothes into the fire. I dig the clock which was my heart out of my breast. I go onto the street, clothed in my blood.
Heiner Mueller
Weird Beast (mad mad mad, you silly little girl)<<
Could I own a piece of you?
Just one to deny madness, delusion, hallucination—
So that some part can be mine
And I can still be haunted by you
(more strongly, maybe):
I want to linger on you
—what if you forget me?—
I would press my fragrance on your jutting collarbone
(for smoldering purposes)
So I could waft through your thought-dials
Could I stain your mind?
With something particularly winning
Cutting, so it scintillates
I might blur
To reflect what you’d need to see in me that’d make you like me
Best
It’s just a tired trance. A version.
And you don’t like her, anyway,
So what’s it gonna take? (“when will you finally understand?”)
Confused as to the reason for all the enthusiasm?
I’ve negotiated your frayed fringes, broken hinges
Before there could be Hesitation
Besides: I Love your Dark. I Love
your fear, your Weird, your limitation.
And I think I could make you safe to come alive.
Does it make you sad that I have written words for you that
You will never see?
I pity that there are pieces that you
miss, Every Time,
until it occurs to me: maybe the more simple answer is you’re just Unimpressed
In which case.
I think I’ll lie down for awhile to stop sleeping.
I fall and I fall and I fall and I don’t know where it leads
I wake up and don’t even know where to begin
They all look blank next to the one I clutch to for comparison
I could touch them and leave them with absolutely no reason, with perfect reasoning:
You bring me down.
But I wait for you
to hold my hand,
take a fucking stand,
graze my cheek again.
I will wear my heart on my sleeve, because I don’t know How Else.
And. (as if I needed further confirmation)
I must be crazy to be in love with you.
you, Oh. You.
it doesn’t change the truth at hand
Theansweris yesTheanswer is yesTheanswerhasalwaysbeen yes.
Oh dear. There she goes again!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CTKII4n3mX0
"Get a grip."
Did you know that Sartre, that great thinker, once referred to the "obscenity" of the "female sex is that of everything which ‘gapes open.’It is an appeal to being as all holes are.” Wow. The tight confines of enlightenment.
The Rabbit Catcher
It was a place of force—
The wind gagging my mouth with my own blown hair,
Tearing off my voice, and the sea
Blinding me with its lights, the lives of the dead
Unreeling in it, spreading like oil.
I tasted the malignity of the gorse,
Its black spikes,
The extreme unction of its yellow candle-flowers.
They had an efficiency, a great beauty,
And were extravagant, like torture.
There was only one place to get to.
Simmering, perfumed,
The paths narrowed into the hollow.
And the snares almost effaced themselves—
Zeros, shutting on nothing,
Set close, like birth pangs.
The absence of shrieks
Made a hole in the hot day, a vacancy.
The glassy light was a clear wall,
The thickets quiet.
I felt a still busyness, an intent.
I felt hands round a tea mug, dull, blunt,
Ringing the white china.
How they awaited him, those little deaths!
They waited like sweethearts. They excited him.
And we, too, had a relationship—
Tight wires between us,
Pegs too deep to uproot, and a mind like a ring
Sliding shut on some quick thing,
The constriction killing me also.
Sylvia
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